Posted 1:44 PM by Alfred

Hunter S. Thompson is a genius. Not just for an amazing look at the agony of the defeat of the heavily favored Oakland Raiders in the Superbowl, but for every word he has ever written and for everything he symbolizes and everything he does and just the fact that he is the fukn man and articulates so so much better the true degradation of that loss than I ever could if I had a thousand years and a million sheets of paper as well as the best & brightest editors in all the land to try to make some kind of cohesive and relevant statement out of it.

FUCK! I’m still not quite over it. I am in much better shape, apparently, than Barret Robbins, the missing in action on game day center of the Oaktown Raiders. Supposedly the guy’s on suicide watch right now. I guess homey has had a long history of problems with depression, and he recently decided to go off of his medication, and felt like superbowl weekend was a good time to hit the sauce hard. Well, hindsight is 20/20 but I’ve gotta say if Barret’s still around next year this time, can we have like a ring of people around this guy if there’s ever a bar within 50 square miles. Shit people! But anyway, hey nobody’s a babysitter in the NFL, these are grown men and etcetera. So what the fuck ever. Barret, get better man, don’t hang this one on your shoulders, ya know? Yeah you fucked up, but shit happens, move on, don’t do anything drastic. You’re a millionaire, you’ve got family that is concerned, fuck it, it’s just a game.

A fukn BIG game, yes, but not more important than your health, sanity, and well being.

OK, yeah, yeah, I’m like the 2nd coming of fukn Florence Nightingale up in this bitch. Yeah, yeah, a thousand points of fukn light. Yeah fukn yeah fukn yeah.

Goddamm fuck. All I ever fukn do is bitch and talk yang and blabber on this fukn blog anymore. What the fuck? There used to be some kind of creativity, a little bit of a game plan, some kind of format to this horsecock sandwich escapade. I’m almost wondering if I should just ride off into the sunset, or at least threaten to. Then I could come back in a sudden blaze of glory!!! That’s it, I could pull a Treacher! Except instead of 8 billion people peeing their pants in agony over the thought of me being gone, as was the case with him, those 8 people that read this crap will be like, “hmmm, well then, apparently this guy’s not blogging anymore. Well I guess I’ll go read Marmaduke. That dog is FUKN hilarious.” Or maybe they’ll be like “yes, well. I guess I’ll go read some graffiti in the bathroom stall because it’s got about as much social value as this horsecock ass crap.” Or even yet they’ll be like “ahh shit, these aren’t pictures of kool keith getting gangraped by prison clowns!! Fukn Google misled me again!”

Yes all these are deep thoughts and very necessary, so don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.

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