Friday, February 20, 2004

I got nothing for ya today. Zero my hero. But the example or, um, precedent, I’d like to set, is that despite what prominent mathematicians will tell you, lack of anything can come to equal a whole bunch of something. The one thing, shit, I always say that, and fuck, how many times have I used a “thing” word in this paragraph. Jesus Christ I suck.

Ok under normal circumstances I would totally erase the above paragraph, but, well, actually under varying instances, but seeing as there’s a certain mister carlton patrolling the premises today like a cat in a rocking chair factory, there’s nothing I can do but impart it to you anyway.

Ok from now on I promise I’m only gonna write about the most vital shit. like laundry list central coinciding with keystone cops is not gonna work in this new world order that carlton, aforementioned, has determined that only and if only when the jurk storr calls will be the true time to take action.

Oh by the way you have gotta read the thought sink. Like right now. Like not yeterday or in 3 days, but at this moment in the, hmmm, I’m not describing it right. I’m doing homey a misservice by even tryin to represent as some kind of faux promotions department when in all ways shape form levels whut i'm insinuating jokerville with a capital “j.” fuck I hate quotation marks. Fuck, oh yeah, well yeah, check it out. It’s like the most interesting first installment of a life story that ever lived. Blah dee blah, look at that guy by the miniature statue of liberty. Um, ok, that was weird. Where are we now? Sorry.

Anyway, please don’t hate me for like perpetrating wherewithalls without at least attempting to register myself with the ways and means committee. I promise that at least on Tuesdays I’ll try to remember to drink my ovaltine and hopefully offer quality products at great discount prices. And make my customers feel happy yet not like weirded out and they don’t wanna come back and try our pastries. Cuz that would be fucked up.

Thursday, February 19, 2004

If I even revealed like the smallest smidgen of unrelenting jurk storr shit that I could unleash on your sorry asses right now well frankly and in full confidence I think that you would have enormous pain in your main vein. Whichever one that may be. I’m not presuming to know the full elements of any organism without an investigation most undoubtedly too intense for any parties involved, well possibly some agents of the corleone family might be so inclined to attempt the settelement of said arguments over a glass or two of chardonnay and the beating bastardized bleating billygoat warming rays of father ra, and then afterward we’d definitely be playing some billiards, of that you may as well etch it in stone.

Not even the reverse flash could explain to you the intense wherewithalls that will come over you if I were to utter even a word. Becuz simply and with as little or no melodrama as possible, mildly stated for the mass consumption that is, at least if you’re comparing it to half a backup dancer in a pringle’s commercial, I mean I feel I’m at least double that, that guy doesn’t deserve to be on the same block with me, ok, shit, I know, he’s more famous than me. And that is something by which I cannot abide. So this is announcing that I am hunting him down and somehow demoting his status and then I will know that you really like me, you really really like me. Not you, those people.

And I have this little feeling that if you suddenly woke up and you were living in an episode of little house on the prairie, you would naturally freak out and miss your old life but secretly, in that little booweevil inside us all, you’d be so glad that it’s back to such non mass media infested times. you know, you'd get used to the routine, the bare essence of every experience. take a pail of eggs to ma & pa kettle to get some rabbit stew funds and possibly shoot some varmints. And then go swimming in the creek. And get yelled at by your teacher and fight that girl with the blonde curls cuz she’s so evil.

Wait, you have to not have left yet. There’s like the time that I snuck into sewers. Ok the storm drain. Ok my shower. But let’s not fight. Let’s squander all our cash on horse races and blackjack tables and throw buckets of tunafish off of the side of the hoover dam, just to pay props up to the ex-prez and the cross-dressing fbi chief, without them, shit, we’d prolly all be dead, totally roasted by this secret band of Lithuanian rebels that were going to use manifest destinyville as their headquarters as soon as they dropped this super secret bomb that they’d devised by mixing the powers of methane and hydrogen gases, with a side of cayenne pepper, and shit, it’s lucky that didn’t happen.

Cuz then we never would have had Reagan.

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

Except for Elton Brand, at this particular moment, the clippers are playing like a bunch of incontinent old men. Fuck that, old bitches. Yah, that’s the ticket.

Shit. Well anyway, fuck, I’m just chillin. Doing some mufucking laundry and shit. And like kickin it ol school. You know the drill.

And watchin the clips. They were up, now they’re down.

You don’t care.

Well fuck you for not caring, cuz I care.

Ok, I retract the fuck you. It’s not your fault that the b-team in the city of angels (and it pains me to say that, truly it does) is of little or no interest to you. I can’t hold that against you. I shant. I dant. hmmm, yah, um, no.

Fukn there’s a bunch of other jurk storr shit I could include after that crap ass frappachino stabsterpiece, but I’m starting to feel that it might not be certified by the national table tennis association, so I’m gonna leave it out.

Just in case.

PS: fuck duke. No offense, 3L. Duke is like the Yankees of college basketball. you either love em or hate em. or maybe i'm on crack. again.

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

If the fukn jurk storr calls, tell them fukn pat mcgroin can’t come to the goodddamm phone right now. As in literally, metaphorically, analogously, and fucking digitally, any and all 9 or 10 yard units that you can even consider.

The funny or not so hilarious endeavor involved in all this is that you think I’m joking when matter of factly I’m deathly serious. Just ask Saul T. Nuts, my associate, or his secretary Norm Uscock. They are basically the two most hardest OG’s in the seventh circle society, which is composed of fukn a whole bunch of fukn retardo montalbauns in other words jeed up from the feet up fricasseed fredos.

Fuck all that shit. words on top of words on top of the stankinest dead rat infested dogshit you prolly ever seen. Maybe fukn the REAL tony stark will finally call today and offer me the dream job of suiting up in that fukn armor like the codeine addicted fuckbag that he knows I and we and he are, getting all aka wherever and whenever and with whomever and in whatever capacity is required to take care of any and all eventualities that may occur within the framework of our business plan.

Monday, February 16, 2004

Ok you might call me retarded but I’m writing a bunch of donkey shit during half time of the all star game. Well actually it’s like not the real deal it’s like the vhs version of halftime, like with me drinking like mass jack daniels and like um coke and like being a dumbass.

Um, so yeah, this is my mission, to write a bunch of dogshit while my vcr plays me the halftime of the blah dee blah and then wake up mrs. P and go to some serious sleep land aka sandman central. I’d like you to know that even when I’m darthed, aka vadervilled, I can still bring the ruckus like fukn whatshisass aka fukn don’t remember, think it might have been raekwon the chef actually prolly the genius. You don’t care. It’s cool. Serially.

So, like, um, the one thing about the jurk storr, nah fuck that shit. Um, yah, I was gonna say some serious shit about like the issues in Afghanistan but I’m having a hard enough time maintaining any kind of like making sense action that like if I were to actually concentrate on a topic it would get kind of hectic in betaville or whatever the fuck you call it.

Hmmm. There was some other shit that happened but honestly I can’t remember it, but, well, maybe that’s too simple of a way of saying it. Recollection factor is zero. Howz that for an amateur. Shit, you know I am anything but. I don’t like to toot my own horn, in fact I’m muy loathe to do anything even within like the same quadrant of something even related in way shape form style to that, but shit, I love LA and so should you. It’s the home of the body bag and the place where Alfred pennyworth earned his stripes, at least the Glendale burbonia, if you know whut I mean. shit burbonia rhymes with bourbon, so it must have been meant to be.

Yah! Liked that last sentence. Think I’ll give myself a shout out on my next album. Why the fuck not?