Thursday, June 05, 2003

it’s a busy morning here at the skunkworks. Carlos got his hand stuck in the dehumidifier again (fukn perv) and we had to shut down the plant and call in the greasers to extract his “el mano” with the least amount of blood and pain manageable vis a vis the situation. It came out to about a 5 out of 10 and maybe 2 pints. Carlos is a little light headed so the boss sent him home for the day with a complimentary carafe of zinfandel. Fucker. Somebody knows how to work the system for free booze and personal time.

But the plant is up and running again and business is pretty good, for a Thursday. The fucked thing is no one wants to pay their fukn bills this time of year. I don’t know what it is, maybe everybody’s doing their end of fiscal year but DAMN cherries are tighter than a month before prom night up in this bizzle. Fa shizzle.

I know I often tell you kind folks to “check the files.” Well there’s a minor problem with that at this juncture in that “the files” ie my archives, seem to be all fucked to hell. None of the hyperlinks for archives in the last couple months seem to work and I’ve tried re-archiving in blogger but that goes about as well as a drunk irish catholic on crack at a Mormon wedding. Ok maybe that’s not the best analogy, but, well, you get what you pay for brothers & sisters.

I realize that I’ve never told you the incredibly wonderful story of Mister Happy. Hmmm, but I don’t think I have the energy right now. Another time. Remind me though. It’s not necessarily a story, but more of a character analysis, of the happiest (sarcasm alert) fella in all of Quonset hut row. Truss.

Fukn blogger was being a little bitch about letting me put pics up yesterday. Or maybe it was google. Or… oh shit. I just made the connection. Is google now systematically going through their pics and disenabling them for posting on blogger if you don’t but FUKN blogspot plus? I mean literally, I must have tried at least 10 pics that loaded just fine when you went to the url and then you try to put them up in blogger and squatsville. I must ponder this over a Newcastle….

Speaking of Newcastle, that’s where the lead singer of AC/DC is from. I caught the “ultimate albums” dillio on Back in Black yesterday. Pretty good stuff. Apparently Bonn Scott’s ghost or something came up on Brian Johnson (the singer they have now, mr. Screechy-voice, and that is not a diss) and somehow inspired him, calmed him down, filled him with confidence, whatevs, so he was able to pen the lyrics to those classic tunes. Holy fuk I think I just channeled Casey Kasem, and that is not good. Anyway, the AC/DC ghost connection kind of reminded me of my old cosmic link with one Randy Rhoads and how I miss those days of psychic repartees. Really, dude, where the fuck are you, is it like a 6 month coke binge up in the pearly gates central or whizat?? Holla at a playa. Now that I think about it, Brian wouldn’t really elaborate at all on what, if anything, Bon Scott said to him, or what the little trip down spiritville lane entailed, only that it happened. Maybe he was worried that divulging the info would stop the flow, muck up the pipes. Maybe that’s what I did, telling my stories of convos with Randy, I jacked up the connect, a forever lost conduit just because I didn’t have good enough sense to keep it to my fucking self. Hmmmm.