Monday, June 30, 2003

I’m looking in my crystal ball that I ganked off an old bitch sitting amid her wares on the pont du vecchio in Florence (italy ya kooks, ya know the boot country, and ok it wasn’t me it was rion, but shit, lemme finish a goddam sentence before ya butt in with all your wherewithalls and what-have-you’s) and floating here and fro in its misty cobwebs I spy a week filled with high amounts of cover-your-ass time and setting up shit to kick it on lay away while I bask in the rays of gay par-ee, rat-infested lun-dunn, and clock crazed swiss-town.

Meaning in layman’s terms, I gotta get all my shit in order, becuz I leave for a phat vaycay next Tuesday nite.

Whut does that mean to you oh dearest reader of mai-yine? Absolutely nuthin, except for the small fact that I will be completely and maybe not so totally off the radar for those two & a half weeks, during which time you may cry in your soup or celebrate at your leisure, depending on your attitude and degree of codependency and/or apathy towards the words that magically appear on this corner of the ol’ triple dub on the not so set in stone schedule of Monday through Friday not counting holidays and possibly a surprise guest visit by a certain dog not named Methuselah.

Confused yet? Good, because if you’re not then it means you need to visit doctor greenthumb and anesthetize your cranium for a healthy trip down herky jerky lane, also known as frank spank crank yank dirty dirty dank.

Dogshit acres, represent.