Posted 11:48 AM by Alfred

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.

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