Friday, September 24, 2004
Yo yo yo & take yer bottle of brass monkey and stick it with the jurk storr’s private reserve collection. You know the one. The one whut with it’s in the back with the extra special sauce. You know, sauce money and the 5 large crew? Yup. That kine. It’s on long beach, so don’t doubt it doubt it that I’m bout it bout it.
And so it is was shall be ad infinitum not having even an ounce of wherewithal to have proper burial rites nor rights in this vicinity. Now you may look at that sentence and think “meaningless” but the funny hilarious antithetical thing is that it makes perfect sense, I mean, here we have a person that not only did they not get or will not be allowed to receive the standardized ceremony associated with passing on into death, er, well, the ceremony to celebrate (or mourn, hmmm) this person’s death, but they didn’t even have the dignity of being given permission to be physically buried, you know, vis a vis local laws as to location, timing, all those details that seem so trivial at the time and then when the big moment comes upon us, oh shit, yeah bitch, we’re sweating the details, believe it, more and with increased moisture than that which Richard Simmons emits when an oldie but goodie is playing.
And there’s like somebody beating down his door for a snickers bar. It’s all very very real.