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4 out of 7 scientists prefer Chewbacca's crossbow
meanwhile, behind the facade of this innocent looking doghouse...
copyright 2002-2011 ultrablognetic |
Friday, May 09, 2003
 I just killed a baby cockroach. I’m pretty sure that’s the only baby anything you can kill and people will still cheer.
I gotta go to the eye doctor today to get a new contacts prescription. Which means I gotta put my contacts in this morning. Yes, it’s that interesting. Hosemonster is censoring himself. Join the club, man. Shit if I wrote everything I thought about on this page, I’d be excommunicated from the priesthood. Boss and the service guys are checking out a job in H-3 tunnel this morning. The fact that you don't care is of no relevance to me. I’m trying to find a good deal on a one-way airline ticket from Zurich to Paris that arrives in gay pareee by 10 am and it’s gotta be Charles de Gaulle. You know you came here for this hot shit I’m serving you. I’m like Gertle in the kitchen with a bag of grits. I can watch seinfeld reruns over and over and over and over again and never get sick of them. I can drain a lot of jump shots in a row from the outside once I get percolatin’. Belee' dat. I once drove on AI and juked him out of his slippas. Yup, Alex Icarod was shakin’ that day, and he stepped to the back, adjusted his bifocals, and came back for round 2, and the same shit, except this time 3 pointer from the top of the key, pennyworth wins. And then the ball hit the ceiling. I feel like looking at comic books again. Wait. Not yet. I’m writing a novel. It’s just taking me a long ass time. My computer at home is all fucked up, or was fucked up. I guess I should call it my home computer that’s now at my work, cuz it’s here waiting to be looked at by the company computer dude that seemingly has all the time in the world to sit around and bitch but no time to look at my computer, which apparently is working again as the gremlins decided to move on to bigger and better things. There is a ghost in the machine, belee’ dat. I might have to copyright belee’ dat. It’s ghetto-fab for “believe that”. In case you didn’t know. Riding motorcycles is fun. One of these days I’m gonna buy a speedboat. But not one of the days this month, or this year, or next year. When I have a lot more money and probably a dock out back. Or flow for docking fees. That shit’s expensive. It’s Friday in Hawaii, which means is Saturday in Guam. There’s some serious shit about to go down which will be bringing in pennworth scrilla for the p-worth all stars out in the Micronesian pacific rim, my dawgs. Scrilla that will be flowing many a billa. lakers. Belee’ dat. Thursday, May 08, 2003
 today is just one of those days where there’s, like, really not much to do. My boss is laying on the couch in his office reading that old Seinfeld book (even though he won’t admit he wrote it) you know, the fake funny letters book. Stupid letters, or some shit like that.
Do you ever get burned out from just fucking around too much at work? Like, you’ve been reading too much internet bullshit & chilling to much to the point that you WANT to work? I mean, I want to work, but, like, all the fires are either put out or subdued for the moment. All my projects are like, in stasis right now. I guess I could go through the files and make some new potential projects, and some extra scrilla, but I’m feeling lazy right this second. I read just about every word on the main page of Jamie’s blog today. Good stuff. he really opens up and lets you see inside his head. Hopes, fears, dillios, whatevs. I wonder if anyone in his real life knows about his blog. He wrote something a few days back about laying in an empty room, closing your eyes, and just drifting, being, experiencing the moment unto infinity and beyond. i liked that. i've done that. but i would never think to explain it like that. I fancy myself a decent writer, but my shit is kind of a bunch of blah-dee-blah, you know, har har this, hee hee that. Make a joke, slap up a pic, move on with my day. There’s not a lot invested in this. I don’t give of myself, really, all that much. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, and maybe, I like to think, some of me comes shining through in my whatever the crap you call these paragraphs. Sometimes I look back in my archives and read my old shit, and think, you know what Alfred? Not bad, ace. Not bad at all. I’m a firm believer in that if you keep talking about random shit, that the real shit will come shining through somehow, like a silver dollar in a sea of, um, help me out here, um, saltines? Jesus Christ almighty that’s a sad analogy. but i still like it. this blog is exactly what i want it to be. the first sentence in the next paragraph was written before this one. please bear that in mind. fat buddhas are good. i need to do some serious experimenting with writing a blog entry in totally inversed and mixed up order. maybe i'll win an award or something. maybe not. ok not. I think there’s too many comic book covers around here lately. Maybe it’s time for a comic book cover hiatus here at the farm. I don’t know, see, I used to try to find pictures of stuff that seemed related to what I was writing, but my shit is all over the place, and who really wants to see a picture of a bottle of mayonaisse. How the crap do you spell mayonnaise anyway? Oh there it is. Thanks bill gates. Even though you’re the devil, you’re still pretty cool. Wkenshow is back, in case you didn’t know. Hardcore flava in yer ear. Aloha. I’m gonna go do something productive. Really.  Have I ever mentioned that blogger sucks ass? I’m trying to remember…. It seems like every post I see in bloggerville lately that I want to link, the url for the post itself is that wonderful “uh, shit cuz, this page doesn’t exist, hi we’re blogger, duhhhhhh,,,,,” page. yes folks, that is what you’ll find here, serious commentary on the state of affairs in our nation & the world.
Anyway, I mention it because I was gonna link a post by my homey Joe-Bob (ok it’s not Joe-Bob, it’s Joe, but shit, man, think about adding the Bob, it’s pretty pimp) all about the hijinks of the hip-hop record industry, you know, how some punk ass beyatch with no talent can get signed while the next musical genius of our generation is in a cubicle polishing quarters for the man. Boardroom politics, etcetera, so check it out. jennyeah drops knowledge on the same topic in her latest post as well, kicking that Detroit, WHUT?? style that is slowly bringing her fame among aspiring sweepers kicking it in their tree houses staring at their alf posters as well as valium hazed housewifes watching bewitched reruns, but this time she’s repping la la land, where she’s camping out waiting to be “discovered” – by whut or whom or why I’m not really sure, but, hey, the gang is kool and kool is the gang. I just edited out this little tirade i had in here. maybe in 20 years i'll publish it in my memoirs. the main point you should remember is that it involved throwing oatmeal at old people on the street, and that even though i frown on such activities, I've been known to load up the slingshot & let fly. Etiquette shmetiquette. I’ll step on toes and dip in my rolls. The good thing we all got from this discussion is you got to learn about my alf poster collection. Start in on a topic and you never know where it’ll go. It’s just like that. And that’s the way it is. Uuuuhhhhh, nah nah, nah nah. Fukn run-dmc meets master p. that’s my commentary on it beyatch. So whut do I really think about the back-alley-sally dogshit of the record industry, in a coherent sentence and cogent manner? Ah, whatever, I’m pretty stupid when it comes to talking about actual concepts, so I’ll let the pros rep it. Whut do I really concern myself with?? The fukn lake-show, who are flailing hard. Kobe, shaq, listen up: this is your head. This is your ass. Pull this out of that, and maybe we’ll have a shot. Kaneohe, bitch. Whut???? Wednesday, May 07, 2003
 The bigwigs are in an apparently super secret conference call so I guess that’s my cue to chime in with the blah-blah.
Been living at this place the last few days as our home computer decided to take a phat dump right at the tail end of Mrs. P’s semester at school, so we’ve been coming into my office for a couple hours a night so she can work on her essays. Let’s see, 10 am, another hour and a half or so, and I’ll be outta here for lunch. Then maybe I can join the junior bear association. Whut the crap is the junior bear association? Not to get on my own ass, but what the hell is that supposed to mean? Quick poll: would you guys rather me continue to blab off the top of my head without editing junk like that out, or would you prefer I write little edited essays that actually make some kind of a point? Vote now, not that your vote will matter. I will continue on, as I always have. As I always will. Until the day they drag my corpuscled carcass out the back door and throw me in the dumpster for the rats. There’s a pleasant image, keith, you definitely have a gift. Hmmm dee dumm. Random link? Why not. Read trueboy, you piles. Two literary geniuses and an existential fag-snake all comfortably nestled under one virtual roof. Yeah blatant ass-kissing, whatevs. They ain’t paying me, don’t get any ideas. What the fuck evs. Sterling wrote an insane post the other day which I just read about some greek women yelling at a Spanish guy and a lesbian rubbing encounter on the subway. See but it sounded so much better than I could ever front it. the exact right details, leaving out the riff-raff, but not the essential riff-raff. You see, the greek broads and the Spanish dude had nothing to do with the subway encounter, but it set the mood, her frame of mind, her, schwan?? Oh and yeah true is still in europe I guess. Maybe I’ll be walking the streets of gay pareeee with mrs. P this summer (oh yeah Europe trip is ON mofos) and true’ll walk by fronting an esco hoodie and we’ll never know it, and 20 years later I’ll get an e-mail saying you suck, joe. You really, really suck. And then I will be pleased because hey, feedback is nice, even negative. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Yeah? Fuck, whatever. Please don’t think I’m beating myself up. This amuses me more than you, and more than you know. Believe it. oh you just caught me. I was editing this part in here and someone called up with the biggest pile of shit: “Hi can I speak to the person that would be in charge of making decisions about computer training?” to which I responded: “can I ask what this is about?” to which she answered “computer training.” Oh thanks a fucking lot, Sherlock, damn, now I’m enlightened. I knew I would have to administer the Pat treatment. “so you are a computer training company, is that it?” duh, of course they are. “yes” ok thank you, you dumb bizzle. “Well, Pat would be the person to talk to about that.” Then this freak of nature had the temerity to ask me “when would Pat be available” to which she got the brilliant answer, “um, not tomorrow, but maybe on Thursday,” to which the smart ass ho had the unmitigated nerve to tell me, ME, “tomorrow is Thursday.” Oh you goddamm fukn superiority complex scrubbed out methadone hick, you didn’t just say that, so I had to lay on her this gem: “ha ha, yeah, ok, then on Friday.” It was at this point that this fascinating conversation was on the verge of being cut short as my boss was waiting for a conference call and wanted this beyatch off the line. Then she’s like “what’s pat’s last name?” here was my moment of triumph, wherein I told her: “McGroin” and I got a response that I had never received in this lifelong cat & mouse game: “can you spell that?” bitch? Are you joking? At this point, the block was hot, so I was like “you know, I have a call coming in, gotta go” to which she said, “oh, ok, well then I’ll” and then there was a click from me hanging up on her ass. Maybe somewhere in Nantucket or wherever the fuck she’s calling from she finally pieced together the cruel twist of fate that brought her phone to my doorstep of doom to be humiliated at the hands of Pat McGroin. Or maybe she’s planning out her sales strategy to Pat McGroin. Maybe she’s rehearsing it in front of the mirror: “Mr. McGroin, my name is dumb-ass-ho from computer training central, and I’ve got a..” to which Pat will respond “um excuse me MISSY!!! But I am a woman!! Jesus, I’ve never been so insulted.” And miss bambutcha will get hung up on again. And then I will be the winner. Ok that was a little longer of a sidetrack than I anticipated. I kind of got into it. Ok now I’ve gotta go roast some chicken. Glendale style. Maybe I'll wash it down with a bellini, shit it's crazy wednesday, right? Tuesday, May 06, 2003
Here's a joyous soliloquy in which I ream that SaveKaryn bitch a new asshole. this is old-school, hoes, before the bigwigs were ragging on her. see, I AM original dammit. hmmm. I haven't convinced myself, well then, whateverz. A lot of people ask me about my relationship with Randy Rhoads’ ghost. The fact that for me a lot of people equals no one so far has not stopped my delusion. For those unenlightened fools among you, Randy Rhoads was Ozzy Osbourne’s guitarist for a couple albums back in the 80’s before he (randy, not ozzy, well maybe ozzy’s brain) died in a plane accident. Here’s a fascinating conversation that I like to think we might have had as babies in the same hospital which we were both born in in Santa Monica, California. If you don’t understand how special that makes me, then, well, I’ll have to live with that, and just hope that you get struck by lightning. Here’s a nice little convo I had with Randy in the car on the way to work one day. I used to have tons of conversations with Randy Rhoads’ ghost, but that fucker has split the scene with a gangster lean. He never even utters a word to my ass anymore. Hopefully some day he’ll come back and hang out, even if just for a couple minutes. I like to think he’s in a “better place” and like to think that place isn’t some boiling cauldron of squid urchin stew. I don’t think it is, fuk, if Randy’s stuck in hell, then what the fuk? You bust out the rawest chords ever and you burn? Shit if that’s the case, line me up. I was gonna say some other crap but I can’t think of it now.  Ok clear your head. Today you are going to write some serious literature that would be categorized in the college library of prairie view as “avant garde.” I know you can do this, keith. You know it. Joe knows it. Grandma & Grandpa (rest his soul) know that if you apply yourself, watch the cuss words, and keep your eye on the tiger, that before you know it you’ll be mentioned in the same breath as Phillip K. Dick and Roger F. Farnsworth. Dick you may have heard of, but Farnsworth, well he’s another fish all together.
Roger Farnsworth was born on a ranch in the northern part of Louisiana. Not much ranching done around those parts, as it’s majority swampland, at least according to my 1974 encyclopedia, of which I can’t divulge the publisher. Roger was the 18th of 24 children, and basically after about three days, his parents and family forgot about him. At 2 weeks of age, he was milking cows for the milk and slaughtering hens and eating their eggs in the back yard. By the time he was 6 months, he had moved on and started riding the rails. Little Sheister was his nickname, and he was quick with a shank and 2x4 if anyone besides Frankie the friendly meth-freak tried to mess with him. Frankie was a good protector even though sometimes he thought Roger was Satan. This didn’t really bother the boy, as he was beginning to understand the nether realms of the human psyche. By the time Roger Farnsworth was 5 years old, he was a veteran hobo, always finding the trains with the peanut butter and potato chips. His mentor Frankie had died of an accidental overdose of a toxic mixture of high grade heroin and castor oil about two years earlier. The young Roger Farsworth had won the knife throwing contest at the  rhode island state fair for two years running. He liked dressing as dapper as possible within the limits of the paltry income of a vagrant.
At age 9, Roger was knee deep into a cocaine habit that had him jumping at shadows and sleeping with a roger rabbit doll which he affectionately called “coco.” It was at this point that the second father figure in his life emerged and pulled him out of the madness, at least temporarily. Josia Jimsenweed was the butler for the fabled Chronicstein clan in souther Minnesota. Importers of exclusive lines of mayonnaise from the far corners of Persia, the Chronicsteins were worth millions, billions by today’s standards. You must understand that this was during the sandwich riots, and if you had the market cornered on a hard-to-locate condiment, well, aces was your middle name. Aces was not Roger Farnsworth’s middle name, but it might as well have been the day Josia found him face down in a pile of straw in a transport freighter containing a critical shipment. Josia nursed the young boy back to some semblance of health and introduced him to the patriarch of the Chronicsteins, John Lee. Roger was brought into the fold and raised along with John Lee Chronicstein’s sons, Billston, Edston, and Jackston. The “ston” at the end of the name was a family tradition for generations, and Roger harbored a bitter jealousy over that fact which seeped through his much of his later writing like teriyaki sauce on rice. This is not to say that all of Farnsworth’s works were bitter memoirs of childhood anticlimaxes. In fact, most of the great master’s tomes are filled with lusty, baudy, interexchanges between his primary character of Ernestine P. Johansson and a bevy of robust beauties from the four corners of the globe. These were matters which did not require much imagination on the part of Roger Farnsworth, who was noted as an irrepressible and unforgiving lady’s man with an eye for ample bosoms. Monday, May 05, 2003
Ok that picture isn’t really me, but hey, everything comes with a grain of salt. (except a waffle cone, apparently, because I’m lactose intolerant). You might be getting sick of seeing comic book covers around here. If that’s the case, I invite you to fuck off. It is a formal invitation that was inscribed by a santochristanian monk named jebediah in the year 1374. it’s certified if you’re interested. Certified by a band of gypsies that like to hang out at the longs drugs off of the pali over by punchbowl crater. If they try to sell you a used goldfish I would advise taking the crutch that I know you’re leaning on and belting them across the forehead. Not only will this reveal the hidden sacra to your medulla oblongata (hi keith) but you’ll know true nirvana, and I’m not talking about that overrated music band. (just joking, trying to get a rise joe.) even though joe isn’t that big of a nirvana fan, he’s enough of a hesher and plaid button shirt wearing fraggle rocker that he just might put a cap in my ass if I intimated something like that. So that’s what’s up with that. |
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