Sunday, September 07, 2003

don’t cry for me argentina. It’s true, I’ve never been there.

Not in my fad days, my color me badd days, (ps: they didn’t exist, it just rhymed) I was your ally, your sweater vest pal guy.

So did I mention that Brandon always wins? Oh and besides that that we went camping this weekend. It was super-dee-duperdy crip-sola. Where you may ask? Why at Kualoa beach park, mein freund(s), I mean, shit dawg(s), we had the phattest view of chinaman’s hat, which besides being a very scenic island in the shape of a customary Chinese peasant’s hat, enables haoles everywhere their one & possibly only chance to say chinaman without fear or repurcussion, or actually make that fear OF repurcussion of being labelled some kind of racist bigot bastard sword bricklayer. Or sumpin like that.

I won’t say I’m not a racist because that is code for “I’m actually a total fucking racist,” a totally unsubstantiated theory of which I’ve gone into before in detail, and I didn’t really mean for this to get all racial, but doesn’t everything at some point or another? Well, actually, alfredo sauce, no it doesn’t, and saying you’re not a racist doesn’t actually totally necessarily mean you’re actually a racist, it’s just one of those “I think thou protest too much” type dillios.

So we’ll just leave it at that on this fine Sunday evening.

Now where was I, contingent?

Ah yes, camping. Shit, our tent is just so tight. Not as in a tight fit, far from it, tight, as the youth of today or last week would say, as in properly befitting one of a noble class, not that I think I’m some kind of nobleman or some such dignitary, far from it, but anyway, it was the dang-diggety-dawg-squad, aka, super good.

But, dang, ya dig, that wind and rain would kick up like a sumbtich in the middle of the night, and these drunken fooligans would sometimes go stumbling by squawking the most outlandish metaphors, that, well, at the smallest moments, contingent, I must admit I was annoyed. But only very slightly, and then I would realize that all was well and that wacko and the most beautiful mrs. P were safe and sound in said tent with me and I would realize, yo, I am king of all I survey and all I survey is oh so veddy veddy viddy well aka good good with a side of fantastically good.

So you may be wondering why we brought wacko camping. Wait, what’s this? You’re wondering who wacko is in the first place? Oh, well, that is slightly troubling. Actually, it’s not, well, here, you should read this. You really really should read it. Because it explains in what, well, I would never toot my own horn so to say, but in a very effective fashion, the origins and significance of a goldfish named wacko. Both how he came to be a part of the pennyworth family and where he got that name that all those in the know, the up to the minute trend setters, in their crazy nightclubs, can’t keep off the tips of their tongues, well that and all those little pieces of paper and green plastic chips.

Um, so yea. Wait hold on, let me eat a pop-tart for a minute. Mmmm. Something about eating breakfast food at night. It has that perfect mixture of feeling naughty, tasting good, not filling you up too much, being associated with Seinfeld, and, um, spoonfull of sugar makes the medicine go down mindset, that, well, spins my wicker. Not literally.

So yeah, we figured we’d bring wacko camping with us, in his little bowl, cuz, I mean, we don’t wanna have to be coming back to the casa every morning & evening for his mandatory feedings, so he was kicking it on the beach with us, I almost had a moment of like free willy style, where I contemplated throwing him in the ocean but thank allah I didn’t do that as in I think I read somewhere that goldfish are not down with like that saltwater thang.

Well, so that’s my story. I think I’m done writing this as it’s Sunday night and it sounds good to go lay down and read me some Robert Jordan.

Oh and by the way Mrs. P has been getting lots of compliments on here new backpack. It’s a baby blue jansport.