Monday, August 02, 2004

Happy birthday, Wes Craven. Good job on that freaky shit.

I know you didn’t have anything to do with adam west batman shenanigans, but, well, I don’t feel like lookin’ at freddy’s ugly mugg on a Monday manana, wait, tomorrow, or morning, or both, questions to ponder over leftover Louisiana hijinx. Well said, but not, well, um, traversed over the 88th parallel. Yup, that one.

Oh, and btw, dead horses are the best ones to beat. They don’t fight back.

In other news, uh, the jurk, um, ferget it.

g-money once said to six-deuce, which is a close personal friend of mine, and don’t tell me I should have said “whom” instead of “which” because 62 happens to be a robot. And he’s not a cop. So, no, you don’t have to desist your altercation. Comprende? oh and what he told me? I forgot. It was vitally important though.

Yah, you better run. To the nearest phone booth. And call me, care of the jurk storr, cuz I’m their #1 goddamm best seller. beyotch.

Ok I’m not, but front street is my fave spot on mundanes. PS: woodsy owl got slapped.

PPS: if anyone has a problem with anything herein unless you’re name his hibi jamb bolt janers jiba you better get to the back of the line and take a number. Excuse me? oh, right. Your number is about 72. aloha.

what was really in that suitcase in pulp fiction?

Clipper is a dog that you’re SO jealous of.