Friday, November 21, 2003

muscle6868: BAH!
berkeleyjoe: humbug
muscle6868: blo of the moment
muscle6868: blog
muscle6868: i dont like it
berkeleyjoe: strike a pose!
berkeleyjoe: there he goes...
berkeleyjoe: he's
berkeleyjoe: fantabulous!
muscle6868: i hate blorgy now too
berkeleyjoe: but they're so smorgy!
muscle6868: haha
berkeleyjoe: and dr. georgie
muscle6868: haha
berkeleyjoe: goergie porgie?
muscle6868: georgie porgy
muscle6868: damn
berkeleyjoe: hah
berkeleyjoe: i win!
berkeleyjoe: dududududuu
muscle6868: bastard
berkeleyjoe: so whut now
muscle6868: ??
berkeleyjoe: why do you hate blorgy
berkeleyjoe: or is it just the mental anguish of it
muscle6868: "blog of the moment"
muscle6868: wtf
muscle6868: thats pressure
berkeleyjoe: hahaha
berkeleyjoe: i just saw that shit
berkeleyjoe: you are ON sir
berkeleyjoe: here's your bat
berkeleyjoe: nooooooo pressure
berkeleyjoe: except everyone will HATE you if you fuck this shit up!
muscle6868: i know
muscle6868: *hangs head
berkeleyjoe: leave the room now son, your spirit is already broken
berkeleyjoe: dude fuck that who gives a flying fuck about blorgy?
muscle6868: hopefull no one
berkeleyjoe: maybe dirk mgkirt and planet 3rd bass
berkeleyjoe: but why hate them?
berkeleyjoe: they are just saying how cool you are. i mean you know it anyway, but you can still be down with it.
berkeleyjoe: be happy about it
muscle6868: no
berkeleyjoe: you're saying "fuck you" to america
berkeleyjoe: RELISH IT DAMMIT
muscle6868: im saying fuck you to myself
berkeleyjoe: wait, did you just say fuck you to me?
muscle6868: to me
berkeleyjoe: oh
berkeleyjoe: well fuck me goddammitt
berkeleyjoe: i mean
muscle6868: no wait
berkeleyjoe: not you
muscle6868: maybe you
berkeleyjoe: wait
berkeleyjoe: seriously?
berkeleyjoe: dude
berkeleyjoe: that's fucked up
muscle6868: no wait
muscle6868: whos that guy behind you
berkeleyjoe: dude that's neal patrick harris!
berkeleyjoe: fuck!
berkeleyjoe: dude this is not what it looks like
muscle6868: he died a few days ago
muscle6868: no wait
berkeleyjoe: wait
muscle6868: that was jonathan brandis
muscle6868: sorry
berkeleyjoe: that was
muscle6868: they look similar
berkeleyjoe: whut
berkeleyjoe: hell no they don't
berkeleyjoe: i'm sorry but brandis was much more goofy looking than the doogster
muscle6868: very
berkeleyjoe: are you getting mad hits off this thing?
muscle6868: ive hit 14,928 today so far
berkeleyjoe: bullshit
muscle6868: yes

Thursday, November 20, 2003

I gotta call up some important, or potentially impending, personas en mi telefono and tell them why, why, why. Why do manta rays swim upstream in the summer?

I’m gonna tell em that tha jurk storr called, and that Pat McGroin is their new number one best seller.

Then they will love me and buy a shitload of shit. shitloads.

I could really go for some like lomi lomi salmon and poi and a little lau lau and a nice draft beer, either something local or imported none of that mainland shit. well, U.S. mainland that is. Maybe some longboard ale. And maybe top it with a guiness after a spell, since it’s fantasy land anyway and I don’t have to worry about the state of my stomach.

Aight no better time than the present. Fingers reaching for phone, dialing

Whoah, that actually went pretty well. I now know who the superdeeduperdee special manager is for giant corp. which is this company that might buy a SHITLOAD of skunks from us. Damn, batman, if I crack this case open, some duckets are getting sprayed, straight shellacked across the ceiling in psychoactive red gold & green. I mean, I didn’t talk to the man, but inexplicably the random name I was looking for turned out to be the man and I got a hold of assistant or flunkie or what have you of said man and said man has been given a message as to give me a call, and now I am set the fuk up to be down with the serious discussions that will occur when the chief regional skunk master flies in from Nebraska and we all head down to giant corp for a big showdown, you know son, we deal in lead, of which I will be down with cuz I got our asses in the door and nobody except nobody messes with big jim slade.

So now that I am down with the scene I gotta figure out what I’m gonna wear. I’m thinking my shark skin green tinted suit with matching slightly off tempo socks with my Stacey Adams special custom Tokyo edition penny loafers and tie with say a can of spinach design montage on it. plus my platinum grill, the one with the hope diamond smack in the center. Well, at least a reasonable facsimile.

And then to top it off, just to make all parties feel perfectly at ease and add like that certain jene say kwah to the festivities, I’m gonna wear my cal bears hat and get really drunk off of cheap wine and make obnoxious comments about coffee stained boudoirs and corsets made of twizzlers and chewing gum. Everyone will most likely applaud my daring and risqué devil may care attitude, anoint me the new king of the realm, and if everything happens according to plan I’ll be starring in a 3 month run of an outdoor theatrical version of the classic Felini film “8” by mid December at the Waikiki Shell.

Shit, maybe we could open up for Jerry Seinfeld.

I feel like Sam Kinison’s ex girlfriend that he hates so much. You know the one, the one he screams he wishes would get hit by a truck and slide under it’s bowels and taste her own blood mixed with gasoline and brake fluid. Well, ok, I made up the gasoline & brake fluid part, but the parallel remains valid. The line, specifically, that flashed in my head is the one where, and this is from Sam’s HBO special, where he’s talking in the voice of the girl, and the precursor to the situation of her dumping his ass is that they had some good times, blew through a shitload of money, and then he’s broke, and suddenly she doesn’t want him anymore. But of course she doesn’t come right out & say that, she says it’s because the “magic” is gone, and can they still be friends, and can they still take walks in the park and share an ice cream cone and talk on the phone and shit like that. and sam is like, ok, let me get this straight, everything’s kind of the same, except we don’t fuck, isn’t that right, you basically use me as an emotional tampon and bring me the sad stories of the other guys out there you’re fucking and I’ll be your shoulder to cry on, right? And she says yeah. And then he starts screaming and telling her to die and calling her a fucking whore and saying she used him.

Ok you may be lost as to what kind of metaphor I’m trying to elaborate on. I feel like the ex girlfriend, because in a very shallow way, part of me thinks that the magic is gone with this blog. It was my sugar daddy and now it’s out of money. Money in this case being massive amounts of hits. And I feel like a deranged whore for thinking that way. And I want to promise you at this moment right here & now, I’m not like sam kinison’s bitch whore ex girlfriend that dumped his ass as soon as the gravy train, ie in this case my blogger of note link, was gone. I’m not that bitch. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still think about it. you gonna tell me that if your hits went from 500 a day to 100 a day you wouldn’t sit and think a spell? Ah, maybe you wouldn’t. maybe I’m a shallow piece of dogshit. But be that as it may, the status of being cognizant of my situation and admitting to myself that it takes a certain amount of the “thrill” away from the situation, doesn’t mean I’m gonna put my tail between my legs and slither off into the darkness. Nah, fuck that. kool keith wouldn’t do it like that, in fact he’d relish it. back to the underground with me. No more people giving me shit about being part of the internet “establishment” whatever the fuck that is. And Sahalie, bless her heart and pass her some deep fried oatmeal, made a very good point, that it’s quality of hits, not quantity. Now this may sound odd coming out of my mouth, cuz I’m always joking about it’s quantity over quality and how all my shit sucks ass and I just keep churning the crap out anyway, and really, who the fuck would publish THIS? Just whining about your hits going down, but really, that’s not all it is, please trust me on this, I’m trying to make you understand, that I got my heart in this shit, I got my soul in this shit, sometimes to the point that I wonder why the fuck. maybe not nearly as deep into the rabbit hole as TRUE and the crew, whom my respect for and awe of grow daily, not to do the nut sack swinging routine, but shit, I try to give you peeps something every little day, or at least every Tuesday & Thursday, by which to see a small flicker into my mental, in this jacked up fashion wherein I give you virtually no information.

Now you may be thinking, fuck this guy, fuck his blog, he gets a windfall, it’s taken away, and now he’s bitching about it. well, all that may be true. But think about it like this, who the fuck else would actually tell you about it? that’s what this shit is people, you see my salty shit, my spicy shit, my fukn jack in the box drive through shit. this ain’t a muthafuckin game, peeps, even though it is. I like to show my shit, warts and all, and yeah, I’m a shallow shitbag sometimes. And let me tell you, honestly, it makes no fucking difference. And truly, I really lost track of what the fuck I was talking about. Just know that I’m not trying to propogate shit that I am the man or any shit like that, I am far from the man, I am a man, and on Thursday mornings I stop by my friendly neighborhood bagel stand and talk to old Joe McQuircky and we tell each other all about our hopes and dreams and strangest nightmares over a pair of blueberry saltjammed bagels with cranberry sprinkled lox & cheese, and then I realize that no such thing as that exists around here & I wake up out of my stupor and I’m pouring my coffee out of our little machine at the casa and then I look over at Mrs. P and at that precise moment everything else falls away and I know for a fact it’s all good in the hood.

Have a great fucking day.

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

If Davey Crockett was the king of the wild frontier, then who was the queen? That girl that killed her parents with 40 wacks each? Dammitt, what was her name again? Shit now I gotta try and google it.

Well, dammitt, I just opened espn so lemme check some sports crap and then I promise I’ll get back to it. you have my word as an English gentleman.

Keyshawn Johnson may be a fucking idiot, but I think the Buc’s management (and by association, Gruden) are even stupider. Is stupider a word? Bill Gates doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. Gruden, you grinning bastard, this is revenge, you, you, fuck you. I remember when keyshawn was at usc, I was hoping so bad they would lose that rose bowl to northwestern but of course they didn’t. it seemed like some kind of mythical underdog situation that just did not come to the fruition I may have imagined. If you don’t give a fuck about football, please instruct your brain to erase any memory of reading this paragraph. Move on to the next paragraph where further instructions await.

Ha, sucker. I tricked you & I win. I love boring you with sports shit. Now that my hits are in the toilet time to grab that handle and give it a good flush. Right down the drain, off to jinx bathroom land, where all the honey graham growers can throw tomatoes at it. yippee. and when i say hits in the toilet don't get offended if i have more hits than you now like i'm talking like some big shot, ok, i'm just giving you my own subjective viewpoint of the current situation vis a vis the ocean calling and running out of a shitload of shrimp. great now i'm gonna be like on 83 blacklists. well fine, i'm a communist. happy? dammitt now you hate me.

Oh wait, I should have remembered, you’re not supposed to talk about hits, that ain’t nearly underground enough, I mean, everybody knows that nobody whose anybody cares even one rat’s ass cheek about hits, right? Me personally, I’m in it for the annual fruitcake lottery. Plus the inner feeling of peace that i get in the middle of my medulla oblongata when i reminisce about the friendship on that tugboat with Coco & T-bone. good, good times.

Anyway, nothing turns readers away in droves like an indepth heady and heartfelt serious discussion of America’s team. And fuck the cowboys and their fukn whatever the hell their egomaniacal crapsterpiece is. You know the drill hoes, and even if you don’t, hey it’s never to late to make a first impression, it’s all about the la clippers, chumps.

Whut the fuck? they lost, to the shit ass Cleveland cavs. Lebron’s team, yah the 2nd coming, of whut? Of your ass. This post is dogshit acres times 3, and in actuality a prime example of the inherent problem of bloggerville broken down so eloquently by sarah crabtree.

Yeah and so there was some other shit on my mind too though but fuck it.

Oh wait, I promised a google search on that 40 wacks thing. Hold on. I’m gonna fuckn find it. it’s an old like folksy sounding song, about some girl that woke up one night and slaughtered her folks with an axe.

Ah ha! Gotta love the innernet. Here it is:

“Lizzie Borden took an axe
Gave her mother 40 whacks
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father 41."

Lizzie fukn Borden. If memory serves correct there was some thrash metal band with the same name back in the 80’s or some shit like that.

This little nursery rhyme was based on the famous 1892 murder trial, of which a veritable treasure trove of information can be found here.

OK, I'm gonna go get retarded now that the party's started. preceding line copyright some old ass nondescript rap group of which i have no memory as to their name. if they contact me via their legal counsel I'll cross that bridge at the appropriate time. And yes the jurk storr is open today. Mahalo.

Tuesday, November 18, 2003

keith is cool.

This guy is NOT me, please don’t be confused. I know, we look so much alike. oh that's right you don't know whut i look like, well imagine um these guys from the jurk storr, and you'll have a general idea.

but back to the guy that drew this comic.

He is the other cool kine keith.

Go read all his comics.

And he’s not a batman butler, but he has a dog, well, the cartoon guy does.

Shabba labba ding dong

I hope I’m not bustin’ etiquette putting this up but it cracked me the fuck up. hey keith is cool let me know if you want me to and i'll take it down. posthaste. with post nasal drip. with postage stamps to bolivia. with johnny carson's stinking rotting vulture ravaged head. um, no not with that.

Do you ever feel like you’re the only sane one in a land full of lunatics? Flowing forth from that thought, isn’t it ironic, nah fuck that, not ironic, just interesting, how close that feeling can be to that of the sense of self awareness of being the only crazy-ass in a land full of strait-laced starbucks kwaffers?

Not that starbucks is overly mainstream and therefore uncool or anything like that. just that at least in my mind it’s something of a symbol of a) corporate America, b) legitimized drugs, ie caffeine, c) our modern society’s demented and disturbing response or paean to the beat generation’s coffee house ideal, places where people like ginsberg, kerouac, et al including their various offshoots and inspirees spat violent and sexually offensive (vis a vis the time’s subjective parameters) poems, stories, music, ideas, and other outlandish type shit.

It’s like, before starbucks, it was cool to go get a cup of coffee and chill out and watch some hack ass long hair talk in monosylabbic tones about his angst over nuclear Armageddon and Jerry Garcia’s beard, but nowadays, it’s like it’s cool in the anti-cool sense, uber muzak chiming away, college students clicking away at their laptops, orders of triple strawberry lattes with a lemon twist or whatever the fuck and people just droning away, myself included, like there’s absolutely nothing wrong with this picture.

I remember this little back alley coffee house called the e-bar in Pasadena, I mean, half the people in there hadn’t bathed for over 3 days and they had open mike nite on Tuesday when any and all freaks of nature would come out and blab some kind of bullshit, and it was beautiful, and this was like 90 to 93 or some shit like that, and now it’s only ten years later and starbucks crushes all competition or at the very least allows for modest revenues as long as you stay in your corner of the yard, with no promises of the monolith not moving in next door on an appropriate Wednesday to destroy the hopes and dreams and ducket spicket of joe small business person's alterna-fantasy.

Yes, um, I started out on a topic about feeling crazy in a land of correctly pegged individuals, and its link to sanity type egos amid the delusional looney bin sector, and i wonder if somehow all the crap I just said puts me in one of those categories, or maybe squarely in between, or maybe on the planet Jupiter. You decide. I’m going to lunch.

Monday, November 17, 2003

Well holy shit the raiders actually won a game. I guess it’s cool for you to slap me around & call me shirly now. Saw mystic river, finally, this weekend, as I’d been wanting to catch it for a while, and, frankly, I was disappointed. Moved slow, there were a few lines in their that just didn’t ring true, you could see the end coming at least 74 feet away, and, um, I don’t know, shit, take that for what it’s worth, which prolly ain’t much.

Stephen King’s new Dark Tower book is off the goddamm chain. First hardcover fresh off the presses book I’ve picked up in like, um, ever? Well, maybe not ever, but it’s been a long time. Robert Jordan, Eddie Burroughs, and Bukowski are all unceremoniously shelved for the moment while I devour this monstrosity. As they say in Iowa, it’s time to reap the sower, or is it sow the reaper? Prolly not either of those, and I ain’t ever even been there so I’m obviously just talkin’ smack as usual. Ah, the things you can count on in life, aren’t they grand? Just nod your head and slowly exit stage left, nothing will be explained but at least you won’t have to look me in the eye like a caged prozac smoking wildebeest anymore, na mean? No yes yes no the answer my friend is blowing through my noggin.

Arrgghh. This one fuckn broad (yes, I said broad, call the equal rights association or whatever the fuck) that I’m working with on this jurk storr shit on the mainland, is such a BITCH, that I just decided in my head, yes, a hypothesis, that if Ice Cube were to go down on bended knee and serenade her with his classic song “A Bitch is a Bitch” that it would probably be a compliment and I imagine she’d well up with tears and be really heartfeltly heartfelt in that someone actually called her a bitch instead of a ridiculous king kamehameha beyotch. Hobag.

Hmm, I feel better, although I may have offended certain segments of the contingent. Ah well, I ain’t never ate an omelette that didn’t have broken eggs in it, and sheet, even little swags of shell can be good for pickin the looseleaf lettuce out of your teeth, be it Tuesday or Thursday.

I’m hoo-banging some chronic trance music. It’s making me, wait, spock, what is this emotion, it’s like, this weird, um, happiness or something like that, holy shit, I better take a valium or a zanex, this can’t be right, I need, um, I need to get on some jinx bathroom shit, quick, think of what I’m gonna say and then say it, yah at the same time as me, cuz like, this is raw dog, shizzle and the fizzle.

You know what would be really nice right now? A foo foo drink with like a little umbrella in it. on a cruise ship, while watching a bunch of old farts play shuffle board. And then a dolphin jumps out of the water and does a backflip and then a perfect nose dive and winks at you while at its apex. Then you’d know the feeling of being down with it. all that you’d have left to do would be finish your drink, finish the last few words of the latest section of whatever master thesis you were engrossed in at the moment, and hit the sack with the content feeling of total consciousness having been ingrained in your mind, body, and soul.