Thursday, September 02, 2004

Who gives a fuck whut I write. Who gives a rats burger if you give a rat’s burger. Who gives a slice of cheese if I forget my cheese slicer.

I’m like the avant garde instapundit up in this bitch today. Check your ham sandwich at the door and keep your shoes on the opposing didgeridoos. Like Australian outback fucktard essential acreage in the afghanistanian forest.

You know whut bums me out about the deal with Afghanistan? It’s that it used to be my trademark random country to say, like, “oh, I was eating some afghanistanian goulash” or “yeah, meet me on 3rd street, in the main promenade of jersey city, Afghanistan” or, uh, ok, not that one, but, well, now, like, Afghanistan means something.

The saddest part of human & American society is that I just actually had that thought. How could I be so fuckn selfish as to be concerned about my inner thoughts and blah blah ishes with fishes in regards to a war torn country with women children and innocent mens and their dogs dying in the streets as warlords rape & pillage and I’m just thinking “oh, there goes my catch phrase” and it’s not that I’m evil, it’s, uh, shit, that’s a cliché.

FUCK. What isn’t a cliché? Can I write one goddamm thing that isn’t a fuckn cliché, please? What, if anything, hasn’t been done? Knock fucking knock. Anything?

Fuck it.