Friday, September 19, 2003
Seems like hardly anyone’s around in the blogosphere, not that you can like tell, but I don’t know, the western front has this aura about it of inactivity.
It’s like the shutters are splacking the curtains are splacking the chandelier.
Up in here. Yeah hah heebie haboo. I never promised you a rose garden nor did I ever say I wouldn’t use the same sayings over and over again. I never uttered that expression or any that could be misconstrued to signify that no matter how deep you check the ‘chives, mmmkay? Try it. challenge me. C’mon I’m up for it. nunca.
So, yes indeed. This entry is going to the jerkero Mercado to be polished up and submitted to the kingpin of crime whereby likely I will get shot with his like magic cane. Um, actually I’m pretty sure it’s not magic, per se, but like a mechanical marvel, well more realistically it’s probably more of an electrical thing like with microwaves and etcetera than like nuts and bolts and turbines and pistons, like that.
I just had a total absence of thought.
Vegas. That sounds like a good place to be right now. Put me on a blackjack table with like a bunch of people that are relatively fucked up, but not completely sloshed so we don’t have any fooligans like hitting on a 15 with dealer showing a 6 or some shit like that, hell no, no thank you, even though sometimes, just these weird little times, mind you, that kind of scatological shit like kicks in a winning streak, but I would never authorize it, I mean, I’d accept it, gladly, but I would never issue orders on a strategy change ie the prophesied results.
Anyway. There’s a lot of room at the Mercado do los jerkeros for one more swimming cowboy, so I’m gonna go take my place among the crack alley of the stars, next to such law abiding citizens as Frank Middleford, CPA to Shirley Temple's hair instructor.
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Ship it Bra! I'll carry it with me when I head back out to Serenada.
----- Original Message -----
Sent: Thursday, September 18, 2003 12:29 PM
Subject: part for Serenada
That circuitry annihilator # 458912 is $920 plus freight (your cost)
Please confirm you want me to order it & that I should ship it to your Grannetti address.
----- Original Message -----
Sent: Thursday, September 18, 2003 7:52 PM
Subject: muffler bearings for MCT Collectivisionville
Thanks for the info. I got my accounts receivables that I needed to take care of Uranium core Disposal for Collectivisionville and IJMQ projects, and 50% deposit to PKOP to start IKMQ Project. We have decided to start next week on Tuesday. I may bump the start date to Wednesday because I will need at least one day to complete Collectivisionville if I get the bearings for the mufflers late.
P.S. Got your 2 Invoices; 68 & 72. Mailed out check to you guys day before yesterday. How about additional part I need for Serenada Central (458912). What's the status?
----- Original Message -----
Sent: Wednesday, September 17, 2003 7:12 PM
Subject: muffler bearings for MCT Collectivisionville
The two muffler bearings for the flux capacitor at MCT Collectivisionville are on their way to you via Pony Express. the ETA is Monday, 9/22. The tracking # is 726986976PHUK.
Keep us posted on that and the scheduling for Mizzle Vlizzle Studios project.
Speaking of which, bandito indicated that he sent you a check for $8282 for the invoice you had into us.
wave (Waikiki nightclub) last night for the first time, in like, forever. Click here and here for a nice old skool drunken debaucherous wave story. Anyway, last nite the place was wack. Well, actually, I mean the entertainment was high quality, but shit, nobody was there, literally like 15 people, and these rappers like bustin, eysoulated something or other, this 3 man troupe, (I don’t think rap groups are ever identified as a troupe, but oh well, first time for everything) and then the main event, this guy named MC Trace. Sick dawgs. This homey can flizow. Farreal. Never heard of him before but rhymes were busted to the extreme but not like a vandal, yadda yadda yadda.
So but anyway, me and mrs. P were like literally falling asleep in our chairs. The thing you gotta know about the wave is that it doesn’t get going until like 2 am. Usually, though, around 1:30 the peeps from elsewhere in clubland start filtering in for the inevitable jump off around 2:30 am, when it will be going nutso, like from 15 people to like 100 people, or more, shit I don’t know, I’m not rainman, throw a bunch of matches on the ground and it just looks like a shitload of matches to me. Oh yeah, I mean, toothpicks. Whatevs.
So yeah we were fukn tired as all hell. So tone dogger nudges me awake and was like “let’s go” and I was like “yeah” and MC trace was still going bonkers on stage but I had to bid him adieu and pass out in the back seat of the rental.
Earlier that evening we ate some BOMB ASS Cajun barbeque at Kevin’s Two-Boots in Kailua. I know I’ve mentioned this place before but I can’t be troubled to dig that deep in the ‘chives. Let it be known that this place has the best ribs I have ever tasted. The shit falls of the bone, literally. And the gumbo, mmmm doggie. Chitty chitty bang bang ain’t got nuthin on this honey.
So like there’s a big ol’ storm thrashin the east coast. Be safe out there eastsidaz. Watch yer dome. Bust out a nice bottle once yer safe in like a convenient location and have some sips of beam and like chillski. Fuk what the hell am I talking about, I don’t know jack shit about being in a crazy hurricane or whatever.
Bunsen had a fascinating and insightful conversation with Ms. Isabel today, which you can read here. He’s funny.
And yes, I mean Ms. Isabel as in the hurricane. And no, I would not like to learn more about Dianetics. And yes, maybe I am going to hell, or anti-nirvana, or whatever you call it. And possibly someday down the road I will find the Lord or L. Ron Hubbard, maybe they’re hiding inside this box of wheat thins. And yeah your hat is retarded looking. And no I am not the president and neither am I a client, so piss off. At a medium pace.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
I wanna go camping in the High Sierra Meadows and hang out with Arnold’s ghost. Not Drummond (Jackson), not Schwarzenegger, not Palmer, but, you know, the one who started the meadow establishment that I must someday live at like Grizzly adams.
One time this bear came to our camp site and like was chomping on pretzels like right outside our tent right by my dad’s ear. He was freaking out. I slept right through it. ever since then we had a tire iron in the tent in order to beat the fuck out of any wildlife attempting to perpetrate.
Seriously, doe, I wanna like hang out in airports like that Iranian guy. Except not the same airport all the time with boxes stacked all over, I want to go from airport to airport on planes, trains, automobiles, whatever it takes, and see all the spots in between. I wanna win the lottery for like 80 mill and just go. Me and Mrs. P in the place to be, every place to be. Australia to Singapore, ya dig? Dig.
I wanna be a rock star, but like an alternative style one that just stands there and stares you down and like, there’s no music, just an attitude. People would come from miles, kilometers, tracts of land, from all around, just to see me, vibe with me, be in the same stadium with even my agent. I mean, even if I wasn’t even there, knowing that that guy on stage represented Alfred pennyworth’s interests would be enuff to drive the masses insane with insanity.
I wanna find like this sick demented artistic level deep in my gullet like HR Giger and like draw pictures of aliens cornholing each other except something totally different in both medium and subject matter. I wanna be like that schizophrenic guy in beautiful mind and come up with a totally new idea, and then like 50 years later when they present me with the nobel prize I’ll totally fuck with them and like run down the aisle cackling and spike that damn thing on the marble floor right by the fountain with like Artemis shooting her bow and arrow at the skylight, looking out at all those stars, all those planets, solar systems, galaxies, black holes, robots named furry horse brow johanssen, all that shit.
I want all that shit and more.
I don’t wanna tie this one up neatly. I don’t want there to be a little catch phrase that makes you smile and think “clever lad.” I want it to end with like this really annoying open-ended piece of shit that gets you pissed and want to punch your computer. Well, maybe not punch, per se, but maybe, I don’t know, jostle frenetically.
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
does my hunter post make any sense whatsoever? ah, who gives a fuck?
is it me or was albert on little house on the prairie a total fucking pimp? didn't one of his "true loves" fall off a ladder or some shit like that. damn, there he goes in for the kiss. 50 cent ain't got NUTHIN on albert. truedat.
dodgers are down 2 runs to the d-backs but schilling is done for the night & there's two innings left.
wait lemme switch back to that. fuk the hallmark channel.
fukn beltre, spark a rally, you can do it.
there was something else i was gonna say but it escapes me now.
i hope that all is well for you. yes you.
I have long admired Hunter S. Thompson. From the time one of my buddies, well, actually, ok, aquaman, turned me on to him back in 96, which I guess wasn’t that long ago, but well, you get the point, I’ve been really amazed at how someone who for the most part is so fucked up on all kinds of drugs and other substances could be so on point when it came to matters of human relations and the way that people basically work. My first exposure was his the great shark hunt, full of 70’s observations that despite their age seemed applicable to a certain mindset in our culture that, if it was indeed missing, was a goddamm shame.
Anyway, rambling aside, as the war machine got percolating I must admit I stood with the seeming moral majority in the idea that shit, saddaam was evil incarnate and we had to go in there and kick ass and take names, like a real OG should. I was like, lets get to dropping some bombs, and shit.
But now, in retrospect (word of the day?) I, along with everybody and his brother, well, okay, maybe every other brother and every third sister, is kinda wondering if not outright debating hardcore with themselves if what we as a country did was in fact the right thing. Iraq is fucked to shit, more US soldiers are dying every day just about, and the finish line seems a long way down the road on this particular endeavor. The possibility that we fucked up looms larger than john holmes’ dead dick.
But back to my point before. Hunter S. Thompson was onto this shit from the start, he was railing against Bush and the hawks from day one and basically calling bullshit on most if not all of Giorgio’s reasons for the necessity of a preemptive strike. And I must admit, I was thinking, “Hunter, you old pie-eater, you’ve gone soft, you must realize, that this is a modern issue, that things are different now, that this isn’t just another Vietnam, this man Mr. Sadaam Hussein means serious business, he must be taken care of, and despite the argument that there are countless other despots and severely morally fucked and powerful individuals dotting the planet’s landscape, this guy is overly devoid of any soul and conscience and regard for his people and thus deserves to be taken out like a zit on the back of a very large sweaty man at the nearest opportunity regardless of rules, regulations, united nations argumentation and the ever-popular etcetera.” That’s what I was thinking, I guess, in a nutshell, without the over-analysis that I could otherwise pepper it with.
But as the world slowly spins around on its axis I must at this point grovel up to the table of wonderment and bewilderment and disbelief and reality check central and oil mongering greed-itude (which I did recognize and document as well but I discounted it as a necessary evil) and read Mr. Thompson’s words this fine afternoon and recognize true genius:
“Disagreeing with Donald Rumsfeld about bombing anybody who gets in our way is not a crime in this country. It is a wise and honorable idea that George Washington and Benjamin Franklin risked their lives for. These thieves in the White House are so crazy with greed and power, and they are causing so much drastic damage to the world we live in, that they are the ones who should be put on trial for treason.
…The Statue of Liberty wasn't out there for nothing. Beware of War Mongers. They don't give a hoot in hell if you live or die. They are in this racket strictly for themselves. Mahalo.”
Thinking back to my own thoughts and written processes regarding this whole dillio, I know I had some issues which were elucidated in this space regarding the bullshit trend of labellin anybody that opposed the war effort as some sort of communist and/or traitor. I know I mentioned the word McCarthy least once or twice, which I’m sure many other souls did, whether in some form of accessible media or to one’s own green bottle of heinekin out back by the washing machine, but I know I never said it with either the same quality or conviction as the founder of gonzo journalism did in the above referenced quote. I was wishy washy, I was like “hmmm, this way, hmmm, that way” throwing out ideas and points but basically saying "let's bomb us some desert folk and get this shit done." And I felt strongly about it, ah the folly of youth and the power of the media machine. but ya know, now i'm not so sure. in fact, i may just be leaning the other way. which may not necessarily beg, but at least hints at the question, Where does the top, the source, of our little friend the information superhighway, begin? Where does it end? what effect in both our frontal and posterior lobe(s) does it have on us as? I mean, the sad thing is, I’m still not sure about what the fuck is going on over there, one way or another, another victim of mass marketing brain wave adjustors on the prowl throughout apparently common phone lines.
What the fuck am I talking about? In any event, hunter S. Thompson, I apologize for any degree of doubt of your mental faculties I may have vested in your personage.
Now I’m gonna finish my beer and go home.
Ok now I’m gonna call this ass crapsterpiece master. He’s like the head of the Mercado where you buy those people that are like in that steve martin movie. You know, the famous one where he was born a poor black child? Imagine a place where you could go buy those, well this guy’s the president, but yet I have to call him. hold on. Just hold your goddamm horses. Hold them tight, reel in the rains, go easy on the throttle, ok let’s try 3rd gear, yeah fuck 2nd, overrated, ok we’re cruising. Um, seriously though, phone call time.
Ooo-weeeh I just got some serious work done. I but the “b” in worker bee. Actually fuck that I ain’t nobody’s worker bee, I’m like randy moss, I play when I wanna play. Na mean? And if you don’t, it ain’t nuthin but a thang, dig.
So, my fukn air conditioning, it got fixed, it was like, barely working, turns out the filter just needed to be cleaned, so now I keep switching back and forth from 80 degrees and 82 degrees. 80 keeps getting a little cold but 82 just is way to warm. And don’t even get me started on 78. me and 78 are on some serious bad terms ever since that melted twix bar incident. Oh wait, um, I mean frozen twix bar incident. Ok you caught me I made that up. More workie.
Gyeah, this system works like a fukn charm I tell you. I’m getting mad shit done. At this rate I’ll be millionaire by the time I’m 116 years old. Fuck yeah. There’s this little Buddha on my desk like staring at me, not taunting me, inspiring me, telling me that you, keith, you, can be the man in more than just your own mind, you’re good enough, smart enough, and etcetera enough, to make the first team all Mercado jerkero.
And you know what? He might have something there. God bless us, everyone. Allah too. Oh and the spirit of enlightenment or whatever. And, um, zeus, for any pagans still roaming the plains. Am I forgetting anyone? Zoroastrianists, you can get in on this too, don’t be shy. This figurative bus is big and roomy, hop on board, we’re going to shabbalabbaville, where the keg is always full.
of imported or sammies. none of that keystone or pabst blue ribbon shit.
Monday, September 15, 2003
jennyeah is back in the blogging saddle, at least for like a minute, but don't tell her I told you. it's supposed to be like an underground, non known quantity type dillio.
and hmmm, at the same time as bing is apparently quitting?
suspicious i tell ya. i mean, i've never seen them together in the same place, have you?
well, bat phone is ringing and bruce is drunk off of that stolichnaya he confiscated from Mr. freeze again. talk about your thankless jobs.
yeah, i'm back at the cave for a couple days. robin's got the mumps and, well, the batjet is supersonic, so like, i could be back for dinner with Mrs. P in like, 25 minutes.
if only this fucking rain would stop.
One less bitch I gotta worry about.
Fukn BEARS are sucking major asshole sandwiches right now. They lost Thursday nite which is old news but this ain’t cnn and I report the news on MY time. MY news, MY time, MY dogshit acre and you can take your 40 mules and shove em up the Mercado de el jerkero express train to my ass crapsterpiece. (clarification - i'm talking about the CAL bears, mmmkay? chicago can like my toonces car-driving cat's brown-eye - nothing against chi-town but this is a golden bear thang.)
Yeah guy?? Shabba labba yessiree bobskeeee.
So tone-dogger’s in town which is all gee kickin’ it with the pizneeps, but that’s all I’ll say about that, cuz, well, no reason, but I have another VERY important issue I need to discuss with you.
Namely, the raiders. Ok, um, fellas, it’s not looking good. Barely scraping out a lucky win against the bengals?? Puh-leeeeze. That ain’t gonna get it done, especially with the chiefs looking like stomp-a-saurasses and, well, the rest of the division kinda sucks I guess. I mean, the chargers, shit, without Seau their heart's been cut out with a butter knife, and the broncos. Haha, the broncos, ie the shitcos, well, they suck donkey dick. They suck horses cocks and then make sandwiches out of them and ship them all over the world. The barrel man is the personal fluffer to Ron Jeremy. They’re a joke with an over-inflated imaginary record at this precise moment and invesco jokerhouse or whatever the hell they’re calling mile-high-pile estadio this week is soon going to be the property paid in full of the oaktown raiders, bitches.
Now logic may dictate that how can I talk shit about my own raid-ahs that they are sucking alien ant farm shaft yet still have an envisionary prognostication of horsey uniformed destruction? Well cuz we’re talking about the raiders. The silver and black. The ones that enjoy defecating down the throats of all things Denver. So it has been said so it shall be done.
Next Monday. Aloha.
So what else is happening contingent? Jesus think of a new line you bastardo cornholio’d aesop fable reading frikkenfrakker.
Blackened is the end. Yeah guy? Fuk metallica. They just HAD to get the ball rolling on all this bitching about fukn people stealing songs, etcetera. But they do make good muzak despite the fact they do gay-ass medleys of the horse manure of the 25 years of mtv. Holy fuk that was retarded. And to start with lenny kravitz “are you gonna go my way?” whut the FUK? Ok, semi-alright song, granted, but to start off your songs of the millennium compendium? Holy fukn dogfucker association batman. Get a fukn clue already lars. Stop. Ok? And not in the name of love, in the name of relevance.
Blah dee blah dee blah dee blah dee blah.
Why do I write this, and then actually publish it?? I mean shit, I got an image to protect now. I mean, I’m like mr. Big shot now, I mean, holy fukn shiT I got linked by EV ya dig? The inventor of blogger. That means that this shit ain’t a game no more. It’s time to get serious and knuckle down and write like, with metaphors and similes and shit like that.
It’s also time for my pubic hair perm, though, and, you know, priorities. Guess I’ll have to tackle that other shit later. Aloha.