Tuesday, July 01, 2003

If you don’t kick ass you’re dead. these fukn alien fuks want a show and they're willing to rip bone from muscle in total disregard for the rising rates of medical malpractice insurance.

They’ll tear you to fukn pieces if you miss one note, stray on one riff, fukn flip your hair the wrong way. Leopard skin fukn bandana crooked? Eace-pay hose snot.

Breathe, sucka. You can do this like brutus. Just step out there, look all those muthafuckin interspacial mofos in their beady lil eyes and fukn slap that Jackson like a bitch.

No fancy shit, ok maybe in the reprise, but just straight bang that ho like a 2x4 at the salad bar. Make it sing like a canary sittin looking at lady and the tramp it’s so damn meaningful.

These fukn martians or wherever the fuk they’re from don’t give a fuk if you live or die. They’ll release the hounds at a moments notice. It ain’t nuthin but another Tuesday nite open mic for their asses.

To really fuk with ya kid they might throw you in with some joker on vocals. Pay it no muthafuckin mind. Play through, make that fooh look good. Shit play it right and you’ll bring him along for the ride. Why not. Cosmic druggery and archaic thuggery. You’ll be like the han solo and luke skywalker of the ghetto set. Sex with pinochle players from the planet Pluto. Smack it flip it rub it down. Next.

And if you show how deep the shit is, if you bring jack foolio up the ranks with you, into the deepest hallways of the swankest parties with the most beautiful people, just to show those fuks, then they’ll hook it up. Pair you up with somebody that will make shit known. History book shit that will really spread the word about what the fuk you can do with a fukn ax and a moment.

But that’s all dust in the wind now playa. That’s all ashes in the smoke pit, stuff that ain’t even been thought of yet except for a few silly dreamers lying on a hill. The pail sits. Empty. Conversation ebbs & wanes. Water break. then, and only then, maybe a decision will be made to actually do something about it.

Mind wandering, again and again. Ok time to walk through that curtain, plug into your muthafuckin amp, and burn this fukn coliseum ass shit or whatever it is down. And then they can find another fiddler and another carrot dragger, cuz this shit ain’t cool. Alright, well, that’s not true, you’ll keep playin for your life, won’t you now? Oh yeah, cuz life beats death, playboy, life beats death any day of the week, I don’t care if your name is ebeneezer scrooge or phil mcFackelstein, unless your fukn fingernails are being torn off by a gang of muthafuckin hyenas from Pittsburgh, ain’t nobody that can make me see different on that one.

Alright game time. 4th quarter. 9th inning. 10th frame. Triple over time, they pass the ball to Mullin. From way downtown, oh shit folks, I think it’s good, but first let’s pause for a commercial break, brought to you by Lee Press Ons, the shit so good, they’ll never know.