Tuesday, September 07, 2004

Fuh king hay. It’s like I just can’t stay on task today. It’s gotta be back to that like do shit then blab shit kine styles.

Ok, ok. It’s going swimmingly. I’m calling up bitches for cash. Can’t beat that with a bat, as they say. They being, uh, I forget.

Ok I called up some more bitches that have to have my money and I even called up some guy about, uh, well, serious bizness. That’s really all you have to know about that, and actually, you didn’t need to know that part, but now you do, so be careful with that fucking information, otay?

Dang I had a shitload of backed up voice mails on my shit. I just cleared most of em out. Are you proud of me?

Man, tiger woods needs to like drop his bitch and go live in a hardcore Tibetan temple somewhere with like nothing but whips & chains and golf balls and that duff guy yelling at him, or, hmm, that duff chick? No, that just gets back to the crux of the problem.

Dang, Woods had been #1 for more than 5 years. Not too fukn shabby. Still, he sucks. Nah, it’s just, shit, golf is bumming. Vijay singh? Tell me he has a quarter of the marketability of woods. Might as well have fukn dumpy mcpherson be the champ. Or, uh, who’s a real life parralelogram? Hmmm. Even vanilla ice would bring more duckets. It’s like having that guy that works at the liquor store, with the belly and the, shit, you know what I mean? It’s not glamorous.

But big ups to singh anyway. Not that I give half a fuck about golf. Yet still I write (blab) about it. Why ask why. Mas trabajar.

here's to good things. and, uh, mortarboard.