Posted 6:36 PM by Alfred

why do I write shit that no one except for 50 lost souls a day 49 of which are me read and the only reason they come are for the free pretzels? Why do I give half a fuck about this goddamm stupid ass web page that is the hogwartz central bitch ass zone for prepubescent mongreloid photosynthesis dykes?

It is so pathetic yet outrageously uninformative that no one gives the rats asshole burger. See I use the same damn lines and the same damn lies to convey the same ass crap to the same ass people the same ass time the same ass day the same ass computer the same ass ass.

Why don’t more people blog so horribly horrible? We could start a club called the stupid fuckhead club featuring your president Alfred pennyworth and his dog spot. If you want to read some crap, go see alf, if you want to barf in your hat, go see alf, if you want to eat some drool if you want to act the fool if you want to mow some wool, go see alf. We got black ones blue ones red ones and yellow ones I’m at 227 tehran street in the middle of Tehran tell em billy bob sent ya, we’ll see ya hear.

When I was in high school we did a group project on Iran. There were four dudes in the group and we made a video presentation and we were like this fake news crew. So anyway we each had to make a commercial to have in the newscast. Well I guess we didn’t HAVE too we wanted to. And I did a bogus version of the “go see cal” car commercials except it was “go see hal” and instead of selling used cars I was selling concubines. If you don’t know what a concubine is, it’s a woman who’s like in a rich arab style dude’s harem, his stable, so to speak. If you don’t know who Cal Worthington is, he’s the famous old-school southern California used car salesman that had these commercials where he’d ride elephants and shit and he had this super cool song that I used to always sing on my way to school while waving around my Captain America lunchbox. Even then I was such a patriot. They used to call me patriotic joe. Ok they didn’t but I always cried myself to sleep wondering why not. But that’s a story for another day.

So in my concubine commercial I had on this turban and robe, which was basically a couple bed sheets, and some really cheap sunglasses, and I was all pimped out and had my concubines running by, which was just the other dudes in bedsheets covering their faces and it got a big laugh from our 9th grad history class.

And I was the hero of the school. And all of a sudden, I wasn’t this dorky little dork, I was like this really popular dude, and all the football players took a time out from making out with cheerleaders and we’re like “hey Alfred, um, I don’t mean to bother you, but how about coming to our party tonight and being the guest of honor?” and I was like “sorry dudes, I got a prior engagement of hanging out at greasiones house watching skinemax with the rillio crillio and the htp posse. Yeah dammit by choice. Go drink your beer and party with the crizew, I’ve got the rillio crillio with billio and fillio on the real dillio, ya quillio on my galillio ya shillio bobillio? And fukn joe football was like “dizamm! Can I come over too?” and I’m like sorry jock-o, private party, but send the hizzles, na mean? And he did. And it was a hoo-bangin’ party even before the days of WC and the mad circle. It was og showtime before the show even started. It was big daddy kane before he knocked up his first bitch. It was ice cube before the tray had even gone in the freezer. It was real. It was htp.

Don’t try breaking down what htp stands for if you actually know me and are like “wtf?” it doesn’t stand for anything. But wtf stands for what the fuck in case you didn’t know.

One of the funniest things I ever saw was Santa get run over by a car. Back in the day these dudes had this fake santa that they stole from in front of someone’s yard, ya know those plastic statues? Well they kept it in trunk of their car, and when they wanted a good laugh, they would stand it in the middle of the street, get a good bunch of speed going for about a block, and run it over. It was really loud, and santa would go flying like 15 feet. Jeezo peezo you had to be there it was so fukn funny I’m pretty damn sure that urination was involved.

Fukn santa running over motherfuckers. I forgot about that shit. Imagine the mentality of carrying a santa in your trunk, just on the off chance you might feel like running it over with your car. If you can capture that essence you will know… something, but damn if I know what. That is a memory I would not trade for all the lint in an 80 year old narcoleptic’s sock though, and that’s on Glendale, beyotch.

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