Friday, September 20, 2002
Read the first prelude at tony pierce's busblog, then read this.
Then read parts 1, 2, 3, & 4
Rion Dark walked down Rodeo in Beverly Hills, fresh from his weekly manicure, and he wanted to get home and take a nap before tonight's repeat date with Edgar Bryant. The bald little accountant had definitely been proving a tough nut to crack. Tony would be working on him all day and early evening though, and hopefully he'd be ready to spill around the time Dark came around. Yesterday's acid trip had generated a few new mutilation ideas he really wanted to try out in the field.
Climbing into his jet black, illegally parked El Camino, Rion turned the ignition and listened to the powerful roar of the engine. One of these days my past will catch up with me, he thought, and I'll start this thing up for the last time as it goes up in an orange ball of flame.
But not today. Today he would continue to live on borrowed time. Time borrowed from others, like Edgar Bryant.
Dark glanced at his watch as the elevator made its slow journey to the third floor. 2:30. He still had a few hours to sleep and catch a shower. Then he'd have to begin preparing for tonight's little party with Edgar Bryant. Blades needed sharpening, among other things. Not all the blades, however. He'd discovered through trial and error that a messy cut could be much more painful than a clean one.
Finally the elevator car, which today was carrying the faint scent of urine, arrived at its destination, and Dark stepped out onto the third floor landing which led to his apartment. It was an outside walkway, with an almost dangerously short cast-iron rail protecting tenants from a three-story fall to the patio, which resembled a Melrose Place type of pool area.
Dark had specifically requested a flat with an outside entrance, because he loved to stand at his doorstep smoking cigarettes, and breathe in the fresh air along with the carbon monoxide. He'd always thought it funny that, in a way, smokers get more fresh air these days than anyone. All the righteous non-smokers had shuttled the smokers outside, away from their sterile, temperature controlled environments. Fine by Rion Dark. He liked being outside, especially when he was smoking cigarettes.
Luckily for Dark, and the rest of humanity, the anti-smoking craze had only gained full swing in the last five or so years. God watch over the bartender or busboy that requested Rion Dark take a cigarette outside ten years ago. He probably would have torn someone's arm off. Yes, he had definitely mellowed out in the last decade, learned to keep the lower profile so necessary for success in his line of work. In a strange, masochistic and chauvinistic light, those were quite the glory days, the uninhibited feeling of just going off on someone, really laying into some sorry ass for possibly no reason at all. He loved the violence, actually liked the physical pain of getting socked in the face, the sensation of popping blood vessels and tearing cartilage. It was a messy way to live, though, scrapping all the time, so he had learned to control his temper. Plus, Don Scalari definitely did not like attention, and Dark was sure that the old man had come close to sending a cleaner to his apartment once or twice, after one of Rion's more high profile scuffles.
So he'd learned to keep it on the down low. Age had a way of mellowing a man out, and although Dark could still explode at a moment's notice, he had acquired the ability to pick and choose those moments, which had proven both profitable and healthy.
As he neared the front door of his apartment, he noted that the potted petunia outside his front window was beginning to wilt. He'd have to remember to give it a little water. He turned the key to the apartment door, waiting for the explosion. Dark had lasted this long, and it had been in no small part due to constantly waiting for the hit, the ambush. He was always watching his back, and in truth, that was the way he liked it. He truly wouldn't have it any other way.
The interior of his apartment was characteristic for its lack of character. It was terribly average in almost every way. Dark green couch, slightly worn at the edges, 20" Panasonic TV, a small kitchenette. There was a modest bedroom in the back. Practically nothing in the way of personalization. Dark had better things to do with his time than interior decoration. Even the potted plant outside was there strictly to confuse prospective hitmen. Anyone looking for Rion Dark would think twice, and hopefully assume they had the wrong address, after seeing a petunia at the front door. It was probably a superstitious habit, the petunia, but it had worked so far. He was still alive.
There was one item of distinction in the apartment, however. A crystal ball nestled in a solid silver base, perched in the center of the cheap, dingy coffee table between the couch and the television. The ball itself was clear, but inside was some kind of cumulous cloud, some fog through which nothing could truly be seen. Dark had no idea, and in the further recesses of his mind, didn't really want to know, what exactly that white cloud was. Some nights, especially those after after a really good acid trip, Rion would sit and stare incessantly into that mysterious sphere. He would see kingdoms collapse, rapists deflower helpless young maidens, box-cutters slashing the throats of veteran whores on a rainy thunderous night, and any number of other, usually violent, occurrences. Dark didn’t know the source of the images, whether they came from his own subconscious or the ball itself, and truthfully, he really didn't care.
He had come across the object on a visit to Italy about seven years ago. Scalari had sent him back to the homeland (even though Dark had no Italian blood in him, he often referred to Italy as the homeland) to get a little old school mafia culture. The two months had left a great impression on the young torture apprentice. Dark had learned methods of inflicting pain that he'd never thought existed, and learned things about himself that he had always subconsciously known, yet never faced.
In any event, he had found the ball in Florence, at a knick-knack stand on the pont du vecchio, supposedly the oldest standing bridge in the world. It had been sitting on a hand woven rug, along with other various pieces of junk, watched over by an old crone that looked as if she hadn't seen a shower, let alone taken one, in the last decade. The ball had instantly caught his attention and held it.
"You see its energy, yes, young one?" the old hag had crackled, breaking Dark out of his trance. Looking up into the woman's eyes, he had found himself almost as entranced as when gazing at the crystal ball. Her eyes held endless depths, visions upon visions of life, death, rebirth, and damnation, not necessarily in that order.
His only reply had been a nod, and a shift in gaze, partly to break away from the eyes of the old woman, but mostly to stare at the crystal ball once again. He had already begun to see images in its hazy interior. Images of violence. An erection had begun to grow in his pants.
"I can see that the two of you were meant for each other," the old bag spoke in Italian, which Dark had learned with adequate proficiency before his excursion to the Old World. She told him that the special price for him, as she was feeling generous, would be the equivalent of $150.00 American. Dark balked, but the woman would not lower her price, and Dark ended up paying. Looking back, it was the best c-note and a half he ever blew.
Before he could leave with his treasure, however, Dark had had to listen to a certain amount of ranting and raving about the ball. "Respect, young one. Respect is the key to fully appreciating the value of this item. Respect for the object, as well as yourself and others. Although you are young and impudent now, I sense the capability for the necessary respect in your future. Realize that capability, young one."
Whatever, you old bat, he'd thought to himself. At that time in his life, Rion Dark had held respect for nothing and no one. Not that he respected anyone now, but he had at least learned to put up a good front.
Dark shook his head suddenly, and after looking at the analog clock hanging over the TV, realized he had been staring at the damned ball for forty five minutes. Now all he had time for was a quick half-hour nap and a hot shower before checking in on his old buddy Edgar Bryant. If he recalled correctly, it was Tony's shift to entertain Mr. Bryant this afternoon. Tony had been growing increasingly psychotic over the last month, even for a professional torture artist, and if recent patterns held, Bryant was most likely in a serious world of hurt at the moment.
Not that Rion was a much better option, but he liked to think of himself as a polite torturer, if such a thing existed. He smiled and laughed a little at the thought, then headed for the shower and it's hot, cleansing, waters.
interview with the mysterious dj yella. from what he says, he was the last one to see eazy-e before he slipped into the coma from which he never emerged. yella basically stayed down with eazy his whole life, and says that cube and dre's claims of getting screwed out of money is bullshit. who to believe? whatever. the interview is from 1996. check it out. As for what he's doing now, well i just don't know. yella, if you're reading this, drop me a line, and tell me whut's up.
okey dokey. i SHOULD be back later with more of that good shit that is the basis for the fountain of knowledge in the blogosphere as we know it. or i might just babble again for a while. either or.
hoaloha just produced her first official crazed rant against society and it brought tears of joy to these jaded eyes. go check it out.
Ice Cube entry from yesterday, but I don't know, maybe not enough meat there, and I really said all I want to say regarding that in the post's comments section. so go check them out and then come right back. whut, you're lazy? dagnabbit, ok. he basically does a where are they now for cube, dre, and eazy from NWA, but i'm like, what happened to ren and yella? the ren question is addressed, and i make some comments (as kool keith) about the doc and arabian prince, but as for yella, where in the hell is yella at? if anyone knows, please tell me. I mean, the middle east is important, but first shouldn't we solve this debate?
My other idea was to mention this crazy BITCH they caught on security camera in an Indiana department store parking lot beating the fuck out of her four-year-old daughter, and how I think it's fukn ridiculous that the maximum sentence they could give her is 3 years, and how the ultimate victim in any scenario will be the poor little girl who just wants to play with her dolls and chill and not get the smackdown every five minutes. I mean a slap on the butt is warranted and even necessary sometimes, but this fukn lady goes to town and beats the CRAP out of this little defenseless girl. fukn trash.
Another idea might have been to tell you about the crip ass Thai food that me and Mrs. P had for dinner last nite. we are lucky in that there is a delicioso spot right up the street from us. red curry shrimp with pineapple, spicy chicken, and sticky rice, booyahh! dang though i was sweating hard, we always order the food spicy, and after the first five minutes, I'm like, ah this ain't that hot, and then five minutes later, I'm screaming like a cat that just got its tail stepped on.
oh I know, I'll tell you about my little cat Oliver. I was thinking about good ol Oliver last night as I chilled out in our backyard and saw this big fat orange cat that rules the neighborhood. I'm pretty sure it's that fat fucker that killed my poor Oliver. A little background: about four years ago, my sister found a little kitty in the street somewhere running with some stray cats. She was surprised cuz the cat walked right up to her and was real friendly, it was obvious it was comfortable around humans. so she gives the cat to me, without even asking if I want a frikken cat, but it was cool. I named it Oliver because, when I was a kid, my parents bought a dog, and they said ok kids, you guys get to come up with this dog's name. Well one of my sisters wanted to name the dog rusty, one sister wanted the name dutchess, and i wanted the name Ali-Baba. ya know, from that beastie boys song, ali-baba and the 40 thieves. so anyway, my suggestion, which i thought was brilliant, was totally disregarded as ridiculous and stupid. so the official name of the dog was rusty dutchess. that was just a ploy to temporarily make my other sister happy, because the name dutchess was never brought up again and the dog's name was rusty. Cool little sheltie, but that fucker would bite your ankles if you ran. poor little feller got hit by a car years later, he was a trooper though.
anyhoo, sidetrack alert. so i named the cat Oliver because at my advanced maturity i realized that ali-baba was kind of a long name to be saying when you call your cat every time, so i shortened it to Ollie, and then added ver, and well, I might have kind of been influenced by cousin oliver from the brady bunch, but don't tell anyone. So anyway, this cat was so cool. He always wanted to hang out and lounge on me and play with me and chill out and he was superdope. The thing about cats, if you don't know, is you have to decide if you've got an inside cat or an outside cat. cuz once you let that cat out, even once, they'll always want to get out, there's no turning back. keep em in the house forever, and they'll be happy, never know what they missed, but let them out once and they like turn into tarzan and jane is out there and sorry charlie let me out or i'm going to meow all frikken night and drive you fukn crazy.
so anyway, I decide i don't want a little pussy cat, and the fucker's box is kinda stanking the kitchen, so i'm like, time to go explore oliver, see ya. he gets all into it, and it's a good relationship, he does his thing, i do mine, we hang out at nite and talk story about our days, play a few hands of cards, it's all good. but one night, i hear a crazy rustle, serious cat-fight style. so I open the door and oliver comes racing in, and i know he was getting in a fight with that big fat orange fucker cat. so anyway, the poor cat has this big gash along his side, so i gotta take it to the vet and get him sewed up. Kitty surgery. so then after that i gotta keep the cat inside for a few days so he doesn't get his stitches torn out. and oliver's fukn whining and crying and complaining all night, cuz ya know, he wants the booty that's outside.
so time goes by oliver heals up. then i start thinking, i've gotta do my civic responsiblity and get that little feller neutered, cuz I could be responsible for a serious cat popluation explosion if I know my little mack daddy oliver. so get that done at the vet, and once again, i'm supposed to keep the cat inside for at least a week until the stitches heal up. so same story every night, that little fucker whining and screaming, and clawing at the door and scratching my feet and crawling on my head so finally about the third night i get up screaming "fine, you little shit, fine, you want to go outside and get the shit kicked out of you, fine, goddammit," and I open the door, the cat runs out, and i'm so tired and pissed I give him a little boot on the butt on the way out. well oliver squeals and runs and i feel bad cuz I forgot he's got stitches in his rear end cuz some asshole master (me) chopped his balls. so i feel guilty but fall back asleep.
and poor little oliver never comes back. the next morning no oliver. back from work the next day no oliver. go to the animal shelter a few days later no oliver. so i still feel kind of guilty for a) letting him out, and b) kicking the poor little guy in his tender patootie as my final goodbye.
so Oliver, wherever you are, come home little buddy. I'm sorry I kicked you in your butt. I like to think that you got adopted by a nice family at the tuna processing factory, and all you do all day is eat and sleep and purr and you're super happy. ok? ok.
Thursday, September 19, 2002
Aquaman Hostess ad over at seanbaby, be sure you read the commentary. Then read his Aquaman page, which is just one of the hilarious parts of his superfriends section. He rags on Aquaman so hard. This guy is making me fukn laugh so hard this week. note i added the site to my permanent links on the left, under etc. Superfriends was my absolute favorite saturday morning cartoon as a kid, and to get someone's point of view that obviously loves it too, but sees how amazingly stupid and ridiculous just about everything in the show was, in addition to being just an insanely funny mofo, dang, that's like that magic, can you feel it? Basically if you want to laugh your ass off, head over there asap. ok that's it. back to work.
but fuk it. we found (looking around, scanning for corporate insiders) a snake skunk. that's right. half skunk, half snake. it stinks and has fangs, highly poisonous and smelly. smooth and scaly and furry and soft. it can slither up and spray smelly crap right at you in a flash. the only place they've ever been seen is in the high country of peru, usually hiding out in mountain streams and secluded puddles, but one was confiscated at the honolulu airport last night, and now it's mine, all mine. ah. sometimes i really do love this job.
what am i going to do with it you ask? um, well. that, I cannot tell you i'm afraid. I mean, if you know the procedures, where's my fukn job security?
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Russel White was THE stud of the campus and Berkeley in general when I was a freshman at Cal in 1991-92. The Bears were GOOD that year, spanking Clemson in the Citrus Bowl to close things out. He ran for over 1,000 yards that season, was a serious heisman candidate until they lost to Washington and fell out of the Rose Bowl picture, and could have gone pro, high draft pick after that season, but he stayed in school, despite the pros calling waving cash, drugs, g-strings, and pinky rings all over his face, citing the "stay in school" motto. BIG mistake. Begining of next season, he jacks his leg, recovers about half-way through the season but his stock drops considerable. Basically in the where are they now, I don't even know. He bounced around to a few NFL teams, but never caught on. Vanished off the radar into the hemisphere like a big red balloon.
So the moral of the story is screw school and take the cash. I mean I stayed in school and look at me. I write a stupid website and hang out at the beach all day, I mean that's all we do here in Hawaii right? gawd I'm so sure. Shabba yeah. And it's poi and kalua pig served in a hula skirt for every meal too, in my little grass shack. The only thing missing is Elvis singing Blue Hawaii, cuz ya know what? Elvis IS dead. Sorry.
Anyway, I took an oh-so typical for me sidetrack there. Russel White was badass and it sucks to see who you think is the ultimate athlete athlete dash his hopes of glory by doing the right thing. For the record, I think education is hugely important, but shit, if they're waving millions of dollars, you can take whatever the hell classes you want years later while you're counting that scrilla. I mean look at Vince Carter and his little "OK, um, I'm going to fly back to North Carolina for my graduation ceremony the night before the easter conference finals game 7." You didn't see Allen Iverson stopping by at his Beauty School class for some last minute pointers did you? hell no, he was getting pumped for the game, not patting himself on the back for a piece of paper and a smile from mommy. I mean it was just a game to see who got bent over by the LAKERS but shit, Vince has kind of looked like a sheister ever since.
ok I just canNOT stay on topic. Joe Igber, current Cal running back, is a local product out of Iolani High School here in Honolulu. I mean, he's not a local boy in the strict sense of the word, I'm pretty sure he's an army brat (shitload of military on Oahu, in case you didn't know). Igber set six state rushing and scoring records at Iolani High. He's fifth in the Pac-10 this year at 86.7 yards per game. So now you know. PS the golden bears fukn rule harder than Rulon, and I know I used that line earlier today, but it's like my special them right now so you'll just have to get over it.
Air Force up next this weekend. Not to be like unpatriotic or anything, but we're gonna do a little operation fuk you airforce mofos, and if you think that's the most original name for an operation, well you just might be right, Mr. oh I'm SO sophisticated and smart and better than you Joe, oh really. Well put on these gloves and run your jewels beyatch cuz it's roll on you bears time.
I'm really gonna try to watch this new Birds of Prey thing that's gonna be on TV. Future Batman world with crippled Batgirl (courtesy of the Joker), Black Canary, and the Huntress (aka Batman and Catwoman's grown-up daughter). Should be interesting. I always get a kick out of checking out other media's comic interpretations, from the catastrophic 70's Captain America movies to the beauty that was Dolph Lundgren as the Punisher. (ok that was not good, but it was Dolph, I mean Mr. Red Scorpion, pseudo props at least?) I thought it was gonna be on tonite, but I checked my local listings, and unless we're getting jacked in Hawaii, it's not until next week. Fukn corporate network bastards.
Holy shit, did you see Real World last night? Call me a little teenie bopper, but I love that show. If you haven't seen it yet and want a surprise, and/or don't give half a rooster's left nad about the Real World, skip this whole frikken paragraph, cuz I'm about to do some serious stupid babbling. This season should be good as the drama is already ensuing at a rapid pace. The cocky Mr. Cool white guy and the southern belle aka not-so-secret hoochbag white girl have already exchanged fluids, the goofy white nebraska small town boy is hurt, the two black girls (one who looks like she hasn't slept in about 75 years when she takes her jermaine dupri sunglasses off) are already best friends, and you know they're gonna hate each other (it shows you they do in the little preview for the next episode, but I swear, I called it. Every time people get too close too quick, like saying, oh you're the most special friend i've ever met, they always end up despising each other, it's like, newton's 3rd law or something). Top it off with the black guy who seems very gay at first but I guess is actually straight (the jury's still out, not that there's anything WRONG with that) and the white little partier girl that can't stop talking about how much "trouble" she always stirs up. And I mean, they've got these people in the crippest phatest suite in a fukn hotel on the Vegas strip. It's gonna be fukn chaotic madness, which always makes good television. Hey though, one thing. I know that everyone likes to see the beautiful people, but what the fuk, has there EVER been a fat person on real world? The closest I can think of is Heather B, the rapper chick from the first season (which doesn't really count, because it wasn't so corporate and evil and formulaic and prestaged for armageddon-like party carnage yet), and she wasn't that fat. I mean, isn't that like weight-ism or something like that? They need like a Jared, pre-Subway diet up in there, like clogging doorways, sitting around and playing nintendo and eating crackers all day, whining about how no one loves him. THAT would be entertainment, comingled with all the vacuous and shallow and fukn annoying pretty people cluttering up his view of the television. I mean, the first thing all the guys do is go to the gym!! Fuk that, I'm hitting the tables when I get to Vegas! what the fuk? And the fukn naked hot tub episode already? dang does every fukn real world have to start off like Caligula now? not that I'm complaining, but dang? Is the whole country just a bunch of over-sexed freaks or what? damn excellent television I tell ya. And what's the deal with no mufukkin Cal Bears?? shit! Obviously I am a freak for caring so damn much. I guess I am very lame but oh well. So that's my little real world breakdown. We'll see what happens.
alright i'm just going nowhere with this so peace out and don't forget the alamo which you gotta love ozzy osbourne for pissing on. Maybe he missed Randy Rhoads so much he couldn't control himself. I know I do, and I never even met him.
SeanBaby, may I present to you:
You gotta love that these kids moms won't let them out for fear of the disco roller skate gang (who apparently are doing nothing but skate and sing), but as far as a giant green monster tearing up the street and rolling people in concrete, hey that's no problem, go grab those hostess treats kids. I mean maybe call in the fashion police, but the incredible hulk? hmmm. I smell a conspiracy.
I used to love these things. They were in the back of all the comic books in the late 70's. All the major superhero's were kicking ass and taking names in the defense of hostess twinkies, cupcakes, and fruit pies. I remember I used to xerox them on my grandfather's copy machine and catalog them all, and read them over and over again. It made me want hostess treats in a major way. My dad used to always say that in the event of nuclear war, the only things left would be the cockroaches and twinkies. Check out SeanBaby's hostess page. You can read all these little adventures and relive the magic. Check out the SeanBaby commentary on some of them, which are fukn hilarious as hell. Have fun kids! I'll be back later.
Tuesday, September 17, 2002
My buddy Aquaman is trying to determine if he should cave into his twin brother's urge to relive jr. high school glory and go see Rush live in concert at the Staples Center in LA. (See the Shout Outs on the post below). Hmmm. Rush WAS very very good, back in the day. I haven't actually listened to a Rush album since Counterparts, which was ahem, aiight, (it kinda sucked). I was never THAT into Rush, but I've heard they're incredible live. On the other hand, I've never heard firsthand accounts from a Rush concert since the Presto album, which some say was their last solid effort, although I liked Roll the Bones kind of, too. But shit, Aquaman, if it makes your bro a happy camper I say go for it. The only pitfall is if they follow what seems to be a trend, and what I heard the Chili Peppers did their last show here in Honolulu, and strictly play all their new crap and disregard the incredible catalog of timeless classics. That, young lord of the sea, is the conundrum you face. If anybody has any info on Rush shows in the last ten years, please advise via the handy dandy shout out link so conveniently placed below each entry.
OK on to other business. I googled the other day looking for other Hawaii bloggers, and I found this guy. I devoured basically his whole blog (at least what was on the page currently) over the following half hour. Check it out, but be sure to close the little window that will pop up if you're at work and don't want to get busted by the music playing. It's basically the life of a true typical oahu local boy, not the raving blather of a southern california transplant, which is what I am. He's also got a really cool photo page, with some really nice shots. So I contacted him and he was kind enough to e-mail me with a few links: this is a list of other hawaii bloggers and this is a team blog by a bunch of local kine folks. So check it out and support us island bloggers, dagnabbit!
Let's see what else is going on? Oh yeah, Mrs. P and I went to go check out One-Hour Photo on Friday. Good movie. Robin Williams is fukn disturbing and plays the psycho stalker weirdo just right for my taste. Also, the movie just LOOKS good if you know what I mean. The director and cinematographer really went to town. OK now everyone else can tell me that they saw it and my taste in movies sucks and goddammit I'm SO plebeian and ordinary and etcetera. I told you I suck at reviewing movies so whatever.
But really, go see it, don't believe all the high-brow intellectuals that only enjoy one movie out of a thousand a year, and it's the silent portuguese remake of A Man for all Seasons or some shit like that. Trust me on that one. or don't, whatever.
All righty then, that's it for now. Oh yeah - I've had it posted on my links list to the left for some time, but if you haven't checked it out yet, go read achewood, which is an online comic strip that fukn rules harder than the Rulons. Jim Treacher turned me on to it, and it is frikn hilarious in so not the typical lame comic strip sense. I mean any comic book with a takling dog wearing a g-string has got to be cool.
Monday, September 16, 2002
but at its time, not that i was alive or anything, it was the shit. big name stars clamored for a chance to have a guest-spot. even if it was just to lean your head out a window and talk to the dynamic duo while they're climbing up the wall of a building. the biggest stars of the day, check it out, do the research if you will, i'm too busy and lazy.
even liberace was a featured villain, playing himself and his evil twin, before fukn david hasselhoff even put on his first leather ensemble and talked to his car. in fact, batman even talked to his car first really, i mean, he talked to his batcomputer at least. otto preminger played mr. freeze just because his daughter wanted him to, she was unimpressed by all his fancy movies and shit, and everyone on the set hated him, supposedly he was a total prick.
and cesar romero as the joker, frank gorshin as the riddler, that old guy from rocky as the penguin, and the three different catwomen, what was not to like, america?
why don't they recast adam west as a retired batman? put burt ward in there too, anyone who's still alive. it would rake in the cash. am i wrong? bruce wayne retired and old, but still throwing on the suit every once in a while for kicks, carrying ben-gay in his utility belt, getting his ass kicked by gang bangers, i mean major laughs, guarans.
i'm eating left handed cuz i jacked my arm sleeping this weekend. and last night i jacked my neck, which hurt the morning but seems to have cleared up. but if i try to bring my right hand up to my mouth there's a jolting pain around my elbow. it's bearable but my theory is it'll heal faster if i exert it as little as possible. i worked out last night which may have been a mistake but i feel buffer today so it's all good.
(crippled eating session)
so how bout those muthafuckin bears world?? no respect you fuks but now the bear is growling, nursing its young to health for a hunt never foreseen. the scent of the enemy is on the wind, a syphon of whining soliloquies lost in the forest of knowledge.
and los raiders, the ship riding high into the night, awaiting the duel with the horsey helmet poondoggers that comes sometime on monday night football. the arsenal will be unleashed diligently and judicious annihilation will be executed with extreme prejudice.
and you know that i'm listening to def leppard. the cheese is fermenting on the palace walls, with nary a knight in sight to rectify wrongs left on the undead planes of asgard. so blah da de blah de blah de blah from blahgstein, usa island style.
damn all i know is that the airforce what-ever you call yourselves, midshipmen or falcon lightning bolt gang whatevers, cuz your ass is grass against the golden ones this saturday, back at home in strawberry canyon, just a little stomp and romp with a disco pomp, coalescing into dominance on stage b.
and digital berkeley joe will be in attendance, ceremonial cannon blaster after every score in the carnage of bear ball under my new mentor, mr. jeff tedford former quarterback coach for oregon, who i belive tutored a younger brett favre and was like, "brett: hit em hard and hit em long but don't forget to right every wrong. uh, on the football field, i mean. i'm not trying to say you have to be some kind of superhero or anything. i mean but if you did that's cool too."
first off the cal bears kicked some major big ten ass at michigan state university on saturday. it was their first time beating a team in the top 15 since 1974, so naturally i soiled myself in a fit of joy.
oh yeah and the raiders laid a spanking on the steelers, gannon the cannon breaking all kinds of raider passing records. good times.
i'd like to thank the hosemonster for noticing the cal victory and giving me a shout out. Check out his hard-hitting exposes on urinals, as well.
i've said it before, but i'm saying it again, read tony pierce. the last couple weeks he has been en fuego as they say, and the busblog has been a regular example of "event blogging" in my mind. keep up the amazing work mr. pierce.
and finally - congrats to my buddy sok-joo and his new bride who were wed in the la area this weekend. bummingly, i wasn't able to make it out from the islands, but i'd like to wish them all the best and brightest and all that good stuff.