Thursday, April 08, 2004

Ok, um, I like it, you know, really, or, well, at least, I did the first 33,333 times I heard it, but that D12 “my band” song is starting to grate. Not as in it’s great, but as in grating on my nerves. And so is every goddamm motherfucking outkast song playing on the radio right now, which is every one. And that video with the grease kids and the almost gay pimp guy gets the chick in the end, it’s like, hmmm, makes me want to buy that outkast double album and then makes me want to start a protest movement against it at the same time. Please: moratorium on “heyaahh” or whatever and “my band” or whatever and most especially “right thurrr” and “tipsy” and that other song with usher and ludacris and lil jon where luda talks about something’s “ridiculous” like, it’s just bugging me.

I was watching mtv spring break yesterday, and there was this contest dillio, with 4 people, and it was paulie shore (is he EVER going away? I mean, really, shit, staying power or what? This guy was fucking savannah for Chrissake, and she’s been in the ground, whut, ten years? And homey’s still prolly fucking porn stars), um, Trishelle, from real world Vegas, and um, that girl from my big fat obnoxious fiancee, and then there was this other guy, this really skinny guy with afro’d out hair and glasses, and I could not for the fucking life of me figure out who the fuck he was. Is he famous? Or was he just the scrub they put in with the semi-stars? Please anyone that has any information on this matter, your advice would be most heartfully appreciated. Don’t let the fact that heartfully is not a word dissuade you from the action of your assistance in this urgent matter. Oh by the way I’m gonna be wiring you 800 million dollars from some tyrant’s secret account, but in order to clear the waters you just gotta e-mail me like 83 astro medallions, which I know is a fair amount, but I mean, shit, momar quadaffy did a lot for you and your cousin that one year, remember? So give generously.

Wednesday, April 07, 2004

Just a little teensy blog to remind you how much the clippers suck. They lost their 12th game in a row tonite, just as I predicted. If my name was prognosticator malone, well, that wouldn’t be too far off.

Did I mention that I’m the best? I don’t really believe it but I like to say it, and sometimes think it, when I’m dreaming, or drunk, whichever comes first, depending on the day of the week.

My opinion of how famous I am varies depending on how much ovaltine I drank the nite before. You only wish you had the radar sense, and not the military radar, I mean the radar from MASH, even though, well, that one was military too, I guess, well, I mean, in fantasy land, well, anyway.

Couple things I need to flow your way that I found via the world wide web today and more intimately, although definitely not in a sexual way, they were discovered via my links list and my random wandering therein. They are two items, and I feel that they both deserve recognition in an equal manner, so please do not place any credence, or clear water, to the order in which they are placed.

The first nod of the hat goes to the super villain, who hooked me up with these old skool disney cartoons in which mickey mouse commits suicide. It’s a dedication to kurt cobain. Quite appropriate, I think, as well.

This isn’t one of the official two hat nods, but, well, you can’t, at least I can’t, mention kurt cobain at this juncture, without mentioning the excellent work that tony pierce has been producing on that subject as of late. There, I said it, may I burn in hell’s waiting room. At least until I’m done with the current sports illustrated.

The other nod of the hat, ya know, reckanized, goes to Costa over at the critical I, and his port of entry granted to me into the mysterious world of parkour. Click here to learn more and then peep this site and especially this gallery therein.

Well, I believe that’s all the important business for now. Cheerio.

ok something really quick off the dome while I got a spare few seconds of inactivity to squander on asinine remarks better reserved for the back of the bar by the bathroom and the dartboards, the section with the really nice view of the harbor, you know, the live river kine kine thing and no I didn’t use kine twice in a row on accident know, and shit, well I did write no like know right there totally on accident which most likely means that I’m a genius in the guise of a friendly front lawn gnome with a corn cobb pipe jollily smoking away on some kind of curds and whey type substance but actually it’s just a harmless bubbler. You know, like the kind that rabbits and little kids use, to make bubbles, you hear me? Bubbles! Just like bubbles the monkey, and no, he wasn’t a rhesus monkey, he was a real boy, a real live boy, a boy that no one who had any balls in any way shape or form would ever try to propogate against and imply that any word of it was a lie, cuz none of it wasn’t, not one damn word, Theodore.

Monday, April 05, 2004

yo ho ho & a bottle of brass monkey. And something’s sure getting funky. Could that be my socks? And not the cat. Who the madre de dios names their cat socks anyway, at least name it shoe. Bleh. So anyway, the jurk storr most definitely did NOT call this weekend, which, actually, was a welcome relief from the norm, cuz that sumbitch can be so grating and nuanced sometimes, it’s like enough to make you get on a boat to Zimbabwe and like beat up your car for 3 hours or some shit like that.

so a lot of meaningful shit happened this morning, I mean, it was like an avril lavigne video, it was simply monumental, it was like, evanescence dropped down from the ceiling and labeled everything “deep” including my jade casket full of bath oils, and there was like harmony and melody, and then, it was like suddenly I was wired up to this vast interconnecting network of ideas and thoughts and ponderings, and shit, I realized, that’s just the good ol’ innernet, whut took away mystery and meaning from generations current & future and whut brought together peeps that might never have stepped on foreign shores if not for the taxation implementation of various nations.

My moods and opinions of myself and others change according to the tides as well as in light of whether I’m seeing a view of endemic or epidemic or epic proportions, be they in the manner of reality, fantasy, alternate universes, all that shit. I mean, fiddling with fiddlesticks, the metaphorical brain-busting versions, can be a nice diversion, but when Tuesday comes around, and you’re stuck in the house avoiding the bi-weekly roundup, thoughts can catch up with you like a lawyer in the Bronx, all weaving and bobbing, and jumping out of trashcans, and then you realize, you know, albeit briefly and maybe in a moment of semi-confusion, that all this meaning, all this relevance, is simply an illusion set up by the lord almighty or whatever you call the entity that governs existence to keep us motivated and the wheels turning and thereby ensuring that the rat never actually gets the cheese but at the same time always carries the hope, the torch, that it could someday happen.

The clippers have lost 11 in a row.