Friday, January 16, 2004

so yeah, you may have noticed the yodels are kaput, ie out of operation. Maybe now that I’ve actually mentioned it, they’ll start working again just to prove me wrong. Stranger things have happened.

In the meantime, if you have something you desperately need to impart to me, there’s always e-mail, or you could click here and then click on the audpost thingie and listen to me read some Ian Fleming and talk shit and then comment over there. I’m sure Ryan wouldn’t mind. Well, maybe he would, but, well, you know, there’s lots of eventualities to predict and I ain’t nostradamus so what can ya do.

Oh and if you click over and listen to my random ass crapsterpiece, be sure to scroll up and read muscle’s post for today, cuz he’s got some pretty good theories on the Go-Go’s. not kidding.

In other news, um, shit, don’t have an ending for that sentence. Let me let my (hmm, like the sound of that) brain marinate on it for a sec and I’ll get back to you.

God Daammmmnnn the fucking wu-tang is on it like boobonic. Peep the old shit. not kidding. Word for the day, or actually, phrase for the day. live it love it don’t ever leave it. not kidding.

So yah I was gone but now I’m back. Um, had to take care of some biznass. Interestingness factor is at 98 astro-medallions. That is a very good rate, depending on what day of the week it is. Lemme check. Hmmm, Friday. Well, it’s ok to leave your house today, Friday is like, you go boy, ya dig? But as far as affecting the astro-medallion exchange rate, it’s a tricky one. Friday is one of those wacky days that the Icelandic northerners are apt to do one out of like many different styles, each of which will affect the Russian ruble, the Yugoslavian dinar, and on down the line, until the astro-medallion rate is a big puddle of potentially haphazard mustard gas.

So proceed with caution.

Thursday, January 15, 2004

Please excuse the uninvited interruption, but I thought I’d switch boxes, you know, from the tee vee to the com-poo-tar, as it were, and hmmm, I was gonna go into like some kind of quadruple entendre but I seem to have lost my train of thought on that particular verse, well, it will just have to do like this.

I have to first and foremost give credit to Ian Fleming. Without him there may not have ever been or be at this time the concept of the super spy as we know it or in any way shape or form the ideal of hot ass combined with guns and ammo. And don’t even come to me with your whole propoganda campaign regarding “oh james bond is just NOT appropriate for this day and age” because if you really look at reality, and yes I know there are so many other venues to gaze on, but really, we are probably more misogynistic but with our horse blinders firmly in place in this era than the 60’s from which it was spawned. The perfect combination of technology and underground acceptability of sexual freedom is vibrating (was that my quintuple entendre? Whatever) throughout the hemisphere of this nation and the world as we know it and, ah, there’s my train.

so the opus of yesterday turns into the disposable verbage of today. and so on into infinity or at least until ol' hickory says we can take 'em by surprise. classic songs need to be sung by classically trained guitarists and then just for good measure throw in a dollop of sour cream and call me in the morning. whatever ails ya i'll find some kind of home cooked medicine to make like a poultice or some shit like that. lots of hidden meaning in here, just look, keep lookin, getting warmer, ah there it is. in the emptiness below this line. it means that existentialism is dead. and it must be true cuz i heard it on from this blind guy.

I wrote some shit yesterday but that’ll have to wait as it’s hidden in the vaults. It was some thought patterns based on Ian Fleming’s Jamaica compound. Well, not necessarily based on the estate per se but based on some of the ideas that came to me whilst pondering the whole idea of a getaway from the norm and the fact that, well, shit, I should just let you consider it and read the real shit tomorrow. Or the next day. or later on in the afternoon. Basically whenever I can have the combination of access to the vault and wherewithal and time and motivation to extract said material and transcribe it over to the innernet for your perusal.

In the meantime, uh, gimme a few seconds as I’ve got some shit on my plate and it’s not the kind of shit I gotta eat although it does fill my stomach, if you get my drift. Actually, even if you don’t, the end result is the same, except for on your end, cuz it’ll either be confusion or a serious head nod of comprehension. Let’s hope for the latter, except for the event where you are inspired by ignorance, which as the saying goes, is supposedly bliss. Check the files for more on that, too. But don’t spend too much time, it’s pretty deep in there. I don’t know if I’d even be able to dig it out.

I’m pretty sure there was a 37th chamber that I was gonna write about but for some strange reason it seems to be eluding my mental at this moment. If anything comes up regarding it, though, I’ll be sure to let you know.

There was this one guy that iron man had to fight one time that had like this white skull mask grafted onto his face by Dr. Doom. See Victor Von Doom was pissed off that this character was like wooing a young lass in Latveria, which is the fictional nation ruled by formerly mentioned metal faced dictator, and like, he warned the guy off, but he didn’t heed, ya dig? And when you don’t heed the doomster, you’re jumping up to get beat down. I’m not sure why I thought that was relevant but for some reason this little voice seemed to tell me that I should tell you about it. cuz, like, (and this is me bullshitting the aforementioned reason) imagine if you had a mask that you couldn’t take off, it would be, like, would you remember who you were? Or would you go crazy and take on the personality of the mask? Deep shit, yes, and hell, it’s only Thursday. So I know you’ll have time to ponder this in your home as you damn sure better not be going out anywhere cuz you know, new Orleans police will find you, lock yer ass up, and shit, belly of the beast ain’t nuthin to laugh at in any day and age, yeah? Yeah.

Ok, I mangled that story a little bit. Click here for the real deal. (scroll to the bottom where it says “history”) yeah I could have gone back and edited the previous paragraph, but you know, the carlton factor.

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Crazy weather here today. Like, nutty block. As in Rodney O & Joe Cooley might have to be called in to regulate. General Jeff I’m told, unfortunately, won’t be able to make it. oh well. Can’t have everything.

So due to aforementioned fucked up weather I’ve got like zero air conditioning factor, yet I still have paperwork and random shit to do, which means I’m sweatin’ to the oldies, if you call Snoop’s No Limit Top Dogg something in that Richard Simmons vein of rational rationality. Sheeeiiit. West coast. Nine nine. The whole nine yards, you know whut I mean, and if you don’t, betta reckanize, cuz the bus to hecticville is almost here and if you’re late, shit, I ain’t gonna front your fare.

Oh great there goes the goddamm power again fuckin up like a beyatch. I think that was just a little spikey spike. Shit is fucked up over here on the east side, playas, believe that. almost as much as you believe in leprechauns, you gotta know that ovah heah in H-town it’s like all fucked up in the bizzle. Werd to officer bird.

Oh how I miss officer bird. He was like this little parrot that worked for the LAPD and he would ride like this little bike and he had this one police officer he would hang out with who I’m pretty sure his only job was to keep it housin’ with officer bird and make sure that shit was copacetic, ie his wings were properly ruffled if he was in that kind of mood, you know, bring some like birdie bitches over so little homey could get bizzie and like basically make sure that all was well in officer bird-ville, cuz if it wasn’t, shit, you’re talking public relations nightmare.

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

um, I guess I should write some crap. One thing you must do is go to this fine website all about 40 ounces and just peruse their wares. Homey’s got the world’s largest collection of 40 bottles and plenny pics of wacky characters dranking on malt liquor and chiming in with their eloquent reviews on the various brews. I really got excited when I hit the section which highlighted what I feel like is prolly the best drink of all time, Coqui 900. I was especially touched by what one gentleman known as “662” had to say about the wonderful product that is 9-ball:

“I picked this one up from south side chicago,right where coprene green used to be, so that was a buzzkill already when I brought it home I looked at the label and it just looked foul, with toxic waste flowing on the bottom of the label, I figured it cost me $3.30 for two of them it is a good idea to throw this shit in the freezer for 1/2 an hour, I started drinking it later and it tasted really malt then my roomate started smoking weed and I hit it, the buzz got weird, like I felt like I should kill someone or rob a bank, shit made you think evil, I figured it was a good idea to dump the last inch, this slut who was at my house called me a wuss, I looked at her and thoght about raping and killing her but then I figured it would be a wiser thoice to sleep this wicked buzz away.”

And if you work for Pabst or whoever the fuck puts out coqui 900, I’m not sure if 662 is available to work on an ad campaign for you, which, shit, would obviously skyrocket sales, but, well, you never know.

In other news, um, the jurk storr called. And, shit, you know whut, strike that. I would like to have the jury disregard that statement. Mr. Frankleton should not have mentioned that in this court as it has no bearing on the case at hand, and yes I do object, to your presence in New Guinea on the date in question. Meaningful shit, of that you can be assured.

Monday, January 12, 2004

Yo yo.

So how was the weekend? Mine was pretty good. Can’t complain. And that’s in like a good way. You know how some people say “can’t complain” but it means it was really shitty but they don’t wanna sound like a little bitch, but when I say it I actually mean, yah, it was good, you know, nice, you know, no complaints.

Prolly being redundant. The shittiest part of it, actually, was not getting this piece of shit lawn mower to start. Dadgum thing. I really don’t mind mowing lawn, but shit, I mean, damn, I yanked on that starter like a billion times, and Mrs. P, despite my protestations, was giving it the old college try as well. And it ran, it actually did, for like 2 minutes, during which I mowed two strips of this giant lawn, but then it was like that raven saying “nevermore” cuz it never wanted to work again. Blown whatsistat? Don’t know. I’m not technical. Maybe the spark plug is shot. It had plenty oil & gas. This is really interesting isn’t it?

Ok I’m gonna do something productive. Have I mentioned that my fantasy basketball players are going to the dogs in a serious fashion? That is not a compliment. I was like almost winning and now I’m in the middle of the pack. Unacceptable. And that was more fascinating information for you. use it wisely. Ok NOW I’m gonna do something productive. Seriously.

Whoah. I did a lot of productive shit. if I was a superhero my name would be, wait, nah, fuck that.

The problem with my blog/work strategy is I come back to a word document with no recollection of what the hell I was talking about, which is usually next to nothing. But letting that stop me just wouldn’t be kool keith. The fake kool keith. Me. Not the real one. I really have no idea what he would do in this situation. Prolly hit up some big booty bitch. Then maybe get a paddle and get bizzy. But in a nice way. You know, nobody gets hurt everybody smiles, play some pong on the big screen after all the waxin’s been consummated. Whatever, some shit like that.

Just remember that just cuz I’m kool and my name’s keith, even though it’s not, doesn’t mean I’m THE kool keith. And just cuz someone signs their name kool keith on some shit doesn’t mean it’s me or mr. thornton or batman’s butler or a manhole cover. Keep track of that shit & you should stay out of trouble.

Sometimes I think that I should be a little more famous than a Pringles backup dancer and other times I think I should be less famous than biggie smalls’ hairdresser. That’s some real shit. yah I’m not who you think I am and no I don’t dust giant pennies or wax poles labeled bruce & dick, but I am a man, and I have thoughts, and they spill out off of various precipices and those cliffsides may or may not look over this here space.