Posted 3:44 PM by Alfred

Well I see that good charlotte is getting some serious street cred, popping up in the new rancid video. One of those like “look at me I’m hardcore” dillios. But, um, rancid, they’re not actually hardcore are they? Or are they, I haven’t been getting my counterculture memos and am thus authoritatively clueless. I’m pretty sure Mohawks and full sleeve tats no longer cut the mustard. In fact lack of a tattoo may be the newest in alternative body image representation. Like, look at me, I’m so fucking core I don’t even have a tattoo, shit, gangsta.

Yeah, so that’s pretty relevant. I feel like a weak little kitten today, but it’s about 80 million astro-medallions better than yesterday. Let’s just say that the wonders to the noggin of becks octoberfest are not exacted without a price. Said price being, um, not fun vandalous extremity. Or sumpin.

So yah, bob big boy called and said that sally or whatever the hell her name was got knocked up by some harley biker named wentworth. Don’t let the seemingly pansy nom de plume fool you, this guy is as ruthless as they come. I once saw him bite off a cat’s leg and then dip it in a pool of blood from like this coyote that he had just drop-kicked across the street.

I’m starting to think that the critics are right and that good charlotte is an overrated bubble gum piece of dogshit. But they make a hell of a fondue, so, well, I mean, wine plus cheese plus good bread equals props if not underground respect, so there you go.

The list of shit going on in the hizzle is long and windy and cavernous and peculiarly arcane in my humble opinion. It’s like, ok, here’s a list of a bunch of shit that requires action, both in the realms of work and personal and etcetera and suddenly you’re like, yah I’m on it, and then likewise at an inopportune juncture uncle eddie that body master underlines the fact that you are a pile of something not fortified. And then you realize that there is mad shit that necessitates your attention, like, 85 issues but like only slots available for 48, and you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelette, granted, but shit, you wanna have enough batter left over for the French toast, na mean?

You probably don’t. shit I wouldn’t if I wasn’t the one writing it. self induced vagarities, comes with the territories, my pretties. Frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Ah, time to run, someone’s begging for an x-box ass-kicking.

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