Friday, June 06, 2003

Ya know whut? Fuck google. I’ll get my pics from fukn wal-mart bitch.

The nets gotta pull their heads outta they asses if they wanna be wavin’ any more towels. Not that I’m a big nets fan or anything, but fuk the spurs. That admiral, he’s too nice, man, I don’t trust him, man, and that Duncan, man, he’s like so mellow, it makes me nervous man there’s something wrong with that guy, and whut kind of a fukn name is wake forest for a school anyway? I mean shit you’re at a wake in the forest, fukn druid style, I mean whut the fuk?

So mtv was all fukn stoked about their “exclusive” coverage of the set of spider-man 2. booooring. Show me sumthin I give a fuk about, not fukn mary jane’s apartment and a scene of fukn toby & Kirsten just standing there. Brilliant mtv. And fukn Justin timberlake is not funny. I’m sorry. Stupid. And I like superheros too. Ya know? So I’m like inversely biased. I should by your demographics have liked it due to theme. I mean if I didn’t like it maybe other superheros didn’t like it either. You gotta think about that mtv, when you try to mess up the vibe of girl/guy hosting duties with boybandguy/funnyguy demo, cuz it’s a demo of a different kind when you try that, on a lition.

Ah it wasn’t so fukn bad, but suchin pak is fukn annoying as hell. I’m sorry. I’m really really really sorry, but she is. And fukn beyonce cannot act. I’m sorry. I was going to storm the stage if she got that award dammit.

And that, um, yoda thing, ok we get the fukn point already. Yoda is floating there and saying funny stuff. Yup, let’s see, 5 minutes ago it was kinda funny, ok yoda won’t stand for being played off, yes, very funny. And fukn queen latifah & piano guy kissing, ok that was kinda funny, I mean, I’m down with that. And whut was with will smith’s skull shirt, is he like trying to be all hardcore? And he was all bumpin his head during 50’s show, like “ahem will” eminem dissed your punk non fuck sayin ass. Nah will’s aiiight, but fuk bad boys II cuz numero uno was muy estupido.

Don’t go to Mexico and call people estupido. It’s actually a much worse word then calling someone stupid in the good ol (why good ol) usa. They like, get offended. Not that I’ve done it, but I’ve joked about it, and mrs. P will tell you that las personas de mexico no es down con este lugar. I’m I mean they’re not down with it. which is very important to remember if you’re ever, um, there.

Now that kinda broke up my little rant on mtv didn’t it? but maybe not in the best possible manner. But that’s water under the bridge. That’s a bridge over troubled waters. That’s running silent & running deep. Deep, deep, deeper than atlantis. Damn that’s bad, nah that’s good. Cuz we rollin deep in our Fleetwood.

Wutta looooooaaad o monkey shit. oh, what, you may ask, is a load of monkey shit? well probably most monkeys, unless they very recently had a bowel movement.

So, uh, did I mention that Bob’s Big Boy is from Glendale? No? yes? Well, he is. And I tell a lot of outrageous lies in this here space, but that is not one of them.

I hope the Nets make a fukn series out of this. I wonder if Jay Kidd is like “damn if I could just punch my wife a few times, maybe I could get pumped up a little better.” Yes that’s not nice. And no, I’m not a paid sports writer, so good luck putting me on probation for saying it. and yes of course I think (know?) that kidd regrets what he did, yadda yadda moment of passion yadda yadda it’ll never happen again, but I don’t know about you, every time I see the guy on tv I think about it. and wonder why his wife is still there. (oh wait, millions of dollars? Hmmm) did any of you catch that article in SI last year, the “look everything’s fine, we’re the modern day fukn Cleavers over here!” expose? Ok let’s get the shot of us together in the bathtub, oh we are soooo in love!! Um, me thinkst thou protesteth too mucheth. Anyone trying to show you one side so much has got fukn skeletons and or dirt to hide. Whatevs, he’s a hell of a basketball player, he took his punishment like a man, yadda yadda. But still, don’t try to tell my you’re fukn Saint Ignatius up in this bitch. And he has to be on every “look I’m an NBA player teaching a kid how to read” commercial, and fukn “got milk?” ok I got one for you, “got black eye?” once again, ok, the not nice meter is in the red zone.

No one was more disappointed than me when Jason Kidd popped his wife in the face. I mean, the guy’s a golden bear ferchrissake. Notwithstanding the stories I’d heard back in the day about him driving up & down sorority row screaming drunkenly “hey, I’m Jason Kidd, dammit, who wants to fuck?” on down to his little car accident alcohol dillio in oaktown on down to just, I don’t know, I always assumed the best about the guy, wanted to believe the best.

But when you punch your wife square in her face in front of your kid, shit man, sorry Charlie, I don’t really care what kind of emotional ladatts you’re going through, you done crossed the line. And I know it’s been whut, a year, more, geez two years, whatevs, shit man, some blood doesn’t wash out. (out damn spot) I’m forgiving, but I don’t forget.

Shit man, give the guy a damn break (theme?) yeah he’s an easy target cuz he’s in the finals. Ok I’m over it. I mean, maybe I’m rougher on the guy because he’s a golden bear. In fact, definitely. I mean, I don’t think spouse abuse every time I see fukn jim brown. Or Tommy Lee. Or almost anyone for that matter. Like the general public, I’m in an outrage at the time of occurrence and then slowly it washes away until you almost can’t see it, like a chocolate stain after like 5 trips to the cleaners. It’s like, oh yeah, well that was a while ago. But with Kidd, it’s like, he was my guy, the guy I watched light up little haas gym (before it was Haas Arena/pavilion/whatever the fuk it is), the guy that wowed us with his magic like passes, the second coming of bball to the Berkeley hills, not seen since the 50’s, and then he carried on, all-star on the biggest stage, and then… scandal. The worst kind. (well, I guess not THE worst, not like a coked out murder of a prostitute in crack alley, but still pretty fucked) and it was like, shit. ok well, he’s human, but his whole attitude on his comeback from shame, his, like, zeal to prove that he’s the ultimate father/husband/person, it’s like, gimme a fukn break dude, the glass is already shattered, just fukn play already. Maybe I’m pissed off that I can’t root wholeheartedly for THE guy from MY team during my college years. Fuk. At least Lamond Murray is still around. (is he?) fuk, and he was even on the clippers, and yes I’m rambling now. Fuk it.

I’m actually rooting for the nets, though. Underdog status notwithstanding, the golden bearness of it dictates my allegiances. And the fact that the admiral & Duncan are the two most boring 7 footers in the land. And the fact the k-mart is pretty damn exciting. But don’t trust me, see what bill simmons has to say about it. and j-kidd, keep going man, i mean, shit, everyone deserves a second chance, don't listen to piles like me that fukn playa hate. BUT please bear in mind no more punching bag follies with wifey's face, and well, i guess it should be all good.

And that is how we dance on sprockets, natch.

Thursday, June 05, 2003

it’s a busy morning here at the skunkworks. Carlos got his hand stuck in the dehumidifier again (fukn perv) and we had to shut down the plant and call in the greasers to extract his “el mano” with the least amount of blood and pain manageable vis a vis the situation. It came out to about a 5 out of 10 and maybe 2 pints. Carlos is a little light headed so the boss sent him home for the day with a complimentary carafe of zinfandel. Fucker. Somebody knows how to work the system for free booze and personal time.

But the plant is up and running again and business is pretty good, for a Thursday. The fucked thing is no one wants to pay their fukn bills this time of year. I don’t know what it is, maybe everybody’s doing their end of fiscal year but DAMN cherries are tighter than a month before prom night up in this bizzle. Fa shizzle.

I know I often tell you kind folks to “check the files.” Well there’s a minor problem with that at this juncture in that “the files” ie my archives, seem to be all fucked to hell. None of the hyperlinks for archives in the last couple months seem to work and I’ve tried re-archiving in blogger but that goes about as well as a drunk irish catholic on crack at a Mormon wedding. Ok maybe that’s not the best analogy, but, well, you get what you pay for brothers & sisters.

I realize that I’ve never told you the incredibly wonderful story of Mister Happy. Hmmm, but I don’t think I have the energy right now. Another time. Remind me though. It’s not necessarily a story, but more of a character analysis, of the happiest (sarcasm alert) fella in all of Quonset hut row. Truss.

Fukn blogger was being a little bitch about letting me put pics up yesterday. Or maybe it was google. Or… oh shit. I just made the connection. Is google now systematically going through their pics and disenabling them for posting on blogger if you don’t but FUKN blogspot plus? I mean literally, I must have tried at least 10 pics that loaded just fine when you went to the url and then you try to put them up in blogger and squatsville. I must ponder this over a Newcastle….

Speaking of Newcastle, that’s where the lead singer of AC/DC is from. I caught the “ultimate albums” dillio on Back in Black yesterday. Pretty good stuff. Apparently Bonn Scott’s ghost or something came up on Brian Johnson (the singer they have now, mr. Screechy-voice, and that is not a diss) and somehow inspired him, calmed him down, filled him with confidence, whatevs, so he was able to pen the lyrics to those classic tunes. Holy fuk I think I just channeled Casey Kasem, and that is not good. Anyway, the AC/DC ghost connection kind of reminded me of my old cosmic link with one Randy Rhoads and how I miss those days of psychic repartees. Really, dude, where the fuck are you, is it like a 6 month coke binge up in the pearly gates central or whizat?? Holla at a playa. Now that I think about it, Brian wouldn’t really elaborate at all on what, if anything, Bon Scott said to him, or what the little trip down spiritville lane entailed, only that it happened. Maybe he was worried that divulging the info would stop the flow, muck up the pipes. Maybe that’s what I did, telling my stories of convos with Randy, I jacked up the connect, a forever lost conduit just because I didn’t have good enough sense to keep it to my fucking self. Hmmmm.

Wednesday, June 04, 2003

So fukn we tried to trick old fart into eating a cockroach but it didn’t work out for us. Here’s the scoops, old fart can NOT get it through his thick fukn skull the theory of sealing food items after he extracts his portion. Ie, ya know, bag of chips with the zip lock, jar of pretzels, anykine shmany kine, any fukn rational human being would realize that food left in an outdoor warehouse type environment needs to be sealed so fukn bugs and shit don’t get into it. well despite repeated reminders and hints and suggestions to this dumb fuk he continued to just “set” the top on the jar of cashews rather than going through the what I know must have been strenuous and difficult task of twisting it closed. So anyway, upon discovery of this last week, fukn the contingent decided to play a little trick on mister oldster and trapped a big ass cockroach in the jar with the paltry remaining nuts, with this monty python slash young ones vision of old man walking into his office with a roach leg hanging out of his mouth. Sad to say, old fart discovered it and mentioned it to me (the roach is dead now) and I pleaded ignorance, so old fart put it back in place thinking now he’s gonna play a joke on the contingent. Dumbass.

Plus he was all wondering that I didn’t notice his new glasses. Only after asking me “notice anything different?” did I guess his frikken spectacles. And then he has to proceed to tell me the whole story and complain about them slipping off his nose and how the refractory something something zzzzzzzzz. It’s like jesus, dude, I write about you on my blog, but I’m not keeping a running tally of your fuking wardrobe & accessories, get over yourself big fella. He did say something funny though by mentioning “well I never really draw a crowd anyway” as an explanation why no one at the old bored fukhead club didn’t notice earlier in the day. Why this is funny is something I am apparently not qualified to describe, I just report the news, I don’t analyze it. there are many many more qualified and interesting people both on the good ol net and in traditional journalism if you want intelligent thought.

I should really lay off the guy. I mean he’s just an innocent old racist bastard that misses the good ol days of brontosaurus burgers and gets frustrated by “poynesian paralysis.” Deepest apologies, in that I know I’m providing not even close to the level of excellence to which you have grown accustomed to via my brilliance. You don’t pay your damn internet fees just to read about me bitching now do you? oh you do? Ok I shall proceed.

So then Brandon said hibi hibi hibi, and all was well on the ranch. Even skeeter skinned a chiken for good measure. A good time was had by all.

Ok that wasn’t bitching. See I was using the element of surprise to provide you with an alternate view on your mental state. It’s called, living la vida loca, and it has nothing to do with ricky martin and everything to do with, um, goat cheese.

Well today was day one of a grand experiment I am trying out called “beat the boss into the office.” I must say that it went absolutely splendidly for the young endeavor that it is. I arrived at about 7:20, a full 40 minutes early, and when masta walked in, he was like “no… way” in that voice like chandler’s annoying girlfriend, na mean? And he was like, giving me attaboys and saying how he really likes seeing me here early and on the phone, etcetera. Aahh, brownie points. Yes they don’t mean much but what with me going on an almost three-week vaycay coming up here next month, I gotta get in good with the management and secure my status as a skunkworks rock god. “early bird gets the worm, late bird gets the girlie with the 2 dollar perm…”

Don’t ask me who the hell said that, it sure as hell wasn’t me. i'm thinking tribe, but there's so many verses making their way through those neural capillaries, shit gets scrambled. which makes for a hell of a fondue.

Tuesday, June 03, 2003

"got my chrome to the side of his white sox hat…” hey, yo, dr. dre said it, not me, I ain’t trying to plagiarize perjure myself slash playa hate. I guess I’m dubbing it hip-hop week here at ultrabs. Whether that is still in effect later today tomorrow or Friday noontime shall depend wholely and entirely on the thoughts in my head and their heretofore unknown effect on the keyboard situated oh so conveniently in front of me.

Actually fuk hip hop week. The thought of some type of thematic topic by which I may or may not be constrained by fills me with fear & loathing (thanks Hunter) and that just cannot happen, not in this day and age my, um, whatever you people are.

I remember I thought it was such a big deal when ice cube left NWA. I was, like, aghast. The two biggest groups influentualistically via hip hop on my noggin in my early nascent descent into the realms of rap music were oh most definitely Public Enemy and the aforementioned nincompoops with attitude. It was like two sides of two-faces coin, depending on his mood, hardcore gangsta street triction (futh? Nah) and here we have the underground politics, spat from the decibel bashing orifice of chuck D’s mizouth spliced in with flava’s random yet biting rants. Throw in some professor griff anti-semitism and it was too good to resist. (joking, joking, jesus Christ, easy there people). and I mean, what with terminator x stuck in the valley of the jeep beats, it was like, um, buttah?

All these leads to my overall idea in this hardhitting and influential piece of literature that I love hip hop. YET. (yet) I also listen to Morissey. Is my name bitchey mcfackelstein? I tell you no. there is room for tom petty on the same mix tape with the geto boys. Rodney O & Joe Cooley, I am hearteltly convinced can get along and in fact make beautiful music, with Def Leppard, if given the proper forum and/or incentive. Like a 9 to the muthafuckin dome.

So pretty damn soon I’ll be in Europe. Paris, London, Zurich, yup chuuuuch masters, it’s a world tour but not with muhammuad my man, and I won’t have a mic in my hand, I’ll have a handheld sony digital voice recorder, and I’ll be dropping knowledge which shall be known only unto myself, Mrs. P, and our pet rhesus monkey Samson. Well, pet is kind of a derogatory word, I guess, I mean, he does have the intellect of gorilla grodd, but for customs and border crossing purposes, especially if we don’t want him quarantined by scientists who would dissect his super power brain, he must be referred to as such. I mean, Tony Blair just wouldn’t understand Samson the way Linda Lingle does. Let’s just say the governor and I have an, ahem, agreement. Samson makes her his patented green tea mixed with herbal blessings, she hands over the reins on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and well, somehow we’ve dug maybe half way out of the mess left us by the crooks thieves and vagabonds led by a certain ben cayetano.

Ok not halfway. Not even a quarter. But it was a deep deep hole, and the battle has just begun, plus she’s got to keep up with her banana bread recipe collection. I mean, seriously, she’s not some al gore slash Barbara boxer stepchild beating alice cooper fan, she’s got guts, feelings, and/or emotions, and she ain’t scared to break a few eggs to make an omelette, especially if it involves manual labor and dexterity. And our new guv’s got bridge club on Wednesdays, so c’mon, rome wasn’t built in a day, ya know, you gotta keep the contingent happy in the midst of the phoenix ashes rising dillio, or else, what was it all for, na mean? Of course you do.

Monday, June 02, 2003

Joe is analyzing the idea of the hip-hop GOAT ie the greatest of all time, and the decision should be obvious and it ain’t cool james beyotches. It ain’t kool moe dee either. It’s a certain gangsta named pat.

Ok it’s not, but it amuses me to say that it is and thus I shall. Say it.

Weekend was phaaat. Kicked it on the rich folk’s back yard at kahala beach, swam with the, um, water, and like, got sun burnt. Well Mrs. P got tan, I got red. As in bizzled. Lucky we live Hawaii, and lucky for the guy that invented aloe. “aloe wasn’t invented dumbass” oh really? Well who asked you, mr. Other part of my brain? I know I didn’t. fuckhead.

So Gangsta Pat was hanging out at my cousin gertle’s grandson’s bar mitzvah, ya know, it was his big gig, clocking majah papah, ie free dessert & parking, plus transpo via bus pass, and, ya know, why am I ragging on gangsta pat so hard? What was his big crime? Ok he straight dubbed the bass line from “Grand Finale” off the DOC album for his single like back in the day, and he was the butt of a few frizzled out jizokes but seriously what’s the dizzilio?

Damn. If yer talkin’ GOAT, ya gotta throw GZA in there. You just. Gotta. And sir-mix-a-lot. Ok not Sir Mix-A-Lot. But I’m serious about GZA. And ya know whut? Whutever.

but the GOAT? no-brainer, though, ferreal? I mean, c’mon hoes, it’s me. Kool keith, at your service. no really doe, THE kk, na mean?


For all those that were offended by the lack of any kind of coherence and/or theme and/or underlying and/or overlying meaning and/or hypothesis in this here dogshit, see section 72 of the ultrablognetic code, which therein is inscribed, though shalt take thine complaints to the kickstand processing department in building 68 room 81 at exactly 9:29 am on a Tuesday or a Thursday. Mahalo.

And I ain’t done you donkey piles. Oh wait yeah I am.