Thursday, July 03, 2003
GREEN DAY CENTRAL
This is the YEAH most KICKIGN site about grrrrrrrreeeen day EVER IN EVER EVERVILLE
Tell all your friends about it and they might almost break your legs trying to get over here.
If you want to get the weekly newsletter it’s 500 dollars an hour. And I don’t take credit cards you have to deliver that shit to my, uh, environs.
Anyway, about green day. Yes my name is Berkeley joe, so OBVIOUSLY I know everhtyingt about them, including the real color of all their hair.
Anyway, shit, I didn’t say that. Now you think that I’m…. a barber.
Barbers are not down with this ancient ritual that I’m about to unleash on your colostomy bag.
It is not even close to containing nearly the amount of neurons necessary to cummerbund you all the way to glorytown.
AND if you ever finally get there you’ll know why green day is the best band ever. It’s cuz they, well, they coexist but within delicately prearranged solar plexus analagoies that it’s really hard to accurately guage exactly what the frick they are doing.
I’m fukn tired-er than a goat on Christmas morning after he’s had to be dressed up like a reindeer all night just for the amusement of some little fukn bratty ass kids. Shit and then they milk you to boot. It’s like ok, why not add some gasoline onto the fire that is my rage. Really doe, I’m not mad, just tired, see that was a metaphor that got out of hand, just for play.
Hmmm. I shouldn’t write that. It could be traced back to my high school. And they would know. Wait, it wasn’t about me it was about them. Ok it’s cool. It’s alrighty then.
Am I the only one that has a soft spot for fredo? All he wanted was a little respect and to bang cocktail waitresses two at a time. Is that so wrong?
I would describe to you the relevance of the above sentence but that would require a password. The password is unforgiven. I mean that’s not the actual password, I mean the person that invented the password was not forgiven. By who? By Brandon. Don’t tell.
Yes that’s more than enough for now I think.
Maybe not though. Did I mention that I’m tired? Fuk. Like that tired where you don’t necessarily feel sleepy, just fukn like wired and exhausted at the same time. Not that I’ve ever partaked or would know but it might be (and dark told me this) like the morning after an acid trip except without the extreme degree of brain fuzziness. To see what I mean about dark go to the sidebar under dark – first prelude, kindly held in the archives by tony. I would link it but it’s over there. Go find it. it’s not that hard. Seriously. Shit man!
See I heard that from a squirrel. Only those aren’t in Hawaii. Squirrels that is. Is that fun fact on my list? Check check it, my list of 40 things you might not know about Hawaii. Sidebar under, um, things you MIGHT not know about living Hawaii. You don’t say living IN Hawaii, cuz it’s like pidgen speak, even though I don’t talk ladatt. I would link this too, but again, on the sidebar, you think I put that shit up for my health? You think that I’m like some kind of charity worker just providing data and linkage for the fukn good oh humanity? Fuk that I’m going for duckets. So drop that scrilla. Ok then, don’t. I’m good. Seriously. Give it to Jim. He’s getting kicked out his pad. Treacher. I would link that too, but he’s on the sidebar too. Under “wonder” cuz he’s upper echelon, you know, preferred stock like the cologne. This is a strictly non-linking post cuz I wanna be underground like jennyeah. Ain’t gonna link her either. She’s on the sidebar too, loc, gotta find her though. Happy hunting. Her page looks like grass. It’s cheery. Unless she changed it. now that I said it looks cheery, she probably will change it. not that she reads this crap anymore. Whatever.
Oookkaayyy mr. Man. One thing I WILL link is mr. Chuck. Ok I won’t but find the link called mr. Know it all and know that he is dropping some good stuff right now, about relationship kine stuff. Muy interesante and recommended. Again, ok, can’t link it. that’s like the theme. That I’m underground and non-linking. He’s on the sidebar too, mr. Know it ALL, and whoo doggie he does. Ok well not it all, but a lot.
I’m thinking that the above two paragraphs are really stupid and useless. And I like that.
Ok one link. Props to sahalie.
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
Born in the U.S.A.
Columbia - 1984
I had a friend was a big baseball player
back in high school
He could throw that speedball by you
Make you look like a fool boy
Saw him the other night at this roadside bar
I was walking in, he was walking out
We went back inside sat down had a few drinks
but all he kept talking about was
Glory days well they'll pass you by
Glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye
Glory days, glory days
Well there's a girl that lives up the block
back in school she could turn all the boy's heads
Sometimes on a Friday I'll stop by
and have a few drinks after she put her kids to bed
Her and her husband Bobby well they split up
I guess it's two years gone by now
We just sit around talking about the old times,
she says when she feels like crying
she starts laughing thinking about
Now I think I'm going down to the well tonight
and I'm going to drink till I get my fill
And I hope when I get old I don't sit around thinking about it
but I probably will
Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture
a little of the glory of, well time slips away
and leaves you with nothing mister but
boring stories of glory days
Chorus (repeat twice)
bruce springstein - born in the usa
snoop dogg - paid tha cost to be da bo$$
green day - dookie
house of pain fine malt lyrics
Well we got innernet hooked up at the casa last nite, so expect some possible midnight philosophical posts on Grecian urns an’ shit like that in the not so near or possibly immediate future. Maybe it’s the differential in the parameters of our home monitor and this work monitor that are fukn with my mental right now. And dammit I couldn’t get the giganticness of the web to chillski on the home whatsistat last night, it was pissing me off. I gotta reset the fukn 800x600 or whatever the fuk it is but for some reason at home it won’t let me and here I can fuk around with it all day.
Yes I know the fascination that I am instilling in you at this moment is about 1 astro-medallion short of a bushel. Shit you could take said bushel and go down to the farmers market and trade that shit in for a pound of bullion if you had the guts, ho. But you won’t. you’ll sit, read, possibly spit at the screen in disgust, and move on with your day, never even understanding the hint of the possibilities within easy reach of your stubby little fingertips. Dork.
Fukn big al is being an oversensitive lil ho today. Ok he tells me to handle something one way. I KNOW he probably has it all fucked up, and plus if I process the shit to the mainland yesterday it ain’t gonna get done til today anyway, so I decide to double check with the boss, who’s ramrodding this particular dillio anyway. Sure enuff it’s all fukked up. So I fix it. now fukn big al is gonna fukn cry because I went around his back or some shit? oh and there he goes leaving and not even saying good bye. Well fuk you too big al. fuk you up your lily white ass you old racist crusty sack of donkey shit. fuk if everybody you offended with your bullshit remarks and your boring ass stories even let it get to them half of what your little self-perceived drama of whatever the fuk issue your having well then we would have ragnarok or at the very least a large pile of ragu. And not the big Carmine kind.
What the fuk evs. Drama was made to be golden and golden was made to be grahams. Ain’t nobody leaving comments for shit up in this bitch. That’s cool, fuk a comment. Next muthafucka to leave a comment gets fukn shot by my 12 guage. That’s right, I don’t want no stinking comments, whilst I type away in oblivion. Shit, it’s fukn facetiousness, can’t ya dig? Ok, true left a comment. Thanks true. Thanks from the bottom of my heart, cuz shit, sometimes feedback keeps a brutha in the game. Even if it wasn’t really true, if it was like an impostor, it's still cool, which shit you never know in this day and age, fukn ask treacher, fukn people pretend they’re him and shit all over the fukn innernet, and ladatt, and he don’t comment anywhere anyhow no more, the fukn hateraide got to be too much for the guy, ya dig, fukn jim jones couldn’ta brewed up a heartier batch, which just goes to show you, um where the fuk was I? Yeah so party on jim, and whatever real life shit is keeping you out of the blog game for like 5 minnits, I hope it’s getting regulated to the fullest and in the most proper way and to your satisfaction with minimal drama and/or heartache and/or muschle ache, and that all is well and good, and seriously, though, that’s on long beach, and, well, nuff said.
but anyway, ya know, sometimes knowin that someone’s reading this DogShiT helps me get through the goddamm day. ok? Ok you got me. Ok I care. Shit. I’m not fukn Sylvia plath. I ain’t muthafukin William burroughs up in this crazzle. I want to be recognized. I ain’t fukn vince van gogh, ready to toil and toil and nobody say shit. okay I am. Okay I’m not. Fuk if I had one quarter of one quarter of the talent of any of the preceding names I pulled out of my sphincter this web page would be number one with a bullet. But no, I’m a joker and instead it’s number 8 billion three hundred and sixty five.
And no I’m not feeling sorry for myself, I could really give a fuk. It’s all good, I’m just rambling. Bye big al, don’t forget to write, you old scraggly fuk. Fukn lil beyatch. Wah wah wah. So much money and so much time and so much everything and 90% of what the fuk comes out the old fuk’s mouth is bitching and moaning.
Someone please tell me I’m not on that runway. If I turn out to be this old whining complaining bitching fart someone please put a cap in my muthafukin ass before I can even finish the next sentence out my dumbass muthafukin mou
Tuesday, July 01, 2003
They’ll tear you to fukn pieces if you miss one note, stray on one riff, fukn flip your hair the wrong way. Leopard skin fukn bandana crooked? Eace-pay hose snot.
Breathe, sucka. You can do this like brutus. Just step out there, look all those muthafuckin interspacial mofos in their beady lil eyes and fukn slap that Jackson like a bitch.
No fancy shit, ok maybe in the reprise, but just straight bang that ho like a 2x4 at the salad bar. Make it sing like a canary sittin looking at lady and the tramp it’s so damn meaningful.
These fukn martians or wherever the fuk they’re from don’t give a fuk if you live or die. They’ll release the hounds at a moments notice. It ain’t nuthin but another Tuesday nite open mic for their asses.
To really fuk with ya kid they might throw you in with some joker on vocals. Pay it no muthafuckin mind. Play through, make that fooh look good. Shit play it right and you’ll bring him along for the ride. Why not. Cosmic druggery and archaic thuggery. You’ll be like the han solo and luke skywalker of the ghetto set. Sex with pinochle players from the planet Pluto. Smack it flip it rub it down. Next.
And if you show how deep the shit is, if you bring jack foolio up the ranks with you, into the deepest hallways of the swankest parties with the most beautiful people, just to show those fuks, then they’ll hook it up. Pair you up with somebody that will make shit known. History book shit that will really spread the word about what the fuk you can do with a fukn ax and a moment.
But that’s all dust in the wind now playa. That’s all ashes in the smoke pit, stuff that ain’t even been thought of yet except for a few silly dreamers lying on a hill. The pail sits. Empty. Conversation ebbs & wanes. Water break. then, and only then, maybe a decision will be made to actually do something about it.
Mind wandering, again and again. Ok time to walk through that curtain, plug into your muthafuckin amp, and burn this fukn coliseum ass shit or whatever it is down. And then they can find another fiddler and another carrot dragger, cuz this shit ain’t cool. Alright, well, that’s not true, you’ll keep playin for your life, won’t you now? Oh yeah, cuz life beats death, playboy, life beats death any day of the week, I don’t care if your name is ebeneezer scrooge or phil mcFackelstein, unless your fukn fingernails are being torn off by a gang of muthafuckin hyenas from Pittsburgh, ain’t nobody that can make me see different on that one.
Alright game time. 4th quarter. 9th inning. 10th frame. Triple over time, they pass the ball to Mullin. From way downtown, oh shit folks, I think it’s good, but first let’s pause for a commercial break, brought to you by Lee Press Ons, the shit so good, they’ll never know.
I think I’ll go to lunch and tackle this when I get back. I wouldn’t want to give you some undernourished bastardized stepchild type shit. not that there’s anything wrong with being a bastard stepchild. It’s just a fukn expression, don’t be so damn defensive. Shit gotta watch what you say what with the fukn NPC double A all up in the grill, whatever the fuk that is. They’re some kinda agency, na mean, trying to fukn regulate my shit. they should know that only Nate Dogg is allowed to even step into that realm.
Fuk it I’ll give you the bastard stepchild shit. serves you write for fukn being a dolphin waxin gin chaser. Check? Check.
Oh and YO! happy birthday tone-dogger! You da man.
Monday, June 30, 2003
rion, but shit, lemme finish a goddam sentence before ya butt in with all your wherewithalls and what-have-you’s) and floating here and fro in its misty cobwebs I spy a week filled with high amounts of cover-your-ass time and setting up shit to kick it on lay away while I bask in the rays of gay par-ee, rat-infested lun-dunn, and clock crazed swiss-town.
Meaning in layman’s terms, I gotta get all my shit in order, becuz I leave for a phat vaycay next Tuesday nite.
Whut does that mean to you oh dearest reader of mai-yine? Absolutely nuthin, except for the small fact that I will be completely and maybe not so totally off the radar for those two & a half weeks, during which time you may cry in your soup or celebrate at your leisure, depending on your attitude and degree of codependency and/or apathy towards the words that magically appear on this corner of the ol’ triple dub on the not so set in stone schedule of Monday through Friday not counting holidays and possibly a surprise guest visit by a certain dog not named Methuselah.
Confused yet? Good, because if you’re not then it means you need to visit doctor greenthumb and anesthetize your cranium for a healthy trip down herky jerky lane, also known as frank spank crank yank dirty dirty dank.
Dogshit acres, represent.