dr. doooom's answering machine

Ok my little drama regarding this page seems to have passed. I’d like to give a huge thanks to Moxie for answering my cries for help on such a prompt basis. She is so damn cool that it makes me shiver. This is in no way related to but in no way unrelated to the fact that she is a kick-ass writer, and I gotta say I think I’m digging her site even more than the insane amount I already was (and it was not sane, but in a good way, ya know like when rocky road ice cream is really rocky?) now that she’s basically bustin’ on the creativity tip, although I did enjoy the random spillings of all her personals, coded or uncoded as they may or may not have been. Rock on Ms. Slade. And as for you, young hooligans that may or may not be reading this, (hey maybe your just staring at the screen, waiting for enlightenment), get over there and bask in her wisdom. And she is wise, she even has a little Buddha on her desk, just like me, and the fact that I am NOT wise is in way indicative of her un-wiseness, in fact quite the opposite. Very clear, yes? Yes, I thought so.

It is a pretty sad basis of reality how much I get paralyzed by the thought of this page not functioning properly. Like the absence of the availability of this rambling bullshit is mission critical for the continued existence of humanity in any semblance of rational & happy theoretical implications. And I’m not letting the fact that that last sentence was total and complete nonsense stop me from my preordained quest.

Is there such thing as a lucky pen? Like if you sign a proposal with your lucky pen is there a better chance that once it shows up in your target’s fax machine they will be like “ah, yes, the golden chalice of chronic boobonics, let me call up the fukn money people right this fukn minute and buy about a billion dollars worth of this crap!” I think there is, but sometimes I think that, ya know, that’s totally fukn impossible. I’ve signed a lot of stuff with some crappy pens and these little diddlios turned out nicer than ice cream on a pan am flight to Guantanamo Bay. Then on the other hand, I’ve busted out what I thought was the pen that conquered Waco, Texas, signed that shit with the most fancy but understated swirl you ever saw, and what happened, a phone call of derisive laughter and offended outrage, followed by about 20,000 lashes with a wet noodle. This was on a Thursday, and besides Tuesday, that’s the day that I know that you should stay inside, that’s what the Hot Boys told me. And they know.

Well, actually, I’m pretty sure that rule only applies if you’re down in the dirty, dirty. The south. Ya know, gritsville, the place where they whistle Dixie and make sure “those” people stay on the right side of the street. Well, actually, they probably aren’t as obvious about it anymore, I mean, they probably whisper to themselves and talk story in dirty backrooms with liters of moonshine whiskey and plan how they’ll have to go live in them thar hills pretty soon as those people are taking over and noone seems to be flying in on a white horse and a hood and doing something about it. Well deal with it you damn racist fucks, it’s 2003, and the days of having your own drinking fountain are over and done.

Ok Alfred, feelin a little racial today, yeah? Go take your medicine, big guy. Aaah, yes, good to the last drop.

But really doe, I see it like this: now is the time for everyone to be what they wanna be and if you don’t like that big orange taste all up in yo’ face then buy a big ranch and go there or just chill and say “ya know main, we bruddas from anudda mudda, so it’s all super duperdy good.” Or just say “please pass the salt, oh & have a nice day.” Or just have an oreo-shake, cuz really it’s all gravy. Why you gotta be trying to rule the world? Just have a coke & a smile and shut the fuck up, or join the party, or kick back like a new jack and have a phat sack. Ya gotta keep it adam’s family style, and do what you wanna do and respect other’s rights to do the same.

So now that you’ve heard my thought of the day, go out there and by nice to each other, or whatever the fuck Jerry Springer used to always say.

And that’s on Berkeley.