Wednesday, September 29, 2004
There’s another thing I was gonna say, something about how everything written or thought up about if you get deceived vis a vis where your body is is, in effect, or at least viewed suchas through my postmodern subconscious cranium, as a matrix ripoff, and how I believe that that may not (nay, must not) be fair in the biblical sense, cuz the idea of not being, or, wait, the concept of everything being fake, I mean it’s been around since dolly parton first busted a bowling ball in sly stallone’s slugged mug.
Thanks again, or thanks first, or, yup, to comicsdotorg, cuz I’ve been jacking their beats nonstop for like, an eon, and if they went belly up in the middle of the nite, you’d all be screwed cuz you wouldn’t be able to see the ingenius selections of yours truly, the mc trickleberry.
Not to say nay or aye or whutevs to the concept of, fuck it, you know, just that, well, the cuckolds are heating up and barbecuing with dr. ruth whipping up kibbles and bits out by the rodeo bullriding machine. (that's a good thing)
Now I just have to call the hondoc about my auto. He’s like the a-team. No one knows how to get a hold of him. No one is sure what his story is, where he lives, how he works, but they know he gets results, and in order to hire him you have to meet Murdock in the back of a liquor store dressed like a mariachi. That way he’ll know you’re legit.