Friday, January 31, 2003

Joey was a rat. And they were on his tail.

They’d pushed and squeezed and he’d spit the info like a fukn horse on Tuesday. Nevermind the nonsensical metaphor of the situation, this was serious biznass.

As serious as jumpin on a 2x4 on a midsummer’s eve see-saw.

Ok, stop right there. Whatever little story you’re trying to tell just ain’t happening. It’s time to admit that you’re just wingin’ it and have no idea where this is going.

Um.. well, I’m pretty sure it was gonna end up with a gun battle in a donut shop, but how he got there, that’s kinda hazy.

Yeah. Hazy. You dumb dumb dumb dummie. Why don’t you just go back to writing about, uh, what the hell do you write about again?

Hardcore political commentary.

Oh yeah. That. So what’s going on in the political arena right now?

Fuck if I know. Something about we’re gonna start bombing iraq pretty soon, once we grow a set of nuts and stop giving a crap what the UN says.

Hey is this a private party or can anyone join in?

Ah shit look what the cat dragged in.


You know.

Seriously, what?

The bold type? Jesus, get over yourself.

Hey, it’s not like I picked it. What else was left? Plain & italic were taken. I sure as hell don’t know how to get color out of this damn thing, do either of you?


Uh. No.

So shut the fuck up.

So how bout those bears?

How bout em? They fukn lost! And they gotta play #1 Arizona tomorrow. We’re fucked.

Hey fuck that. Cal’s gonna go in there and take care of biznass.

Dude you already said biznass, in your brilliant little story. Get a fukn dictionary already.

It’s thesaurus, buttwipe.

Yeah, that.

Dude this REALLY sucks.

Yeah. Ok we’re outtie.


Oh one more thing, though, I went to the bows-rice game last nite, and the bows rocked harder than the rock-ons. It was the lbc in tha place to be.

Great. Great sandwich. No really, we really, really, really care. You’re fascinating.

Fuck you.

Thursday, January 30, 2003

the clippers won last night. Beat the bulls, which in itself is no big victory, but hey in the land of clipperness, you take your small joys when you can get them.

Stoked on the victory but kind of salty on the state of the team this year, I picked up the phone & called up Donald Sterling, the maverick owner of the team. As I heard the rings into his private line, I whispered a curse against his mother’s name.

“Mac Mall Central.” This is how Don always answers the phone.

“it’s Alfred.”

“waddap.” Few people know that once the Don gets comfy and/or a little drunk, he drifts into a kind of bastardized ebonics.

“dude, dude, dude, dude, dude. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, but tonite for some reason I just can’t let shit slide. What is UP with this team? Why can’t you sign Kandi-man and Elton to long term deals? Cough up the cash man!!! At least bargain with the men, they just want a little respect! Ok Olowakandi is a lost cause. You pissed him off. But Elton, for reasons unknown, actually wants to stay a Clipper. Do you just not give a flying fuck if they win or lose? WhutsUP?”

“Fuck them. They are greedy fucks. This is my team, and I’ll grind them into the ground if I want to. Don’t you know the kids love an athletic high-spirited loser? Dumbass.”

“you fukn piece of dogshit. You make more money off of this team than any other two owners combined in this league. You’ve got such a low payroll that you have to jack up salaries next year just to meet the MINIMUM salary, while real teams fight to get lower to avoid the luxury tax. You are a true fucker.”

“yeah well count these duckets, ho. Look bitch, call me back later, I’m kind of busy.”

“What the fuck are you doing you don’t have time to talk to me? Fukn playboy short. Too busy impressing your friends with 8-martini brunches watching a team with so much potential flush itself down the drain cuz everyone is just playing for numbers, waiting to jump ship.”

“Hey man, look, chill. I’m trying to get a high colonic up in this beyatch. I’ve got tubes up my ass and all kind of other hook ups you don’t want to hear about. I’m gonna be clean as a whistle so you can’t fade me, hear dat?”

“Clean as a whistle. If you didn’t have Elgin Baylor to score insanely talented players for you, even if they only hang out 2 years at a time, you’d really be up shit creek.”

“um, what was that? As you can see I’m really concerned. Oh wait, my fingernail is a little crooked.”

“Look, Don, at least promise me you’ll go back to the table with Elton. This is one of the few consistent 20/10 guys in the league. Night after night. 20 points 10 boards. For you. For LA. For all the people that don’t want to be like everybody else and slurp all over the lakers. Give the people a team. A people’s team, Don. Do it for me.”

“Fuck off. I’ve got tee-time in 2 hours.”

And then he hung up on my ass.

Wednesday, January 29, 2003

yodelay shmodelay. a little bird flew in here and told me i was supposed to update my blog. i was like damn you little shit dropping tard, get the hell out of my office. and then i busted out my trusty pitchfork and splattered that feathered shtinkta all over the window that looks out on our van yard. but he had a point that ventilated waskal. it is update time.

well i didn't really watch the president's state of my johnson address yesterday, but when i got home some democrat guy was whining about all the stuff that bush said. so i guess if that guy didn't like it it must have been pretty good. so kudos dubya. nothing against democrats, but this guy was like "wah wah wah wah wah. bush didn't address this, bush didn't address that," i was like damn dawg, give homey some proppas! and then some withered up old bag lady that they dragged off the street and washed down on a fire hydrant and shoved some pearls on her ears and a elinor roosevelt dress was like "well i never, bush never even addressed all those poooor starving children in zimbabwe that son of a goatless amazon." and i was like, otay, miss thang, oh like you know.

people always ask me how i get such the inside scoop on all this kine political stuff. they're like, "alfred, how in the hell of a goatless toad do you pontificate so thusly on the state of our nation and the world?" my answer is usually something akin to this: "well, dipshit (insert name here) the first step is to make sure that you read hose monster every day. unlike me he actually knows whuts up. then i like to add what i call the flava. what's the flava you might ponder? well the flavor is wherein i like add a key word like goat and then talk about washing people on fire hydrants. you see whut this does is break it down for john q. public. it makes it accessible to shut-ins and game show hosts who otherwise would just keep flipping back between riptide reruns and mtv tough enough. it makes it so both jack malone and fred edwards can have a serious discussion on issues, rather than just flippin the bird." this is usually when said other person bows down before me and admits that i am a true genius.

but see that's the rub my freunds. i ain't no genius. i'm just a man, and this is just a computer, and we live on just a world, and the capital of birmingham is alaska.

Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Hunter S. Thompson is a genius. Not just for an amazing look at the agony of the defeat of the heavily favored Oakland Raiders in the Superbowl, but for every word he has ever written and for everything he symbolizes and everything he does and just the fact that he is the fukn man and articulates so so much better the true degradation of that loss than I ever could if I had a thousand years and a million sheets of paper as well as the best & brightest editors in all the land to try to make some kind of cohesive and relevant statement out of it.

FUCK! I’m still not quite over it. I am in much better shape, apparently, than Barret Robbins, the missing in action on game day center of the Oaktown Raiders. Supposedly the guy’s on suicide watch right now. I guess homey has had a long history of problems with depression, and he recently decided to go off of his medication, and felt like superbowl weekend was a good time to hit the sauce hard. Well, hindsight is 20/20 but I’ve gotta say if Barret’s still around next year this time, can we have like a ring of people around this guy if there’s ever a bar within 50 square miles. Shit people! But anyway, hey nobody’s a babysitter in the NFL, these are grown men and etcetera. So what the fuck ever. Barret, get better man, don’t hang this one on your shoulders, ya know? Yeah you fucked up, but shit happens, move on, don’t do anything drastic. You’re a millionaire, you’ve got family that is concerned, fuck it, it’s just a game.

A fukn BIG game, yes, but not more important than your health, sanity, and well being.

OK, yeah, yeah, I’m like the 2nd coming of fukn Florence Nightingale up in this bitch. Yeah, yeah, a thousand points of fukn light. Yeah fukn yeah fukn yeah.

Goddamm fuck. All I ever fukn do is bitch and talk yang and blabber on this fukn blog anymore. What the fuck? There used to be some kind of creativity, a little bit of a game plan, some kind of format to this horsecock sandwich escapade. I’m almost wondering if I should just ride off into the sunset, or at least threaten to. Then I could come back in a sudden blaze of glory!!! That’s it, I could pull a Treacher! Except instead of 8 billion people peeing their pants in agony over the thought of me being gone, as was the case with him, those 8 people that read this crap will be like, “hmmm, well then, apparently this guy’s not blogging anymore. Well I guess I’ll go read Marmaduke. That dog is FUKN hilarious.” Or maybe they’ll be like “yes, well. I guess I’ll go read some graffiti in the bathroom stall because it’s got about as much social value as this horsecock ass crap.” Or even yet they’ll be like “ahh shit, these aren’t pictures of kool keith getting gangraped by prison clowns!! Fukn Google misled me again!”

Yes all these are deep thoughts and very necessary, so don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.

Monday, January 27, 2003

Well then. Yup. That fukn sucked ass, now didn’t it?

I mean, the first half, Oakland’s O-Line got absolutely destroyed. Decimated. By the time they had Simeon Rice, Warren Sapp, and the gang under some semblance of control, Rich Gannon had apparently been transformed into Neil O’Donnel. The transformation was complete with Dexter Jackson’s channeling of Larry Walker.

What a load of dogshit. Ya gotta tip your hat though. The better team won. (fuck)

On top of having to deal with that shite, the fukn stereo in the alf-mobile suddenly and seemingly irrevocably took a giant crap, as in it doesn’t work for shit anymore. Will not turn on, will not do jack shite. So no music in the ride. Right in the middle of a song, suddenly capoot. So great, great sandwich, looks like I’ll have to tear apart the whole fukn dashboard again to check out that lil ho.

Is it me or has this blog turned into my little bitching arena? I don’t want that. Ok no more games.

I’d like to give up thanks for all the cool peeps that sent me stuff and/or called for my b-day: to my mom & pops, my sisters, my grandmas, aquaman & hoalaha, tone-dogger, booker, merlo, Darren & alice my nyc gangstas, Mrs. P’s sister & her fam and of course the wonderful & fabulous Mrs. P for making this old fart feel young every day.


You know, not to get back into whining beyatch mode, but it’s true what they say, that the further your team goes, the more it sucks ASS to watch them lose. You get this mad buildup of expectations and you’re actually picturing your celebration dance and how you’re gonna be ordering the special sports illustrated superbowl video & shit, and then suddenly the unthinkable happens & your team is getting a fukn spanking on the world’s biggest stage. And then you drink another beer. And another. And another. And though the pain becomes somewhat diluted, it’s still there, and you laugh and mope and yell & groan and they look like they’re gonna come back, a glimmer of hope, and then fukn Gannon is still channeling O’Donnel even though his O-Line is suddenly a fukn wall. If a game ball goes out to the Raiders, I’d have to give it to the o-line for that 2nd half. They fukn played their guts out after getting bent over like ho’s to start the game, especially with the center out for reasons I still have not deciphered and now I don’t really give a rat’s ass.

Well there goes my whole I’m not gonna bitch & moan anymore dillio. Ah well. Really doe, except for the whole Raiders getting their ass kicked thing it was a fun day, phat grinds, good times, lots of peeps, mad dranks, camaraderie and raider fans, mixed in with some bucs fans to make it interesting, and thankfully they didn’t talk a lot of shit afterwards, so it was all good. Except of course for, well you know, that losing taint of raider nation falling on its collective ass. Ah vell, such is life, yes?

Peace out, I’ll try to come back later with something more constructive and/or life-affirming. Maybe a tribute to Bat-Mite. Over & out.