Posted 1:18 PM by Alfred

I have a lot of shit to do (standard horseshit) but I wanted to take a moment to try to impart something deep and philosophical to you, my dear, dear readership. (repetitive and over-wrought, typical of the same asscrap churned out here in this here space for seemingly eons on eons on eons, blah blah blah)

I like thinking about my life, about my place in the world, and then saying, well, fuck it, I am where I am, I am what I am, I be where and when and what and blah blah fucking blah! Who the motherfuck am I, popeye? Dog SHITE.

I’m having serious problemos over here hoss. Almost to the degree that this blog may be dying a horrible and ugly and messy not so clean and beautiful death. The reasoning for this saying is thus: every morning afternoon evening whatever the fuck time of day it is that I sit down to type something for what shall now be, ugh, blah, it just comes out the same cruppity crup.

And see, there, I just fell into yet another pile of ass manure, by bitching about how my shit always sounds like the same shit sounds like the same shit. that last bit was repeated on purpose, yet, that’s the degree of ineptitude.

I’ve done this before, the beat myself up role. Fuck that. I know I got the good shit. I know it’s on the market. I know it’s on lockdown back in the vaults. Please don’t say shit like, oh it’s ok, oh, man, don’t say that about yourself, or, hmmm, c’mon bucky you can do it, nah, fuck that shit, it’s all me, it’s all, hmmm, just a bunch of like random thoughts percolating to the surface and that seems to be the only way to write shit here and thus I guess I gotta run with it.

But serially in all seriousness I sat down to write this time thinking, ok, deep thought central, but it’s just another episode of disposable nation with your host, secret name whathistat, jesus, the joke is done, the jig is up, yes, no, the man behind the curtain is not secretly the lead singer of your favorite band, or a super hero, or a rapper, or a microwave repairman, he’s just a joker, not the joker, don’t get excited, I mean, shit, if you knew what a foolio I really was you’d do one of 83 things, including but not limited to: never read this crap again, read every word on this page and every word in the files, click on a link, swear to your god that you will someday find me and exact revenge against my medulla oblongata, or, the most likely, fall asleep in utter boredom and wake up with drool all over yourself.

Warning: the above was written by a crackhead that snuck into my office and mentally soaked all my blogger account information from my brain intravenously. Please disregard and move on with your day, blissfully unaware, hopefully, of the transgression against the standards predetermined by the jurk storr, in an ancient and arcane text, that was herein perpetrated. I tried to edit most if not all of it out, but carlton, bastard son of a bastard son that he is, would not allow it. aloha.

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