Friday, September 26, 2003

Quick. I ain’t got a lot of time so I gotta whip through this post and basically impart virtually no verifiable information.

That don’t mean I’m proud of it. it also don’t mean that it’s true. Ya see, I find oftentimes when I type that the least I am trying to say, the more meaning somehow filters its way through. And although where I said “least” in that last sentence should have read “less” I’m betting my shiny new nickel cadmium flux capacitor that you still got the general jist of what I was imparting.

I have this bad habit of not keeping my fucking mouth shut. Like, I’ll just say the most retarded shit and like feel like I probably offended somebody, like, 85 times a day. 84 times I’m just being paranoid, and then there’s that one time, usually the one I was least concerned about, wherein I really pissed someone off, and they’re like sharpening steak knives in their den watching let’s make a deal reruns, fantasizing about the day they’ll finally rupture my spleen.

Or not. Hopefully, truthfully. So yeah anyway, let’s see that’s two point five paragraphs. What’s the government mandated minimum for sanctioned bloggage in the western hemisphere, code 83 dash 72? I believe it’s 7. okeydokey three more paragraphs, we can do it cap’n, seriously, teneal, you ride shotgun, I’ll be back here in the caboose, bustin jams on my stratocaster, nah fuck that, my Jackson, gyeah, randy rhoads style.

I haven’t talked nearly enough about randy rhoads as of late. Best guitar player ever, obviously. And although jimi Hendrix might take some umbrage with that statement, at which point I will not debate him but offer him some beavis and butthead paper, and then at that point all shall be copacetic. But if muthafuckin that guy from the white stripes comes in here talking yang like he could take out randy rhoads left testicle there’s gonna be a little trouble in big china, na mean? Gyeah. Did I mention that he talks to me? Well, his ghost I mean. But that is a story for another time that already happened, so check the files. Religiously.

Hawaii has a major fucking ice problem. And not ice as in the muthafuckin ice cream man or, ya know, frosty’s freeze, chuuchensteins. I mean crystal meth. Mad personas are sucking that glass pipe and leaving their kiddies to make their own pancakes if they can even scrounge up a clean pan and a cup of milk. It’s notoriously fucked up, ferreal.

Just thought I’d throw that out there. They had this big special on tv about it the other nite, took up every channel from 2-13 with the same program, which I have no problem with, but what if auntie tallullah wants to buy the last copy of sir francis bacon’s purloined letter on the home shopping channel? I mean batu is a serious problema but so is 400 pounds of large scalded hanai familia barreling down on your ass at like 2.5 meters per millisecond, na mean? Well you damn well better, even if she doesn’t exist. It’s the principle.

Well it’s always nice when you tackle serious societal issues and then make up bullshit stories to change the subject.

Ah well, my time is up, and i'm sorry, we just can't cut a check right now.

maybe monday.