Wednesday, April 30, 2003

I’m eating ravioli at my desk.

I just read a really inspirational story and was going to describe it to you, but it’s too depressing.

Chef Boyardee knows what he’s doing pretty good I think. He’s been supplying quality canned pasta for many a year.

One summer I worked at this pizza place delivering za, and this big huge guy worked there too. He was a football player for Northern Arizona U, but having his summer break in Cali and being a working slob like me. Except that he could destroy me with one finger if I uttered a wrong word. But we were cool, so I would always mess around with him, being like “hey you big ox, fold some damn boxes already.” Ok I wouldn’t say that. I don’t remember what the hell I was leading up to with this. Oh yeah, this guy, we worked at an Italian restaurant, but he didn’t really like the pasta there. He was like “I like chef Boyardee,” and the owner of the place, this big fat Italian guy with an insane temper would just go nuts. “what the hell are you talking about? This is home made from grandma’s kitchen,” or whatever the hell he would say.

But big football guy preferred chef Boyardee.

I don’t prefer chef Boyardee, per se, but it’s pretty damn good for something out of a can.

I would say asta la vista right about there, but I want to have a nice size entry so I can put up a couple comic covers I found on the internet. They’re the two finale issues of the death of phoenix x-men story, from the 80’s, John Byrne, nutty block, history, comic book history you goatless ho’s. I only WISH I had these issues, shit, if I did, I’d be able to bitch slap Suge Knight. He’d be like “what the fuck?” and ready to hang me off a 19th floor balcony, but then I’d show him my mint copy of x-men 137 and he’d chill out and like try to change the subject or something, but between us we’d never forget that moment when I played him like the sloppiest hoochbag this side of Crapston Acres. Then again, if for some reason the site I’m pulling them from pulls a jinx bathroom and blocks my shit, then, well, I’ll look pretty stupid and maybe Vanilla Ice will be nodding his head giving me a look like “I told you so.”

So what else is there to talk about? Oh yeah Sadaam’s letter to the Iraqi people, heard about that on tv this morning. Yeah sadaam, c’mon back, we miss you living in your giant palaces while we eat dog food, and ya know why? We don’t know, you just had the schwaan or something, we just can’t get enough of licking the mud off your boot. Funny ain’t it? so yeah, c’mon back sadaam, as soon as these fukn American infidels get their democratic (democracy is for bustas) agenda bastard stepchild asses outta here, then we will welcome you with open arms. We’ll be like, “all is forgiven, saddie,” that’s what his friends call him, “and do you think you could shove this hot poker up my ass for ol’ times sake, seeing as it’s your welcome back party?”

Fukn sadaam. If he’s alive, he better hide in his cave and hope he can jimmy some kind of satellite and watch the laker game tomorrow. That’s what I would be doing if I was a fascist dictator in hiding. I would be solely working on getting SOME kind of uplink, cable (shit middle of the desert) some kine satellite, maybe get Ahmed to rig something out of the jeep’s flux capacitor, I don’t know, and get me live feed of shaq and kobe kicking kg and minnesota’s punk arses out of this party. Cuz they’ve been staying too long. Their ketchup and salad dressing is getting warm and they need to tend to that shit.

My CD player just switched from 50 cent telling me to fuck off and go to hell to Fleetwood Mac telling me to lay in the tall grass and let them do their “stuff”. I’m having a hard time figuring out which one I’d prefer.