Friday, October 24, 2003

wuddup i'm chillin out drankin skees.

if the jurk storr calls i am so not here.

the first thing you have to remember is the last thing you can recall. so sayeth tupac shakur's aunt gertle. while she was smackin my bitch ass half way across the kitchen. cuz tupac's cousin gion was like a 2nd cousin on his mother's side and the auntie lived there too and i use to sleep over and hang out & watch father guido sarducci videos on betamax and if i tried to sneak like a little extra syrup for my hotcakes it was like ass smackin central up in there.

wait. not the way you're thinking. the other way, no not that one either, yah, wait, ok, yeah, that one.

seriously. jurk storr. extra credit assignment bring me a yak's left antler and a bottle full of gun powder and like a match and i'll think of some fucked up shit to do with it. meet me in yonkers at the corner of um, that corner with the diner and the liquor store on it, you know the one, the one, that um, that guy told me about, i ain't actually been there or shit, i'm just letting you know that despite that it's the spot where the shit's gonna go down.

so you gotta come up in there with like 80 bags of cash, strait runnin up off the side of the road by the train tracks and droppin dollas on my ass and i'll have yer custom tapes, you know, the bocci ball episodes. yeah those, now just be there and don't fuck this shit up.

seriously dude, i got mad shit riding on this. strait up & down. mahalo.

I got shit on my mind.

I just ain’t found it yet.

So yah chillin at werk, werkin.

Rock steady Freddie.

Um, so yeah, besides being rock steady Freddie there’s not a whole hell of a lot going on.

Oh yeah the president was here yesterday. Here on the island, not here in my office. He hung out at an elementary school and talked story with the kids and then the local republican contingent put on a $1,000 a plate dinner for him wherein they raised $800,000 for his reelection campaign. And Linda Lingle hung out with him everywhere, our new republican governor who is unfortunately finding out that you can’t get shit done with the democratic congress and that’s how it will probably always be, but oh yes they’re counting all their pennies very carefully these days.

On 102.7 the bomb this am they had like this magic moment, where they were actually funny. One guy was pretending to be the president, like talking about how he could cover himself from snipers in between Lingle’s manly pecs and his wife’s big chin. And then this other guy comes in in a Don Ho voice and just kills it. total some slurred out local pidgin speak just ragging on the prez, telling him go home haole and take your freaky looking wife with you, she needs to stop getting plastic surgery you’re starting to look like the joker over there. Just strait long beach style wreckin the stage. And then the other guy’s laughing so hard and he’s like brudda you should do don ho voice all morning, do all the news in don ho voice, and some other guy is like, nah you can’t do that, we gotta get it rollin and then this guy does a really bad samoan elvis impersonator impression and it’s so bad they actually play like crickets sounding, as in the sound guy just had to throw his two cents in. and it was hilarious, I was slapping my knee I’m telling you.

And then they blew it by reading some ludacris lyrics like they were poetry like a masterpiece theatre take off or some shit, and it sucked ass.

Good job morning zoo bomb whatever you guys do, cuz you had that lightning in a bottle, if for only one brief moment, and yes it flickered away, but now you know it’s out there for you, and you can harness that knowledge, use it to further the causes of mankind. Or make fun of shit.

Thursday, October 23, 2003

wuss crackin errybody?

Humm dee dum havin um a day yah. Yuppity yuppity.

Mad werk to do but feelin lazy, doin that shizzle though, na mean, fer shure. Strait up & down.

Ok no more strait up & down. Fukn reportoire is getting weak as the knees of um like a really nervous person, na mean? I just gotta spill the beans on this frazzle and give you some, um, gangsta shit.

Fuk I, once again, jurk storr counsel, have nada. Nothing. Zero my hero. Mr. Bake style. See you at the rally platform at 2:30 we’re totally ditching school man & going to the comic store, g-town, brutha check it out, we are on it like boobonic, which we are, so it makes sense, so let’s get crackin on that shit na mean?

Fuk you know when you’re in a rush for like no reason just cuz like you’re trained like the afhganistanian mongoose as it crosses the serenghetti for its first trip to bring back food for the coven, just like that and yer like, ok gotta chill, but you’re all whatevs and, um, shit nah, prolly you haven’t ain’t as in not happenin on a wanksta tip.

Ya something like that. so anyway I want to apologize in advance for the continued rubbish that’s just getting spilled like a navy captains all over the prom queen’s shiny dress. Yah something like that, but it all depends on the size of the gat.


Jus cuzza some gangsta shit I gotta finish out this menu dawgs. So whuts crackin ferreal on a gangsta tip, like whut’s fukn crackin ferreal like in every way possible if you get my drift. It was so fukn real that like 7 organized crime agencies showed up at the super secret meeting that our supreme counsel was having and it got real fukn gangsta up in that hizzle let me tell you that. there were like horses & cows and chickens and eggs getting thrown and Vincent Price showed up out of like nowhere dressed as Egghead from the old Adam West Batman series and shit, it’s like, it gets a little fuzzy after that.

I want to make one thing clear though, that the old Batman tv show was the best show of all time. #2 is Dukes of Hazzard. At least that’s what I thought when I was like shit 9 years old or some shit? But as I mature I realize that dem dukes was funny back then, but kinda sucks major ass.

Batman is still good though.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

I ain’t got shit to write about, but hell, that didn’t stop Christopher Columbus, right? And damn, he was like a hero to all those Indians. I mean before him, all they had were buffalo and long grassy plains. Now they’ve got McDonalds and alcoholism. I mean it’s fun to ride on your horse for miles and miles and eat peyote and shit, but hey, you can’t beat cruising the mall and buying Justin Timberlake cd’s, so represent.

Plus you get to be honored on football helmets. Chuuuch.

So it is another day in the muthafuckin KGC. Kaneohe gangsta crips. You know. Don’t even ACK like you don’t.

Fukn jurk storr can kiss my bitch mark ass if they got even one ounce of a prollem with that shizznat. Long beach.

Okey dokey, time to talk on something relevant. Like the raiders. Callahan, please step down and let someone more qualified run this team. Like, um, I don’t know, Triumph the Insult dog? At least he’d have the balls to tell Al Davis he’s an old antiquated fuckball and his ideas and stratagem are for shit. fuck, I’d vote for that dog for president. He was in Hawaii last month to heckle the American idol tryouts, and they even had him come on the weather report, so you know he’s got credentials. I don’t care if his dad was a canine enforcer for the SS, homey didn’t have shit to do with that, and yeah, there was some inappropriate fondling of some bitches back in the 70’s, but hell, a dog’s a dog, dog.

I got nuthin today folks, ferreal. I don’t wanna resort to my bag of tricks, but shit, drastic times slash measures and that etcetera type shit, so here goes.

Let me reach in that mofo and pull a topic out. Gotta pick the right one, deep in the sack, but not too deep, ya know.

Ok here it is. Spam on rye.

I ain’t never had no spam on rye, but I’ll tell you, not that I’m allowed to talk about Hawaii, cuz some stupid random BITCH thought she could regulate on this shit, but ferreal, this state is like #1 per capita in the nation for spam consumption. The locals love that shit, long beach. I mean, we got spam musubi, fukn spam and eggs, fukn spam floating around in your noodles, fukn whole nine yards, na mean?

As far as rye bread, hey I’m down with it. throw some corn beef, pastrami, and cow tongue on there and I’m on it like boobonic. Gimme a side of horse radish and I might just hook you up with some old school rhymes.

This one’s free, after that it’s platinum, hoes, velvet rope style.

Spam on rye is for the playaz club
If you wanna step to me better bring some grub
When I get dirty I gangsta in the tub
And my counselor’s name is Ernest P. Frub

shit, I'm like if sylvia plath busted a gene splice with sir mix-a-lot up in this bitch.

Tuesday, October 21, 2003

oh, NOW Callahan won’t commit to naming Gannon as the Raiders starter.

Fukn MORON. It’s a little late now, asshole.

Why didn’t you listen to me? Haven’t I been harping for the last month that you needed to bench Gannon and throw Tui in there? He almost brought the silver & black back last night, and he probably would have if not for your piece of SHIT play calling, including a retarded trick play with 14 seconds left on the clock and a pathetic defensive scheme on 3rd and long earlier in the game.

You and Grady Little need to form a support group or some shit. “Idiotic fucking deuchebag coaches who don’t have the nutsacks to pull their all star players from the game until their piece of shit arms practically fall off.”


This may sound like a boatload of bullshit, and I hesitate to believe it myself with the passage of time and no more further tingles in the back of my spine, but last year I was fully convinced that I was being haunted (in a good way) by the ghost of Randy Rhoads.

Yes, I made light of it to a degree, saying we played lawn darts and that he rode in the car on the way to work with me and the whole nine yards, but on the real, homey was in my dome. In my soul. His music crept up on me slow and then took hold like a pitt bulls chompers and wouldn’t let go. I’d be chillin watching the tube and strait up I’d hear a riff, I’d feel something in the room with me, telling me to put on something, anything, with Randy playing. I grabbed all the cd’s I could find with him on em, diggin in the crates at the cheap record shops, vibin, like 5 discs in a row in my changer, all randy strait rippin that fukn Jackson a new asshole.

The more I played his shit, the more he was there, I remember one night, me & mrs. P driving into town from Haleiwa, there’s a pretty long stretch of road that’s just pineapple fields, it was dark as hell, couldn’t see the Waianae mountain range on the right but I knew it was there, just like Randy. He was there. Laughing gas (live cut on the Quiet Riot Randy Rhoads years disc) was blasting, and that guitar solo, which I think might have been at the whiskey, starts just strait gunning, and you hear the kids in the crowd just like “whoo” like just unbelievable shit, I’m telling you, to be there at that moment, nuts.

Anyway, I could feel homey strait smiling. For real. He was with me. And when I got home and lay in bed ready to nod off, he was chilling on the roof, trying out new chords, strait vibing. I’d like woken him up or some shit. seriously.

Now I’m the first person to look on this in retrospect and acknowledge that I was probably strait tripping. Just got a little lost in the music. But I wanted to spread the word, make people remember, make people realize, homey was a fukn legend in the making. If that plane hadn’t dusted into that fukn house, shit, he would have changed the game WAY past what he did already.

I don’t know, I’m fukn just going off on this shit again.

One thing I do know. He was there for a while, and then strait outtie. Haven’t heard a peep since, shit, prolly a year already. Nada. I’ll bump his shit and listen, wait for like that weird feeling in my dome when I know he’s in the room, but zero. He’s moved on, either upstairs or kicking it with another believer, spreading his own unique version of the Schwartz in the afterlife and just being a strait-up playa.

In a way it kind of makes sense. i mean, he was only on this earth for such a short time, why should i expect he'd hang out with me for more than a few months? wherever you are Randy, thanks man, for the company (imagined or not) but most of all for the music. you will never be forgotten, at least not if i have shit to say about it.

Monday, October 20, 2003

I want to write something so thought provoking that if they ever made a song out of it, they’d just have to bring in an orchestra. The producer would be all, hmmm, ya know, this is a fukn song, bro, your standard gee-tar, bass, drums, etcetera ain’t gonna cut it, we need some violins, some fukn cellos, and a few oboes up in this bitch to really convey the emotional content of this mofo.

And I’d nod my head in false understanding, like, “hey man, I just wrote the shit, you’re the bigshot chairman of the boards, so run with it holmes, sounds good to me.” All the while, though, I'd be thinking, if we had the right dead guitarist on this track we wouldn't need all that crap. But I would have forced the record company to hire a guy that was looking for answers, not further problems and/or commentary, so I'd keep my trap shut & let him work his magic.

Is there a certain point in life when some overriding theme starts kicking in, or is it really in just appreciating the random moments that put a smile on your face? I used to think, as I stared up at the stars or down the neck of a beer bottle, that there was more to it, there was this zen like realization waiting around some corner or another, when I would understand what the whole deal was. Now I’m just content if I’m enjoying myself. Am I wiser or stupider than I was back then?

What’s the big goddamm deal with everything meaning something anyway? Who knows, maybe every philosopher that ever picked up a pen is full of shite, and we’re just floating around on a rock, preparing for our eternal dirt nap so the worms can nibble away on our flesh and bones and renew the cycle once again.

Science or sorcery or both? Is this planet just an atom on a scrap of dirt stuck on the wing of a fly in some alternate dimension, and as soon as the fly finishes eating a moldy slice of lettuce he found on a dog’s ass are we going to go flying, fluttering, off into the back alley of some outpost of the galaxy greasy spoon, splacking into a garbage can and suddenly ragnarok, or at least our pathetic version? Just cuz an insect was full?

Ok whut the fuck am I talking about? I got shit to do folks. If someone you love is in the room, give em a hug. I’m outs.

update: I'm just about to head out the door for lunch, but I just had to heckle myself over that 2nd to last paragraph, with the world on a fly's wing bullshit. nothing that Stephen King didn't say much better in the Gunslinger and an idea that is so unoriginal and boring that if not for Carlton's repressive editing policies I would have removed it like the ubiquitous piece of parsley riding side saddle on the plate cradling my t-bone steak.

Sunday, October 19, 2003

Yup, well, sittin at the computer, drinkin’ coffee. Ayyup. Suckin on that crackalackin French roast, strait imbibing, nah mean?

muscle68 is like, deeper than atlantis.

Whoah, saw the new chainsaw massacre movie. Quote from me to myself walking out of theatre on way to car: “damn, that was some shit.”

And it was. In a good way, or in the fashion of that, well, fuck, some fucked up shit in there, ferreal.

Got me thinking on the psychology of horror. The key to a good horror flick is selling the idea that the victims have no viable way to get out of the shitstorm they’ve inevitably stumbled into, and it has to not look too retarded that they are in the jacked up situation that they’re in in the first place. There has to be a viable progression of circumstances that put them into the peril which serves as the payoff ie splatter central. does that make any sense?

That haunted mansion movie with eddie Murphy looks fucking retarded. Eddie NEEDS to fucking stop swinging from the collective nutsacks of the powers that be in big media pop culture and get into the fucking lab, and give us another raw, another delirious, some hardcore shit. C’mon eddie, I KNOW you got it in you. You’re probably writing that shit in notebooks late in the nite after the wife and kids have drifted off into dreamland, comin up with the real strait fucked up shit, but thinking’ “nah, nah, I can’t come with this shit now, I’m fukn respected, I’m mainstream, I gotta pay for that fukn summer house in the Carribean, fukn…"

No excuses eddie, get with the PG and give us what we want. Or at least stop pullin these Pluto nash or whatever the fuck shit you’re doing now, cuz it ain’t flyin.

Started reading Naked Lunch. Shit is off the chain, that mofo wasn’t salting his shit down for nobody. They had a frikken trial over that shit, fukn Ginsberg and Mailer coming in to testify, callin Burroughs a strait up genius, well, not in so many words, but ya know, comin from tha comp it’s like that, it’s real, shit ain’t filtered, notwithstanding implications vis a vis free speech and repercussions for artists poets gangstas prophets.

It’s 9:30 up in this bizzle. Mrs. P is studying like a state trooper in that she’s got 2, count em, midterms on Monday. I’m layin low and typin a bunch of crap for you to read at your leisure, sippin on syrup, maybe I’ll flip through time magazine a little later if the block really starts getting hot.

I think that’s about it for now.

Oh and fukn Cal lost in overtime to UCLA.

Weak. They did have a pretty exciting comeback drive to at least get it into extra innings though. Hey speaking of which, I didn’t even see who won the yanks fish game today.

And, actually, my caring factor is about a 2 out of 10. As in, I will check it, but only after 33 astro medallions have floated by on the river, bearing in mind that common frequency is roughly a kangaroo’s pouch load per hour.