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4 out of 7 scientists prefer Chewbacca's crossbow
meanwhile, behind the facade of this innocent looking doghouse...
copyright 2002-2011 ultrablognetic |
Friday, October 10, 2003
 Hello people of the internet. I am Ralph Zabinski. You may know me as the bastard step-nephew of famous rap pioneer Afrikaa Bambaata, but I have appeared in many chemical safety instruction videos as well as a few low budget animal centric experimental avant guarde hi-fi productions.
Your normal host mr. Keith pennyworth was dragged out of here by a small crack team of white clad gentlemen at around 7:30 Hawaii time yesterday. It was deemed by a jury of his peers that he was unable to continue in his duties as moderator and chief scribe of this space and thus I have been drafted into duty by said assemblage. First off, as representative of the commission I would like to offer deep and hearty apologies for yesterday’s display. Mr. Pennyworth is on a very intricate and often varying retinue of medications, and apparently after his morning bath yesterday decided to throw them all out the window along with the leftover water. When he left on his morning rounds, he appeared relatively lucid, but by noon time Mr. Fisk had alerted the board as to what was going on. Sadly enough, by that time Keith had locked himself in the upstairs broom closet with an outdated Toshiba laptop and all the codes had been changed as of 12:01 the night before. Served as evidence thereof that the confused butler slash rap star had planned this methodical journey into madness is examination of the timeline in that the codes are almost if never changed and that just about anyone on the premises could pen a thought if so inclined. That was the way carlton envisioned the construct upon depiction, and that has worked with some success for almost the entire shelf life of the product. For those of you concerned with Mr. Pennyworth’s health, both mental and physiological, please do not be alarmed. Apparently the groundwork for this episode was laid while he was smoking cloves on Kahala beach a couple days ago at which time he suffered the delusion that a sea turtle was translating an ancient Egyptian banana bread recipe directly into his medulla oblongata. Shortly after that, items began disappearing from the pantry, nothing to cause major alarm, but enough so that the cook was complaining and almost gave the custodian a concussion in the courtyard under the banyan tree. Suffice to say that Keith is now back on the grounds and lounging quite comfortably in the master suite’s four-poster bed, on an intravenous drip of all the appropriate chemicals, and should be back to his old self by tomorrow around noon time according to the staff shamans slash surgeons, as long as he dutifully eats his vegetables and avoids cherry flavored pop tarts. Thursday, October 09, 2003
 All Jeremy could see was red. Red everywhere. Deep, dark, blood red. Rather than stirring any kind of panic in him, however, the vision made him feel oddly at peace. There was certainty, finality, in the red. Life was messy, but death was clean, death was a hard cold fact. Lives were varying, life engendered conflict, complication, traumas and tragedies, but death brought simply a sweet and irrevocable ending. Jeremy felt his dream self, and possibly his sleeping physical form, smile widely. Yes. Death was the answer, death was the ultimate gift, and he was prepared to do what he had to do. First, though, he’d sleep a little longer and enjoy this fine, red, relaxing dream.  Darkness. Then, out of the edge of blackness, a stabbing pain, along with a sudden burst of light. He felt some of himself flowing out of open wounds. The feel of hard pavement, digging into those wounds, infecting them. Hopefully I’m dead, he thought. Dead, or, maybe even better, in a coma, he wanted to drift forever.
Jeremy could see himself, floating, as if defying gravity. Was this real? It couldn’t be, how could he possibly see himself? And he didn’t look good. His dark brown hair had turned to a ghastly white. And the hands. Blood dripped from them, was coating them, a beautiful dark red lather, drying in some spots, still nice and wet in others. Jeremy looked deep into his other self’s eyes, and his gaze was returned. He looked haggard, tired, almost dying, but happy. The vision began to fade. “No!” Jeremy screamed. He wanted to talk to this vision, understand it. The red, he could still smell it. The vision was gone, but that odor, that sweet smell, was still lingering. Looking down, he saw a pool of blood, and in the pool was a face. It was Felicia, she was calling him, beckoning him towards his destiny. She was so beautiful. Then even her face began to fade, and Jeremy felt himself being pulled from his delirium. The world, seemingly intent on his return, crept into focus, but he could still see the face. Felicia was gone, but she still smiled upon him, although she was being pushed away by his surroundings. He saw his house, his yard, his neighbors’ homes. The face began changing, mutating, and there like a beacon of light in the reigning, all-powerful pitch of the night, was his wife, loyal and loving Theresa, running towards him with tears in her eyes and care in her heart.  Berkeley. People’s Park, near Telegraph Avenue. The feel of warm blood underneath his fingernails. The cool breeze gliding up from the nearby bay. The taste of the sweet red nectar in his mouth. Looking down, looking back, Jeremy sees the body of a teenage girl, a vagrant. She stares back up at him blankly, eyes still wide open with the same trust they displayed when he first encountered her. Still whole. He’d squeezed the life out of her, squeezed her throat until blood spilled out onto his hands and arms. And then he’d, he’d… He’d carved her up. Yes. He’d cut her up quite nice. He remembered throwing her in the back of his truck, covering it with a blue tarp, and heading for the suburbs up in the Oakland hills.
It had been quite a pleasant, warm evening, midsummer, and he’d kept driving up into the hills until he was past the ‘burbs, past the people, where it could be just him and his cute little dead homeless girl, where he could redesign her, break her down into her various parts. Purify her. He knew she’d been a trashy little girl. It was about time somebody took her apart and saw what made her tick. Only she didn’t tick anymore, did she? Jeremy had taken care of that. Looking at the body again, thrown down by a large oak tree, a little more privacy up here, the machete in his left hand, a sudden twinge of guilt, a nagging query. What the hell was he doing? What was the purpose of this? Where was this going to get him? But then, he felt her in his mind… her sweet love, and she was soothing him, guiding him, making him realize that he was doing right. The world needed purification, and he was her soldier, her number one man. By hell, he was not going to let her down. He’d finish his work, his pleasure, goddammit. Taking a deep whiff, he let the smell of the bloody corpse seep into his lungs, into his very being, and let himself be carried off into a frenzy… Wednesday, October 08, 2003
 I’m in the middle of a heated fondue bake-off competition, but I will take a short time out to tell you about a certain incapacitated rhesus monkey that recently fell off the wagon and is really broken up about it. Let me tell you all about it.
Whut? That’s classified info? Jeez, Eddie, now you tell me, ok, yeah, um, I’m lookin’ like an idiot over here, buddy. Uh, do you at least have an idea of whut else I could write about? C’mon, anything, gimme a word, a phrase, a drop of flux capacitation, and I’ll run with it. Cannonball Run? That’s all you got? An old Burt Reynolds movie? Fuck that. I’ll think of my own topic. I got it, the Gucci crew. They sang about wearing Gucci all the time. Hell yeah, now that’s knowledge dropping to the extreme vandalous style. Alright, yeah, fuck Gucci. And fuck louis vuitton. And fuck Hilton. Ok, um, is it just me, or are the Hilton sisters two of the butt-ugliest broads to stain our airwaves in like, 5 decades? I’m sorry but they look like a pair of emaciated horses to me. Take them to either the race track or the glue factory and please get them off of my radar. That was not so nice but they ain’t gonna read this crap so I’m not gonna lose sleep over it. How’s that pic right there? Kinda cool I think. Normally I don’t mention the pictures you see in these hallowed halls. I prefer to ignore them like my mailman on Christmas, but I thought this one warranted an explanation. But not from me. No, that’s not my department. I’ll let inimitable local newspaperman Bob Krauss fill you in on the details. Suffice to say that the setting is Oahu and one of the folks in the background is former president Richard Nixon. For the rest, let your conscience by your guide. Conscience being a metaphor for your mouse button, which is actually kind of inapropos, as conscience is usually represented by a cricket. Oh well, nobody’s perfect. It would be pretty annoying to have an anthropomorphised conscience sitting on your shoulder giving you shit about every little decision. Like, you’re thinking, mmm, chili dogs for lunch? And this damn green bug is there like “I heard a little whistle, and you know, Alfred, those dogs got bookoo calories there buddy, and you ain’t getting any younger,” and I’d be like “well yeah, Jiminy? Why don’t you fuck off and die? Better yet, why don’t you impale yourself on this fish hook and serve a fucking purpose for once i.e. winning me this bassmasters tournament?” Yeah, that would make the most sense, probably. Tuesday, October 07, 2003
 I know I’ve said it before, but like everything that comes out of my mouth, it bears repeating. Ok not everything. Like that thing I said about the jurk storr, prolly don’t need to go over that again. Oops too late.
Yah what I was gonna say is that chico & coolwadda would totally win American idol this year if they weren’t already like incredibly famous. Even though you prolly ain’t heard of them. They’re underground. Or maybe not. Like I said, I haven’t been getting the memos, so I’m kinda effed in that way. Werkie, werkie. I had a poem all thought up. Never judge a book by its cover Never judge a kid by its mother Never judge a boat by its rudder And never judge a cow by its udder It’s so deep isn’t it? I’m pretty sure it’s symbolic of racial unrest in Afghanistan, but in order to verify I’ll have to check my thesaurus later. Frank sinatra must have lived a pretty damn interesting life. I mean, getting drunk on stage and like slappin’ hoes prolly never got old, well maybe when he was like really sick all strapped up to all kinds of machines and shit. when I’m like about to die I don’t want a bunch of machines all penetrating every orifice in my body. I just wanna kick it on a couch with like the fam and reminisce for a spell and then like drift off into whatever that next place may be. Damn if I know. Hope it’s cool. Hope it’s something. Bums me out to think I’ll just be chilling in the ground, like, “oh, great, this is it?” I almost think I’d rather endure eternal torture than eternal boredom. Actually scratch that, I’m not good with pain. And you can always play that game with yourself in your head where you think of different comic book characters who’s names start with different letters of the alphabet. But geez if you can never sleep, you just chill non-stop, eventually, like that guy that got all his shit blown apart in that Metallica video “one” you’d prolly strait be like, ok, end it already, except you’d already be dead, just in like some mind-numbing non entity like state, eternally just pondering random bullshit.  That would really suck. But worse than some red guy jabbing you in the ass with a pitchfork while you like watch the layers of your skin bubble over and melt all over the place over and over and over again, feeling every little neuron explode and infect the rest of you metaphorical body in a neverending agony infested monster truck rally of carnage? Tough call.
Just like I’ve flip-flopped on the good charlotte thing I’m going the reverse route on the white stripes dillio. They don’t suck, well I never said they sucked, but I thought they were overrated, maybe I never said that here, be that as it may, it’s not your or my job to keep some kind of running record of my random thoughts, but I guess this is actually what that is, well anyway, I used to kind of think they were just some led zeppelin rip off but after listening to both bands in a little more indepth manner I will admit they are quite different. And jack white or whatever his name is is a pretty damn good guitar player but no matter what evidence you present me you will never hear me admit that he holds any kind of candle or flashlight even to the legendary randy rhoads. The above statement is unrevokable, unlike my ghetto pass. Aloha.  jurk storr, jurk storr, who’s got the jurk storr.
Yo mofockin hizobags, cough up the dizime and then don’t do the crizime cuz tizime is vizaluable. If I have to talk in snoop-speak for like 72 astro medallions equivalent of chronology then that shit will get got done like propogenetically. Ferreal. If that’s whut it takes than all whatevs of your asses can eat some fondue up in this bizzle and just scratch yall heads in shame. Stuck with a late pass! Stizep. I just don’t feel like being comprehended this fine morning. Is that ok? Hmmm, alrighty then, I guess it is becuz I say so. Oh the drunkenness of this infinite power that is in mine hands at this exactamundo jj momento. J jonah jameson was such a dick to spider-man and peter parker. I often contemplated murdering him over a steaming cauldron of fondue before realizing in a momentary glimpse of rationale that he wasn’t in fact real. Than I considered same said effect on Ahmad Rashad. So like add up the jurk storr, snoopizzles, um, cherry bombs underneath your grandpa, and like paragliding over the French Riviera and what have you got? A big pile of obligatory verbatims that the elephant hijackers would consider trading in their muskets for. At least that what my great aunt edna’s uncle ralphie told me over some funny stogies and a bag of mushies in like 1993. don’t tell mom the babysitter’s on acid type dillio, na mean? Even if you don’t it’s cool. Serially. Don’t feel left out, even the slightest hair, inch, or like, um, vestibule. It’s just a random bunch of dogshit anyway. There are much better things to read in this corner of the slamdance quadrant, namely the biography of bob’s big boy, which I can provide for $19.99 in three easy installments of $8.99, special price for you, homey. Did I mention that’s in swiss francs? Long beach. PS: I’m not from long beach. Oh wait I said that in the last post. Well I’ve also said before that repetitiveness is second only to um, something, in many other posts before. Hey without repeating myself every at least 18 days in some way shape or form I would’ve stopped writing anything after like the 18th post and then, well, the pony express might have never stopped running. How’s that for a metaphor? Yah, I know, shitty. But shitty in a kinda good way I like to think. Have a whatever the hell you want type day. RIP ovaltine acres. Hoo-Ha’s cool even though they think I’m three Midwestern chicks. Monday, October 06, 2003
 I gotta tell you this jurk storr shit is off the chain.
Please click here and read one of the greatest tales ever courtesy of the ultimate renaissance man. Long beach. I’m not from tha lbc but snoop is, and my sisses used to live there. So that qualifies me via the halls of justice, superfriends style, same hizzle same knizowledge. Buddha gots to be like pimpinest religious icon of the anykine century. If you didn’t click on that story link up top homey don’t forget. Literally that shit is like if don knotts were to make a comeback for mr. Limpet 2005. but seriously it’s way better than that, although that knotts shit would be off the chain. Off the goddamm chain, to like the 5th element. Who should I talk shit about? Na na na, nah, I don’t mean sha na na, I mean nah I ain’t even about hatin. Hate away, cuz holmes, I’m down with he hate me and me and homey are gonna like drop a bizomb on this blizock, ferreal. And we don’t cares nothing bouts whut you gots ta say ‘bout it, on the hizzle fa shizzle my grizzles and grandmas. Special shout out to the grizandmas up in this hizzle, my inboxes are fluxing wit mad grandmas given me shout outs like axin when I’m gonna be up in their tizowns like putting on a show and dropping rhymes, shit dawgs, shit is off the mofoin chain if ya axe me. Courtesy of dragon’s breath black ashtray. Gracias.  Well I see that good charlotte is getting some serious street cred, popping up in the new rancid video. One of those like “look at me I’m hardcore” dillios. But, um, rancid, they’re not actually hardcore are they? Or are they, I haven’t been getting my counterculture memos and am thus authoritatively clueless. I’m pretty sure Mohawks and full sleeve tats no longer cut the mustard. In fact lack of a tattoo may be the newest in alternative body image representation. Like, look at me, I’m so fucking core I don’t even have a tattoo, shit, gangsta.
Yeah, so that’s pretty relevant. I feel like a weak little kitten today, but it’s about 80 million astro-medallions better than yesterday. Let’s just say that the wonders to the noggin of becks octoberfest are not exacted without a price. Said price being, um, not fun vandalous extremity. Or sumpin. So yah, bob big boy called and said that sally or whatever the hell her name was got knocked up by some harley biker named wentworth. Don’t let the seemingly pansy nom de plume fool you, this guy is as ruthless as they come. I once saw him bite off a cat’s leg and then dip it in a pool of blood from like this coyote that he had just drop-kicked across the street. I’m starting to think that the critics are right and that good charlotte is an overrated bubble gum piece of dogshit. But they make a hell of a fondue, so, well, I mean, wine plus cheese plus good bread equals props if not underground respect, so there you go. The list of shit going on in the hizzle is long and windy and cavernous and peculiarly arcane in my humble opinion. It’s like, ok, here’s a list of a bunch of shit that requires action, both in the realms of work and personal and etcetera and suddenly you’re like, yah I’m on it, and then likewise at an inopportune juncture uncle eddie that body master underlines the fact that you are a pile of something not fortified. And then you realize that there is mad shit that necessitates your attention, like, 85 issues but like only slots available for 48, and you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelette, granted, but shit, you wanna have enough batter left over for the French toast, na mean? You probably don’t. shit I wouldn’t if I wasn’t the one writing it. self induced vagarities, comes with the territories, my pretties. Frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Ah, time to run, someone’s begging for an x-box ass-kicking. Sunday, October 05, 2003
 Notes during the commercial breaks of the season premiere of Saturday night live.
Jack black is pretty funny. In that way of like, you think to yourself, I could be that funny, if only I didn’t get that like funny feeling in my stomach when speaking in front of more than 5 people. Well maybe not 5, maybe 15’s a better number. Anyway, if I’m performing, I get nervous. Except for you fine folks, cuz I can’t see you. You’re, like, phantoms, I just rap with this computer screen, and like, shit gets up on said screen and then everyone leaves the room happy and/or sad, and whether or not you enjoy your time reading this dogshit, I gets paid either way. Or not. So, um, intro was mildly amusing. Something about jack black’s ego or lack thereof and a song. Um, and the first skit, a spoof of wade robeson project, that GAY ass (and I don’ mean gay in a derogatory towards homosexual lifestyle type dillio) dance contest show on MTV. And no, sub/ver/sion, I didn’t say dildo. Dillio, as in gangsta sytle for deal. Anyway, where was I, typical skit with like the crew of people that like can’t get laid. 2nd skit that is, after the wade robeson project or whatevs. Is that guy with the sweater, the gabe something or other, is that like a spoof of the main character on Dear John, does anyone besides me remember that old show? With the guy from taxi? Um, this skit seems lame, but I guess I’ll go keep watching it. Oh btw, beck’s Octoberfest is good stuff. Ok this is fucking stupid. Yeah jack black has long hair in the sketch, he’s like a cook teaching a cooking class and it’s really retarded. Hmmm, the cartoon was funny at first but lame toward the end. I’m getting another beer. Please be advised that although the title of this post is snl something or other the remainder will be random dogshit half-drunken thoughts of a non-irish gentleman. Mahalo. Can I say that? I am after all a stupid haole. Aloha. Another beer has been achieved. Have I mentioned that mrs. P is asleep? Damn she’s amazing. Just thought I’d mention it. Yes, mrs. P is my wife for those of you who are uninitiated in like the ladatts. She’s like super um incredible and um that’s all I have to say about that. Have I ever told you that john mayer is like the biggest pile of donkey shit in the known universe and thereby an excellent opportunity to flip channels and see whut’s up with sportscenter? If I haven’t well please let me herein. Oh yeah and joe sorry about your giants. Even though, um, fuck the giants. As yes I am a dodger fan. Yes, sports are boring to the rank and um, fackle. Even though fackle isn’t a word it seemed strangely appropriate in this time frame. So yeah, and um, barry bonds can like lick a matrix alien robots left testicle on the moon, the dark side if I may be so bold.  I know Carlton said i'm not supposed to edit, but there was really some retarded stuff in this space which the authoritative commission on further review concluded was just not meant to be. Drunkennes has transpired at this point and thank allah my traffic is down a smidgen at this juncture in that less people will read this and ass-tard central will not be quite as centralized as may have occurred under different circumstances.
The new Bill Murray movie looks pretty good. The beautiful thing about SNL and blogging, of which this is the first experience I have had with said event, is that the musical guest, especially when it’s some flaming pussy, is an excellent juncture at which to type a bunch of random bullshit. I’m gonna take a break and sit on tha couch and look at the other screen for a minute. Hi I’m back. With another um ‘ski. Yeah. The snl news was funny except for this popolo guy talking about how black people always talk during the movie. I'm sorry, ya know, i really am, but is there any joke more tired than the popolos talking during the movie joke? Yo, word to sum buddy’s mudda, can I get like a witness to this crime? Oh and fyi: popolo is like local speak for black person. But yes I am an ignorant white man so I’m probably wrong about this. Um, ok, going overboard on the random Hawaiian anonymous chick giving me shit about talking about Hawaii. Last mention. Officially. Jurk storr. Aloha. I’m gonna go ahead an erase the above paragraph because it makes it look like I’m, um, overly sensitive when like people say that I shouldn’t talk about Hawaii, when nothing could be further from the truth, just like muscle said, I was walking with a ukelele, then I went surfing, then I ate a big ol’ pineapple, and then I like did the hula, and then I like threw a virgin in a volcano and it was all good. Peace out in bitten effect. Stuck with a late pass. Step. Um, I’m gonna find some random comic book covers and go fall asleeep. Ps: john mayer sucks my ass. |
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