Saturday, September 27, 2003

You know it

You tell the story

You tell the whole damn world…



Damn. Cal bears get their first home victory over a top 5 opponent since 1975. That one was USC too. Hmmm, I guess the golden ones just like spanking Trojan arse. Good good stuff contingent, in case you didn’t know.

Um, well, I don’t have TOO much else to say so I will issue you a stern sayonara and a pleasant aloha.


Oh and go Raiders. Let’s get a 2 for 2 for the official ultrablognetic football squads this weekend, how ‘bout it?

In other news I'm sippin' on syrup up in this hizzle, well, i mean, if by syrup you mean hefty screwdrivers. yah vodka goes straight to my head, reminds me of my high school days. wait did I say that? um, i mean, ovaltine reminds me of my high school days. yeah. tanking bottle after bottle of ovaltine, mad binges with tha crizew.

that's the ticket.

Now we take you back to your regular scheduled programming.

Friday, September 26, 2003

Quick. I ain’t got a lot of time so I gotta whip through this post and basically impart virtually no verifiable information.

That don’t mean I’m proud of it. it also don’t mean that it’s true. Ya see, I find oftentimes when I type that the least I am trying to say, the more meaning somehow filters its way through. And although where I said “least” in that last sentence should have read “less” I’m betting my shiny new nickel cadmium flux capacitor that you still got the general jist of what I was imparting.

I have this bad habit of not keeping my fucking mouth shut. Like, I’ll just say the most retarded shit and like feel like I probably offended somebody, like, 85 times a day. 84 times I’m just being paranoid, and then there’s that one time, usually the one I was least concerned about, wherein I really pissed someone off, and they’re like sharpening steak knives in their den watching let’s make a deal reruns, fantasizing about the day they’ll finally rupture my spleen.

Or not. Hopefully, truthfully. So yeah anyway, let’s see that’s two point five paragraphs. What’s the government mandated minimum for sanctioned bloggage in the western hemisphere, code 83 dash 72? I believe it’s 7. okeydokey three more paragraphs, we can do it cap’n, seriously, teneal, you ride shotgun, I’ll be back here in the caboose, bustin jams on my stratocaster, nah fuck that, my Jackson, gyeah, randy rhoads style.

I haven’t talked nearly enough about randy rhoads as of late. Best guitar player ever, obviously. And although jimi Hendrix might take some umbrage with that statement, at which point I will not debate him but offer him some beavis and butthead paper, and then at that point all shall be copacetic. But if muthafuckin that guy from the white stripes comes in here talking yang like he could take out randy rhoads left testicle there’s gonna be a little trouble in big china, na mean? Gyeah. Did I mention that he talks to me? Well, his ghost I mean. But that is a story for another time that already happened, so check the files. Religiously.

Hawaii has a major fucking ice problem. And not ice as in the muthafuckin ice cream man or, ya know, frosty’s freeze, chuuchensteins. I mean crystal meth. Mad personas are sucking that glass pipe and leaving their kiddies to make their own pancakes if they can even scrounge up a clean pan and a cup of milk. It’s notoriously fucked up, ferreal.

Just thought I’d throw that out there. They had this big special on tv about it the other nite, took up every channel from 2-13 with the same program, which I have no problem with, but what if auntie tallullah wants to buy the last copy of sir francis bacon’s purloined letter on the home shopping channel? I mean batu is a serious problema but so is 400 pounds of large scalded hanai familia barreling down on your ass at like 2.5 meters per millisecond, na mean? Well you damn well better, even if she doesn’t exist. It’s the principle.

Well it’s always nice when you tackle serious societal issues and then make up bullshit stories to change the subject.

Ah well, my time is up, and i'm sorry, we just can't cut a check right now.

maybe monday.

“Just hang the fuck up.”

Joe is funny.

I was having this mini-crisis yesterday, and I’d like to thank Goose for helping me through it.

It goes as follows.

I like Good Charlotte.

I can’t help it, really. They’re just, so, rebellious. I mean, they just don’t care, they don’t wanna be like, um, those old grouchy people. I mean, ha, they’re so lighthearted yet so dangerous! Ooh-weeh.

So anyway, I was having doubts as to my manliness in this instance. I asked “El Gooso” in all seriousness, “does liking good charlotte make me gay.” And he answered thus:

No. if you wanted to FUCK good charlotte that would make you gay.

He then added that that did NOT make it ok though.

So I guess it’s not ok.

But I don’t wanna be like you. I wanna be dangerous, and, like really hardcore. Horrorcore even.

And I think this is my first step.

You know you’re scared. Terrified.

I think Good Charlotte get a bad rap. I mean, yah they’re sell-out little bitches always swinging on MTV’s nutsacks, but they are gifted, um, sorry that thought just ran away with the gypsies.

Is don knotts still alive? I keep bugging fitz about it, I really don’t know why, something I said to myself in a random diatribe made me remember Mr. Limpet, you know, that old Don Knotts movie where he wanted to be a fish. “I wish.. I wish I were a fish!” that movie was cinematic magic, seriously, like the pinnacle of the form. It was just inspirational.

If you don’t remember it you better run out to your nearest blackmarket vhs distributor, because I’m pretty sure only santa and like his most illegally connected elf could hook that shit up on dvd, I could be talkin’ outta my ass (no way) but I’ll leave that there for you to digest. Tasty, yes? No? maybe so? I really don’t care. Just come back and eat more, barf it up, hang out by the dumpster with a gaggle of donuts Karen carpenter style it’s all good, as long as you never ever forget that I am the, um, something or other.

Yeah so whatever. I’m over it for right now.

Oh yeah, Mr. Limpett. He actually turns into a fish, and the movie turns into this fish cartoon, and he falls in love with this chick fish, you see, he always wanted to be a fish, it was his dream and it comes true, and he’s like this cartoon fish with glasses I think, and shit, people, it’s basically the ultimate movie, well, that and Bugsy Malone.

Thursday, September 25, 2003

So ya know, it really pains me.

It pains me to think there are those who would question my raiderness.

I’ve thought long and hard about my bench gannon proposal. I’m holding onto the basic tenet but would like to recommend a change in execution.

Don’t bench gannon.

Pull gannon. In the next game, if he starts fucking up, pull him halfway the 2nd quarter, and throw tui in there. It is not a betrayal of an mvp, it is a salvation for the young season. Pull him and throw in the young islander. Make it happen, management. I’m challenging you on this one too Al Davis, don’t think I don’t see you back there snickering.

Gannon will seethe. Gannon will shiver with anomorphized agony and pain of having to remember his horrible performances and maybe his inevitable drop-kick into the nearest passing dumptruck, but it will come to be. This is only a test, this only, no it’s not a test, it’s an adjustment. An adjustment of your tenets previously held about your position, and your cavalier (ok too strong) your well-earned yet possibly dangerous proneness for overextended confidence.

Basically it will set you back at zero. Not zero skill or passion or appreciation or contemplation, but simply it will make you reevaluate. You are being way too hard on yourself Rich Gannon. Don’t think about how you’ve fucked up since that Super Bowl. Don’t consider it any more. Don’t remember basically fucking up every game this season and playing like a big pile of donkey shit.

Shake that shit off now. That’s what you will be when the reigns are surremptitiously snatched from your hands by a coach you will gain inestimable respect for due to the decision that you hate the most. Yeah you Callahan. Grow some balls, get this shit done.

There would be some aka aquaman aka my most important raider fan compatriot is episodic of all that is ever pure hatred and despisal of bronco and or Denver and or fucking horselike entities in any way shape or form. With aquaman I have derived inestimable damage on my liver in ways shapes and form that may have to come with an FDA approved label for fukn aka styles or whatevs.

I mean I was trippin balls the night of this guy’s wedding fukn stumbling like a fukn deranged fucktard (copyright muscle68) with his twin brother and trippin out on statues and fukn conversin with all the various scavengers of the night like some kind of undead yet fully living convolution of amazing times of victorious standards, or some shit like that.

So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah the raiders, aquaman, you must understand that gannon is fucking up. Would you want your own son to keep running into a wall chasing a bumblebee’s bread basket, if you knew that pulling him from the action and putting little Johnny stewart in there for a little while to bat cleanup, but then you gave him another chance cuz you knew shit was copacetic and he had it in him to be basically the greatest ever.

Why do I know this will work? I know it in my heart and I know it from an analytical brain that has tackled all the angles and percolated all the cake and can seriously say that it is so. Also I cite my prime example of how this will work with the 1995 San Francisco 49ers. They started off a little slow in the season and like week 4 or something George Seifert pulled Steve Young out of a game where he was sucking hard, and threw in the backup. Young fucking went off, screaming right at the coach, yelling and kicking shit over and having a shitfit. And they fucking had it out and it was done and then next week young went in and tore the league a new fucking asshole. When the playoffs started that year you KNEW they were going to win the superbowl. And they did. And the real test wasn’t the chargers in the superbowl, it was the fukn cowboys. But back on topic, oh wait, that was the topic, anyway, it’s all about the fucking raiders. The raiders are, fuck, the raiders, brah, they fukn crush up shit, na mean? Oh now back to Rich Gannon.

Richard Gannon. You do have that potential. That Schwartz. You can be great, you most likely will be great again. Fuck, of course you’re gonna be great again, you’re gannon the fucking cannon. But you must relax. You must understand that you don’t have to carry that burden, that weighted albatross around your neck. Shake it off cuz. Serially. Reset at zero. Fuck it all. Watch tui throw some balls and help him out, be the fucking man you know you are, and then when callapussy throws you back in there wreak fucking havoc like I know you can, you can destroy the league, you can be MVP for every season left in your career, don’t let the haters get the better, myself included. Fuck me! Yeah you SHOULD hate me. But you’ll only be stoked on me later because you’ll know I got the best out of you.

Now go take on the day.

And fuck doctor laura.

Why is the best stuff on mutherfucking television on just as I have to leave to come into this godforsaken office?

I mean, like, yesterday during lunch, I’m packing up for the trek back and my fave episode of Mr. Ed comes on, the one where Mr. Ed mounts this black striped fillie from behind and humps her ass all over this race track and they thrash and grind and smash up the fucking stands and then the US marshals fukn storm the stadium and have to take out the fillie with a fukn battalion of uzis, and Mr. Ed is like “no, you bastards! Wilbur! Wilbur! Let’s kill these motherfuckers!” and then that big ol fucking talking horse like goes totally apeshit, like still with this big ol horse boner, waving around wackin people across the head, ya dig, cuz he didn’t get his splooge on yet, which is making him even more pissed, in addition to his true love being mowed down in a hail of bullets.

But then I had to leave, and FUCK I can’t remember how that fucking episode ended. I know it wasn’t the last one, so they didn’t kill Mr. Ed. I’m pretty sure he was captured by the Feds and held for testing by the CIA but then I think Wilbur busted him out of there and they moved to Cuba for a couple years where he was Fidel Castro’s personal transportation and confidante for a number of years. I could be wrong on this one.

But the actual thing on TV that was so badass this morning was this NFL Films thing, you know, with Steve Sabol, and it was like a modern update of this “Aututmn Ritual” film, which was like an analysis of football in pop culture from the perspectives of all these wacky and diverse public figures. Such random ass mofos as G. Gordon Liddy (Watergate burglar and dogshit radio host), Allen Ginsberg (gay beat poet and buddy of Jack Kerouac), and um, a bunch of other people I can’t remember. But for the modern update they revealed that like Ginsberg, when asked what he liked about football, was saying how he loved watching those sweaty mens running up and down the field, and that he had had football players as lovers, and they were much more sensitive then people imagined.

How fucking gangster is that? Fukn Allen Ginsberg was muthafucking gangster I’m telling you. how’s being a homo in like the 70’s and talking about how you engaged in illicit back alley sally action with NFL heavyweights?? And the guy had no fear, just saying it matter of factly. Gang-sta. Balls of fucking steel, which I’m sure Mean Joe Green remembers fondly.

Ok I’m not saying mean joe green buttrammed allen ginsberg, but you never know. I do know that if mean joe green walked in right now and caught me writing this, I’d offer him a coke and a smile and probably get my spleen shoved down my throat with a side of esophagus.

So yeah, and they went and hung out with snoop dogg too. And you know the dizzle's a hardcore raider fan. So that’s when I had to leave, with snoop all rappin about fukn football and shit with tha crizew. how fukn raw is that? Gotta get up and go to work when the doggfather’s talking yang about the fukn pigskin. Shit. oh & they were gonna go hit up Hunter S. Thompson too! Fukn nfl Films kicking it with the king of gonzo and I’m sittin’ here countin skunks and filing waivers for proper disposal of poison olfactory gases, some of which are not recognized by the department of environmental services. Sometimes there is just no fucking justice. Oh well. Shalom.

I must really hate myself because I went to drop a load and was reading this old ass sports illustrated, the issue right after the raiders lost the super bowl, like reliving the nightmare, and one quote stood out, something about the battle between the Bucs & Raiders being so one-sided it was like Star Jones against a Junior mint.

Fuck you Jon Gruden, and a belated congratulations.

Bench Gannon.


Wednesday, September 24, 2003


He parked the rental car, a Buick sedan, about a block and a half from the house featured in Westways. According to his research, Chan was most likely in San Fran right now, but that was no guarantee. The house seemed dark though.

It was a beautiful two story villa, in the Spanish style. On the beach side of the street, deep in the Kahala suburbs. He’d gotten lost a couple times on the way, but his Brian’s Guide had pulled him through. The night air felt cool and sweet on his cheeks. The wind on Oahu was a vibrant, living thing, almost always there.

He crept up to the wall around the back yard on the right side of the house, careful to stay in the shadows. He could hear a dog, not giving any signs of anger, but it sounded big. Climbing a tree by the wall, he got a look at it, a large shepherd/pit bull mix, now steady growling, eyeing him. Dark pulled a small round object from his backpack, and threw it down to the dog. As the canine sniffed at it, a silent stream of grey gas came out of the mini-gas bomb. Seconds later, the dog, after a quick run away from the gas, passed out into quiet dreamland.

Dark was quickly over the wall, confident no one had seen him in the dark of the night, safely hidden under a large mango tree. The back yard was large and filled with plants and flowers. A multi level pool with adjoining hot tub sat down the hill, between him and the house.

Dark pulled another device from his bag, this one a small scanner. At the push of a button, an antenna came out, and the scanner hummed to life, taking reads for any type of security device in the area, tracking their locale and identifying them. The readout indicated a sensor alarm on the front door, side door, and the sliding glass doors by the pool. The alarm would sound when any door opened, and was silenced by a code on the inside.

He was prepared with a jamming mechanism he kept in his cell phone. Just one of many little gadgets he’d picked up one summer doing side work in Florida. Dark had, in the past, done protection work and strong-arming for an underground Miami rap star by the name of Pootymouth. Pooty had liked Dark from the start, meeting him at the LA Club where Kylie Dusk worked, as they both tipped out a long-legged Puerto Rican girl named Bubbles. Beers consumed, edited stories shared, and the two had been tight ever since.

When Dark wanted to take breaks from LA, vacation time, he’d sometimes go down to Miami and do odd projects for Pooty, just to pull in a few extra figures while on vaycay. The rapper wanted to help out his homies, but he wasn’t a believer in charity, so he’d set up a side business based on robbing scouted-out locations stocked with certain items and hawking the goods through a variety of discreet middle-men. Pooty’s information was always amazingly accurate and there had never been a hitch.

One summer Dark and some of Pooty’s crew had jacked one of those spyware retail companies. The warehouse they’d ransacked had all kinds of monitoring devices, jamming technology, everything to spy and prevent people spying on you. So of course Rion had gotten his own of everything, with the rapper’s blessing of course. Dark wondered how his old friend was doing. Pooty had been locked up for about 7 months now, totally unrelated to his “side-venture.” Something about a domestic dispute happening and a corrupt probation officer who’s palms hadn’t been lined quite thoroughly enough.

So one of the toys he’d jacked from this job was an adaptor for any cell phone that could allow it to alter alarm signals. Different numbers for different systems. He figured this one was a four. Hitting the number, the phone lit dark red, indicating the alarm would be disabled for thirty seconds. He ran down the hill, around the swimming pool, jimmied open the sliding glass door, and slipped in the home.

Too bad he didn’t have infra-red goggles, but he was confident. The house felt empty. Flipping on his mac light, he found himself in a large living room, decorated with early Hawaiian artifacts. An outrigger canoe hung from the rafters.

A quick search confirmed there was nobody home. He checked all the doors, finding only one with a lock, which Dark picked his way through. It was a den, decorated in a Chinese style. Robbie Chan’s den. There was a file cabinet on one side, a desk with computer on the other. First the files then he’d see what he could hack out of the computer.

before I start talking about the jurk storr, I wanted to mention a few vitally important items.

Tony Pierce went to the White Stripes concert at Griffith Park in LA last night.

A taste spoon:

“soul music unlike anything since stevie ray vaughn and hendrix and early clapton. super early clapton when he didnt give a fuck. jack white fell to his knees and it wasnt bullshit, it was the spirit of rock who brought him to his knees and pushed his nose into the twangy roots of bb and muddy and reinvent themselves through the swirly peppermint facade of the two whitest blues stars in america.”

The families of the Hose Monster and the Hose Mistress are getting set for their first summit meeting, and HM is getting prepped for the potential shenanigans.

A taste spoon:

“I confess to a little trepidation at how my family will come off as well. The Hose Monsters have a bit of a track record of enjoying their time together a little too much and causing too much of a ruckus. Certainly excessive consumption of alcohol has contributed to these moments, along with fancy dinners in a brothel-like setting and the occasional bar fight on St. Patrick's Day resulting in a busted cell phone. Generally we are upstanding, good people, but more conservative types can have trouble adjusting to our, shall we say, energy.”

See folks? There is good shit out there on the innernet. Really, really, really good shit. like as in shit that you should read, as in shit you should digest, as in shit you should cherish like it was your last piece of beef jerky and the macho man randy savage was chasing you down a dark alley with a nail-spike 2x4 ready to do you bodily harm unless placated with processed rats asshole.

In other news, the jurk storr called. It wasn’t about the shrimp this time either.

I’m not at liberty to say what it was about, but I will say that something was running out of something.

That is all for now.

Tuesday, September 23, 2003

Dear bill Callahan,

How to save the season, by Alfred lord pennyhole

A documentation in 72 segments, in no particular order.

Bench gannon.

Bench the cannon, throw tuiasasopo out there. Ya know, mobile, fast kid outta u-dub, island roots, kid can throw, run, juke out the okefenokes and kick this shit in gear.

Cuz gannon ain’t doin the fukn job right now, son.

He’s sucking it up harder than anybody.

Well maybe except for your play calling.

Hello, my name is jurk storr, son of george costanza.

Oh and fuck Denver. Fuck Denver hard, fuck Denver deep, fuk Denver up the ass if necessary to incur maximum carnage on that piece of shit.

Um, let’s see, oh, and um, oh yeah, bench gannon. Think about it, mmkay? Serially. If you bench gannon, you’ll fire him up. I’m not saying throw the reigning mvp out on his ass like yesterday’s bath water, serially, I’m not saying that. It’s a ploy, a ruse, ya dig? Get’s everyone on an even keel again a nice fukn even and easy keel, ready to cause ultimate destruction.

So let me thinkeroo there was something else in that thought pattern. Ah yes, benching gannon will allow you two things, make marquez tuiasasopo a much better player by giving him crunch ass shit to regulate on and you will have the added bonus of fukn gannon going off & getting all pissed off. Remember how fukn bad ASS the rest of the 95 season steve young played after sherkensheiser or whatever that coach’s name was benched his ASS? Fuk he went off and the niners won the superbowl against the piece of shit chargers and fukn runnin’ ricky waters, all that jazz, shit I was in Berkeley dawg I remember that shit so don’t try to propogate on that that’s like playa hata shit. serially.

Fuk where the fuck was I? Ohh yess. Bench gannon’s sorry fucking ass. Jesus Christ he sucked donkey dicks last night, and maybe even clown dicks, who the fuck knows. His fucking liberal amount of sucking so much overgrown mutated ASS out there on that invesco fuckheadville house of whatever the fuck it is but seriously.

Anyway, fukn bench gannon & save the season. That’s my reccomendation. Serially.

Watch the 2nd stringer win the next game, and then 1st quarter of the game after, the kid'll be all fucking up like crazy, throwing eye enn tee's, just making a grand ol mess o things out there, and that's when youll walk over to gannon & go, cannon, serially, it’s time to go off. I know you’re pissed and I know it seems like not everything is going for you at this juncture, and i know you hate my fucking guts right now so bad you wanna stab me with your salad fork, but now’s the time to just take that plunge and understand that it’s not the end of the line, you’re gannon the mutherfucking cannon and if ANYbody tries to stomp out your shit, then fuck them with like 82 bastard swords held up by captain caveman about 20,002 leagues under the fukn sea’s filthy ass. now get out there and show the goddamm fukn world that you are the starting quarterback, you, Richard Ecuador Gannon, are the official badass mofo of this league and universe. goddammitt.

Seriously, ponder it, know it, be it, understand and comprehend that benching gannon’s sorry ass 2 weeks prior will have been the best thing that you ever did in your whole life, proven in the moment when your rejuvenated mvp ricardo gannon goes out and goes insane in and out of his membrane, shredding the defense for 583 yards passing, blowout city, raiders back to being the vicious silver and black floating champion of darth vader conquering type shit. the fukn boat of bad ass ness will stomp and thrash and burn and pillage and etcetera all up and down the goddamm piece of shit lane.

plus you'll have the added bonus of having given tuiasasopo some real game time with the big boys, ya know, he's got that mufuckin eye of the tiger shit going on for if gannon's old ass ever goes down in battle, which could be, like, tomorrow. plus jerry rice is sick of that pasty faced bastard throwing balls his way. ok kidding on that part. that's not cool. i take it back, but unedited. well, edited heavily, but not in postproduction.

Oh and if fuckn al davis tries to cock block you on this shit, seriously, just fuck him. better yet, just tell him, yah ok al, and then down on the field just fukn at the last minute tell gannon he ain’t starting. YEAH! That way he’ll of an onfield meltdown of epic proportions and just rage all along the sidelines like a lunatic in jackal heat. fukn throw tui into the fray and see what happens and if al davis that ancient decrepit pile of shit wants to start some fukn debatable kine horseshit then let him come down to the field and make a goddamm scene.

Yeah do it like that. Fuck Denver.


The jurk storr

UPDATE: ok i just fiddled with this goddamm post one more time. now i'm done. promise.

now it's official. long beach.

UPDATE part deux: jesus why the fuck can't i learn and not fukn edit shit. actually why can't i just fukn write clearly and not like a fukn rhesus monkey's bastard stepchild's pogo stick instruction manual.

ok that's it, seriously. jurk storr.

yeah hi, back again: yeah i just fucked around with it some more and added a bunch of horseshit, yeah i know, i'm an annoying and self important prick for even explaining it, as ever, may i refer you my custom built complait line aka 976-PHUK. aloha. jurk storr.

Does trent reznor just need a hug? I think I’ve mentioned that before. Repetition is second only to godliness. Or is that cleanliness? Shit, cleanliness has gotta be at least 5th I would think.

Muscle68 (whom I consider extremely wise despite his protestations) enlightened me on a theory regarding why gay people are so obsessed with and seemingly relate so well to Julie Newmar, the first (and by FAR best) catwoman. It’s because, just like them, she wanted to fuck Batman.

Is that correct? Is adam west a symbol of gay lust? Can someone with knowledge regarding this subject clue me in? mahalo.

So, um, what else. Maybe I’ll take a break for a minute and have some jewel of brilliance to impart on you. or not. More likely I’ll grab a few rhesus monkeys and smash them into a wall into submission until they do my bidding and saddle up to the keyboard and write the real shit, the good shit, the unsullied documentation of the underbelly of our fair society.

Fair society. Huh. Is that, like, ironic? Remember when ethan hawke like elucidated on the definition of irony so correctly in that movie with wynona rider? Yeah, fuck ethan hawke. Geez that character was so smart and so, like, grunge. Good U2 song though.

Yeah guy?

Um that seems just begging for copyright adjustment ie editing, but you know the story, contingent. Thou shalt not. Despite the protestations of a 1000 octopi I shall administer the raw jurk storr infusion and you will like it or not and then tell your friends or not and then pass out from the incessant necessity for understanding regarding whatever the fuck it was I was just talking about.

This is a pretty funny little story about a cop incident. It made me think about how it sucks to be THAT GUY, you know that guy, where like you’re trying so hard to do a good job but you just keep fucking up.

I had a really wacky dream parts of which I may impart on you later on, but for now, in all reality and multiverse layered existentialism, I have work to do. Peace out in bitten effect and don’t forget your late pass. Step.

Monday, September 22, 2003

so there’s one thing I really must emphasize before we all move on as, you know, like, a contingent. Listen carefully, thinking caps on compatriots in the struggle. Hear me now & listen to me later, these tidings shall bring comfort and/or joy depending on your mindstate at the moment of reception and willingness to adapt to new surroundings and or conceptual platforms.

I just received a phone call from “el Mercado jerkero”. Aka the jurk storr. Turns out I’m their #1 best seller. The interesting part about it was that I was actually expecting it to be the ocean calling, as I was anxiously awaiting some pertinent information regarding some shrimp interests that my holding company has in various ports of the Indian Ocean.

But it was not to be.

I am not at liberty to divulge specifics about the conversation, but I will say this. There is a power struggle going on here at ultrablognetic enterprises. Keith and myself were hoping that it wouldn’t come to this, but Joe has forced our hand, to the extreme levels that vandalous behaviour has been necessitated.

Attorneys have been contacted. Our accounting firm of Fackelstein and Schwartz have already begun purging his authoritativeness from all books of record and soon this venture will be the sole property of personages by the name of the other kool keith and the non butlering Alfred pennyworth, both esquire, neither junior, fully within our faculties and acknowledging our rights and options in this alarming new stage in the career of literary freedom.

Uh, guys?

Joe, seriously, you need to leave. Like now.

Uh, but I brought those bootleg 60’s batman dvd’s. and I’m going back to mi casa, popping em in, lining up some beam and cokes, and madden 2004 will be like the ceremonial in between episode fesitivity.

Basically while you’re wondering if the dynamic duo are going to be burned alive by catwoman’s giant george foreman grill and magnifying glass, you’ll be hitting L2 and dropping Mike Vick’s passing icons and running roughshod through the defensive line. Kapeesh?

IF I am reinstated and you relinquish all opportunities to jack my grip.

You drive a hard bargain Berkeley Joe, you goatless bastard.

Done and done. Thanks for reminding us of everything you bring to the table. Despite your foibles and wherewithalls, we couldn’t run this shit without your bitch ass, and ya know, we were just fucking with you anyway.

No you weren’t.

yeah, ok.

Sunday, September 21, 2003

So what the hell is up continGENT! Gyeah.

So like I don’t know if I mentioned it but the Mercado de los jerkeros called at about 5 astro medallions this afternoon and there was a very important announcement involving shrimp and the ocean running out of them.

So like, we went to, um, Hanauma bay today with tone-dogger and his girlie. We saw MAD fishies, I’m telling you. It was like fish to the extreme and vandals were getting rocked, um, I mean, MICS were getting rocked, like vandals, but not, and yes I used that line already.

It’s all about repetition in this hizzle. I mean, how am I gonna improve on my, um, dictation, without like practice, na mean? of course you do.

So Hawaii. Yes I live in Hawaii. On Oahu to be precise, the gathering place locs. Did you know that if you look at the links on the left of this page there is a section entitled (and appropriately I am thinking) things you may NOT have known about living Hawaii? Well there is. My original plan was to write 50 things, but if memory serves me correct I’ve penned like I don’t know, 40 of them or some shit like that. If that number is incorrect you are free to phone me at my troubalert line that is not associated with the Mercado jerkero, wait, um, hold on, ok, I meant not associated with the super friends. Geez, if you only knew how much bill gates made difficult writing the word that is the definition of the emergency system employed by the that famous conglomeration of heroes, you'd have serious, um, sympathy for me, or something.


Ok, um, so yeah, we went to Hanauma bay. It’s like a really famous like fish place, like with a big reef with mad snorkeling opportunities, which will hook you up with infamous viewage of underwater life. Farreall. On the hizzle fa shizzle.

You may be wondering what the fuck blogger just led you to but just go with it. Or not. Either way I get paid. In pride points. For every thought you have of how much astromedallions I might be wearing, I get 85 pride points. Whut the fuck is a pride point you may ask which is a very valid question to which I will answer I have no fucking idea.

Sorry about that delay right there. Also sorry for calling it a delay in that for the association of factoid information, for you it was most likely not a delay, unless there was some kind of glitch in the space time continuum which might be much more probable than originally thought. Um, yeah, so, um, the delay was due to the fact that I had to feed our fish wacko. When I say we I mean me & mrs. P, my lovely and delectable better half ie my wife.

For more information on wacko, the most amazing and in my opinion personable fish in the galaxy you may want to consult with leah. Not that she’s ever met or associated with wacko, but she does have a fish named taco, so that is some very relevant information which you must be armed with if you are going to be successful in the battle against Brandon.

Um, yeah. So the other thing that we did after hanauma bay was what? Oh yeah, we went to portlock, which is like this sick ass place to go kick it and watch the sun set. I won’t even try to go into like the geological ramifications of this destination but leave it to be known that if you go to google and type in portlock you will most likely be given a better explanation of said incident(s). if not feel free to e-mail me (link to the left, again, yes I am a repetitive motherfucker, you were warned about this in paragaraph x) or call my super secret hotline which I’ve only revealed about 72 times at 976-PHUK.

So after portlock, which is like a ledge like ocean abutting juncture, we made our way to azteca restaurant in kaimuki for some delicious comida de mexico. That’s all I’m going to say about that. Mahalo.

so then we made our way back to the east side and after chilling at the holiday casa of tone-dogger and his girlie for a tad (guy running behind a bus) we made our way to this karaoke place in Kailua and got slightly faded and sang songs and all the local peeps were super cool even though I’m a haole.

All in all a very good day. If I had to rate it I would give it 7 astro medallions. This is an excellent score as the perfection rate is 8.

Oh and I sang “have you seen the rain” by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

All righty then. Mrs. P has just fallen asleep on the couch, it is about 2 am, I am mildly inebriated, and it is time for me to bid you all adieu.