Friday, August 08, 2003
I am now the official owner of a motorcycle. Yes I am badass. I’m gonna join the beat-up Honda owner’s group and get a grimey leather jacket with a fukn chain hanging off of it or some shit like that & go intimidate verbally & physically old women wandering out of their senior citizen homes looking for prescription drugs.
Sounds like a plan. I’ll have my assistant ralphie write up the proposal and take it before the board after my croquet game this afternoon.
The other thing I wanted to tell you is, um, fuk I just made that sentence up, there ain’t really shit that I “want” to tell you, per se, I mean there is shit that I “will” tell you, most of it blatant fucking lies, but as far as “wanting” well I wouldn’t call it that, even though I guess you don’t necessarily do anything that you don’t actually “want” to do, you know, in a strictly kierkegardian sense.
I don’t think that really had jack fuck to do with kierkegard, but I remember digging his shit in philosophy class in college so I thought I’d name drop and try to sound intelligent. Then I remembered I don’t really give a fuk if you think I’m intelligent or not. I think I’d really actually rather you think I’m a fukn retard and then maybe you’ll donate money to me or some shit like that, even though I don’t have like a conduit set up by which you can give me money, cuz I’m a lazy pile. How’s this, if you want to give me money, how about fuk me and just give it to treacher. Seriously. Or tony. Both of them are highly deserving. As far as me, I’m a wiley crafty devious nonsensical piece of donkey excrement that much more deserves your loathing and bitter words than any kind of monetary compensation.
You have GOT to read stereolabrat. Fu-king hilarious. I laughed out loud, and the only other person that can make me do that is chuck woolery after he drops 3 tabs of acid. It’s funny, you see, because he starts thinking that he’s wink martindale. So many people have confused the two over the years, that he’s got this complex, to the point where he won’t even say “two & two” anymore cuz he thinks he’s ripping of chuck woolery, which is of course himself, but he doesn’t see it like that, ya know, he thinks that him & wink martindale have switched bodies AND game shows. Now if you were to ask me what show wink martindale was ever on, I would just give you like this really handsome but really blank stare, and you would be thinking “damn this guy’s good looking, but shit, I don’t think a damn thing is going on upstairs, I mean, this guy is a fukn vegetable.” And hopefully you wouldn’t say it out loud, cuz I’m not a vegetable and you thinking that might hurt my feelings, and I can’t be responsible for repercussions of said event.
Also you should really read JEG cuz I don’t know why, but his words have a certain, uh, how do you say, proper pacing and even handed smoothness to them that give one the sense of having eaten a fine dinner of horses hoof stew with like this really avant garde elves or some shit like that. even if he’s talking about nothing in particular, ya know, it sounds good. Even though he does talk about stuff per se, not just random crap like me, or like, um, the different strokes crew (random) so anyway, yeah, check him out, it’s good stuff, I’m giving it an official plug, and if you want more reasoning behind it well you can kiss my lily white goddamm piece of shit show window at tiffany’s worthy ass.
Thursday, August 07, 2003
All names have been changed to protect the unprotected
Well – what a trip – Switzerland is frikken rad, to quote valley girl – even got to do some gambling at the Grand Casino in Bern last night – won me 45 swiss franks (@ $30) gyeah – damn dawg – the mountain – jungfrau – was sooo dope - mass snow & view action – ice caves – aw shit - & OH – the HR Giger (art director for Alien) museum – doh – crip – can somebody say “not-so-repressed masochistic/sadistic sexual dominance cross species obsessive disorder?” Even the OG’s Oscar was on display & a pic of Farrah Fawcett handing him the goods – Oh & the Fondue the other nite was just 2 fukn good – like 5 cheeses mixed with wine & cream & dip bread in that shit, & let ferment in your stomach – good times – well my flight is early tomorrow AM – back to H-town – PEACE
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Like you give half a fuk.
Tom green was still obsessed with his fukked up desk last nite. It’s still all fucked up, so shit I’d be a little pissed too, but it was ironic if you will as he showed a bunch of his shows from the past, like his public access days, where they would chain saw the fuk out of their desk. So maybe this jackyl guy was trying to be all old school tom green and kiss his ass and it came back to bite him. it was bizarre how similar the desk thrashings were. Seriously though, this is a hot topic.
Shabba. Why is my hot topic the broken down dream of vagrant drunkards of yesterday to like 97% of the population, a third of which are asleep? It just reeks of imperialism.
I used to be able to play darth vader’s imperial march on the piano. Also the theme to Indiana jones. Also, um, the baby elephant walk and the superman theme. John Williams was the wind beneath my wings from my chopin-esque days on the ivory tickling duty. But I sucked ass basically and gave it all up for the championship street biking circuit, already operating way out of my age group, going down to the country clinic and checking on Frankie’s shingle operation when my pager wasn’t blowing up. Those were the days when a pager was as big as a fukn record player, and I’d hang it off my back pocket, yeah I had a sturdy ass, you betcha playboy short, and when that thing ringed I blinged, if you catch my driftola.
Shit I taught baby how to shine. Want a c-note, shit ace cooter, you needn’t come to me with anything less than a grip full a sunshine, or else the committee to reelect might go to work on your plastic surgeon, you know, give him some incentive to make your next tuck a little extra on the under.
Watching suge knight on howard last nite was pretty interesting but he got topped by the bishop don magic juan fa sho. This guy says he first got laid at age 5, by his baby sitter, who told him promise not to tell. Running his first ho when he was 16. self-professed greatest pimp to ever hit the planet. This is the same guy who is snoop dogg’s “spritual advisor.” Howard was fascinated by him. as far as suge, he says dre is a bitch for calling out a restraining order on him. shit, dre may be a bitch, but he ain’t stupid, suge is a scary muthafucka, I be calling for a restraining order if I knew that guy was on my ass, especially comin outta jail talking yang. But seriously, do, I guess you could see suge’s side, and it looks like he ain’t doing as well scrilla wise as you might guess. When howard asked him are you a millionaire, I figgered that he’d laugh like “hell yeah, time’s over, playboy” but he kind of shrugged and said “I guess you could say that” ya know, like a guy adding up everything he owns in his head and coming to the conclusion that it adds up to a little over a million. Which means, you ain’t really a millionaire, buddy, and whut the fuk? I woulda figgered he still had piles of paper, maybe he’s trying to keep the contingent guessing.
Ah who gives a flying fuck?
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Ah eff the skunkworks. I mean, nah, not ladatt cuz, but, ya know, in an existential sense. Like when bono sings about it, ya know, it must be deep.
Did I mention that Bob’s Big Boy is from Glendale?
Tommy lee on howard last nite was fukn classic. But even more classic was fukn the guy from jackyl who invented the chainsaw/guitar coming out on tom green and fuckin up tom’s desk. Tom got all pissed and just ripped the guy. Fukn clah-sick, best of the new show so far, he should buy jackyl dude a new Armani suit and a pair of dolce & gabanna surfwear combos, cuz that shit is gonna make it so happyville acres can also be Greenville. Tom green is deceptively talented, watch out metropolis, but this kooky fella
Whut the fuk am I doing? Tom fukn green gets enuff fukn press without me doing a fukn disco inferno over the fuk. Shit.
Dude fukn ncaa football 2004 on ps2 is super sick. The ea sports one with Carson palmer on the cover. Oh. Shit. dawg. It’s like whoah. 4.8 out of 5 stars. By mr. I hardly ever play fukn video games so my logic and dimensions are probably all skewed to fuk. But I know my madden based football history young buck and when it comes to video pig iron I’ll talk yang and get in the muthafuckin ring with anybuddy who isn’t name lee Epstein.
Comprende senores y senoras y ninos y ninas y senoritas en la casa?? Gyeah. Yeah my espanol is crap-ay-ole but still you can’t playa hate on an eastside wit the latin thug thang. Ok but shit dawg keep that shit on the under! Loan me five dollas?
Fukn silkk the shocker is WAY more influential than the mainstream and underground press will ever give him credit for. (ok here’s where I fall in the slipstream of jackerville. Every time I try to legitimize silkk, it always gets so that 20% that was thinking I wasn’t on crack is suddenly sure I’m coked out and quivering in the corner of the food shelter, fighting a rat for a cracker jack – but c’mon hear me out) so anyway, um, where was I? Sorry I have no argument to back up that statement.
That seems an appropriate capper to the predicament at hand.
Monday, August 04, 2003
All names have been changed to protect the unprotected
Sunday – Mittelhausen, Switzerland – a la casa de Sista A & fam. Beautiful 3 story condo/house in the countryside. – London was crip – big city loc. Let’s see – last I left you we had just got there. WELL – we had a bus tour & saw the sites – also caught Madame Tussauds & the London Dungeon – (the girls chickened out) a TAD more cheesy than yo recuerdo but still cool – Big Ben, Parliament, Soho, Liecester – good times with the crizew. Time to craiyuze to some lake or sumpin – peace out in bitten effect.
Monday – Mittelhausen – went with Sven (Mrs. P’s bro-in-law) to go pick up rental car this AM – 1st time I got insurance on a rental – foreign country + pouring rain + mysterious loud crashing sound from outside at the critical moment of decision = anotha sucka. Oh vell. Yesterday’s lake adventure was criiiiiip. Thune lake is magnificent – beautiful scenery – mountain chalets, people swimming – good shtuff. Big storm passing through last nite – still raining today – postponing trip up a huge mountain – instead we’ll check out some towns & have some fukn FONDUE goddamit. How the HELL did the OG’s write like this? My hand hurts. Peace.
The movie was pretty criptopplis, I ain’t gonna say much more, I ain’t Roger Ebert, except that the alternative ending was I guess entertaining but you gotta sit all the way through the credits to see it and it’s really just kinda the opposite of the first ending. I don’t know, alternate endings are almost never as good as you imagine they might be. The whole “what if” idea is really only interesting if it’s just this outrageous scenario, and I guess any scenario involving disease infected zombies could be considered outrageous, but ya know, the envelope called and it wasn’t being pushed.
Anyway I digress and I don’t want to leave the impression that 28 days later is not a quality film which deserves your hard earned dollar or swiss franc, because it is, it deserves, it enriches beyond its price tag, it effervesces, so rush to your local Cineplex and plug into the mass media machine that has taken over this piece of English literature from the modern era and, effervesce (word of the day punks).
So after the movie I decided that NOW I was gonna go to the beach. So I drove through ala moana beach park and peeped the scene, but there was literally no parking to be had, peak hours, local kine anyshine, and so I figgered, no, I knew, I could find parking in Waikiki, and it actually sounded nice to wander around and blend in with the tourists and pretend I was on vacation again. If I could just find some French people to stalk I could pretend I was in Nice and that there was some really sophisticated industry types slumming from the Cannes festival, down for some amaretto sours and some high priced back rubs from imported Ukrainian spine dancers.
So I found parking on the ala wai like I knew I would, and then proceeded to change into my swim trunks on the dl. Then I strolled through the zone like a mackadocious playa. There was something in my strut that indicated I knew whut the fuk I was doing, but my hat with the big ol swiss cross on it spoke of a lad from a different land. My cover was perfect, the sun was shining, my supplies were in order, so I made my way to the beach. Then something happened which I had not calculated, at least in the frontal lobe. I was hungry, and not, like, just jamba-juice hungry, like, I needed something solid, something with meat in it. the problem was that nothing I passed by seemed satisfactory to my gullet. I even made it all the way to kuhio beach park, right by the po-lice station, right by the jackers jacking the jacks for they gripples renting long boards for $15. there’s like this little hamburger stand there, but there’s the world’s most ghetto jack in the box across the street from a beautiful beach, coincidentally, right across the street, so I went there, which I knew would make the story kind of suck, bringing down the sophistication level, but I had to risk it as cuz as you know if it don’t make dollaz it don’t make sense and after a complicated skiing accident in vail two winters ago with jack’s bastard granddaughter hazel, let’s just say that not only do I get free jumbo jacks, but there’s a kickback involved, so que sera sera and pass the fukn ammo as my auntie gertle is prone to say.
So anyway, from there I went to the bizeach, which was fukn crowded as, um, one of those really crowded events, like the republican national convention or some shit like that, but I still found a spot to lay my towel down and put the very last little bit of sun block in the pennyworth fortune on my white ass, and then soak up sun, swim, soak up sun, lather, rinse, repeat, and then it was back on the towel reading volume 3 in the never ending tale of the wheel of time and then back in the water and then I figgered that’s enuff of that. There was this foolio in the water with his daughter and they were trying to catch these little uncatchable waves, like the shore break, but sad, and it made me laugh, and then I felt like a wave snob, and then I realized that maybe I am a total and complete ass hole, and that made me cry, but not really, just the consideration of tears, and then I got up, changed in the handicap stall in the bathroom, did NOT piss all over the walls, walked back to the car, and knew in my heart of hearts that I was headed for the bar.
And at the bar, as if by a miracle, I did arrive. The Mai-Tai bar at Ala Moana mall, formerly home of the best happy hour on Oahu. I say, sadly, formerly, because, well, they fucked up the game, cuz. Used to be that on Sunday they started that shit early, we’re talking, like from 4 PM to 11 PM, just about everything is half priced, which means, fancy foo foo drinks like icy mai-tais, lava flows, raspberry margaritas, all that shit’s $3. well they fukn jacked that shit outta there, and now happy hour starts at 8 PM on Sundays, just like any other day. ah shit. fuk, ya know, it’s like they had the good idea to honor the lord’s day some cheap drinks for the alchies, and then, it’s like, fuk, do all dogs really go to heaven? And the cosmic karma at this place took another step when I noticed that the bartender that looks exactly like tony pierce was working. Every time I see this guy I want to ask him if he’s ever read the busblog, but I always decide that the dumbassness of such a comment will highly outweigh any cognitive positive end all to the arrangement for me and I decide fuk it, and you know, you don’t want to fuk up the bartender bartendee relationship cuz that shit’s crucial when you’re trying to get your tank on.
So I had longboard lager, which was on some special dillio for $2.50, and four beers later, I figured it was time to play stumbleaya to the auto, whereby who was waiting for me but none other than my trusty rabbit friend Harvey, valet not to the stars but to me, just me dammitt. He’s my talking rabbit chauffeur and if you want to borrow him the fee is 89 thou per mile so cough up the cheese please.
Suffice it to say that Harvey got my ass home by way of the original jelly’s where I grabbed a comic book and a couple cd’s. found a Jason Blakemore disc, but it didn’t have the “pure” track on it. if anyone’s got a copy of DJ Trance’s pure hey drop a gem on me. I’ll make it worth your while, but more in the Frankie Sinatra way and not the Raquel Welch fashion. Unless that’s what you’re into I’m sure I can have one of my associates contact a subcontractor and we can work something out.
I would mention herein some interesting tidbits about Harvey’s mental state and attitude during the journey, but he was strangely quiet, in fact I don’t think he said a word the whole trip. Usually he’s half off his ass on some substance which almost always causes him to yell and scream and hop around the vehicle, all while never losing even the slightest control of the actual driving task, but as said, he did not appear depressed nor elated, he did not appear to be in any state of mind that could be quantified or qualified by any type of verbage that I am aware of. Frankly, I’m a little worried about him. Harvey’s a strange rabbit, with behavioral patterns that have not been able to be calculated by any of a numerous amount of psychologists who have attempted said research, but I know him better than anyone, and he was acting akin to none of his various selves.
But he did get me home ok. Thanks Harv.