Thursday, December 11, 2003


when you think about it, it’s all a bunch of bullshit.

Every last bit of it. that lamp? Bullshit. Your soft comfy sofa? Tres bullshit senor. And don’t even get me started on your bedspread. Mine’s the shizzle, but yours is like shit of a bull, central office, and don’t even check, I called it in. yah, it’s like that.

I just wanna get in a car and go like a billion miles an hour to like dr. phil’s secret lair where he’s prolly got oprah tied up in bondage gear and put a stop to that whole operation, cuz it just ain’t right.

Go ahead and sue, oprah. Here, take it all, my mcdonaldland watch and my lakeside tattooz, and hey you CAN get fries with that. beyotch.

Fukn jizzle sizzle cizzled my oh-izzle and I was like, werd? Chuuuch.

Don’t try to understand that, it’s coded for one echelon of clearance above your authorization level. You have to hang out with snoop dogg for like 85 astro-medallion equivalents on the time map and then maybe I’ll clue you in to the first word. But you should already know it, I mean c’mon. jizzle sizzle? If you’ve read even one astro-medallion of this space you should know, I mean c’mon, they’re running out of you for chrissake. Shit.