Friday, May 21, 2004

do you ever make a move, that, right after you make it, that very millisecond, maybe even AS you’re making it, you know you’re fucking up royally? Yup. Well, that happened to a good friend of mine, and I was gonna ask this smurf about some advice on it, but then I realized that, shit, those little blue fucks are way smart and would see right through the bullshit straight into my dumb ass fuckin heart. Goddammit.

Shit, you gotta wish, ya dig, sometimes, that you could just jump in a time machine and switch back that little widget of whatever that what you did and then didn’t do and uttered wrong utterances and then it would be all good, but unfortunately HG wells was on crack and marty mcfly is simply a figment, therefore, and, I mean, if not even superman can spin around the world perfectly to save that broad, it’s like, what chance have I? Oh, wait, he was able to save her? Damn, I always turn it off on that part when marlon brando’s giant face comes into the sky and tells supes to stop, it can’t be done, the repercussions will be drastic, there will be, fuck, and then, so, you’re telling me, he got off scott free? Fuck.

And then in part II they tell him “oh, well, if you turn human so you can bag this broad, well, cosmic etcetera and you can never become super again,” and then he does anyway cuz he finds some crystal? What a fukn joke.

Hold on, getting a call. Hello, yeah, hi, yah, I know, it’s a movie, yah, a comic book movie, yup, not real, ok, yah, gonna take my medication, yah, I’ll call you in the morning, mahalo.

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

Yo, werd to officer bird, I guess I missed the memo, but somehow I stumbled over to the land o’ meesh and whuddaya know she’s back in the saddle in full effect and not even stuck with a late pass. Damn tootin and good to see. Clickie and see whut real bloggin is all about pilgrim, and tell em the jurk storr sent ya. Yah! Yah! (that’s supposed to sound like some cowboy rilin’ all the horses & cattle to get going on a stamped or some shit like that. yup.)

Well I guess I can type more crap seeing as that which is known as transpo, to quote mc ren (don’t ask) is not attainable at this juncture, well, I guess if I pushed the issue I could be whisked (actually I would whisk myself) on a harley v-rod to points unbeknownst, but I don’t wanna be like that, and it does depend on the size of the gat, ah, anyway, details are for the little people (mirror, anyone) and I’ve gotta score some sustenance beyond chex party-mix if this day is going to be officialized as that of which one that actually existed besides just the passage of sands throught the hourglass and air in and out of my lungs and whatever other parts of the body require oxidization.

Didn’t mean that, well, the first edition of it, briefly, don’t read too much (anything) into it. funny, how, hmm, nah, ferget it, but it’s like, the more stabilized my brain the more random and dogshit infested that which comes up on your screen seems to become. Fuck, if I was to simply start jackin heroin I could be the next edgar allen poe, or fuck, I don’t know, William Caulfield, some shit like that, fuck, just, fukn, don’t axe me anymore questions right now, interview over. Peace & aloha, unless you’re not into that shit, in which case eat a can of shit and spread it on some bread for the pita patrol. Ya heard? Gracias.

Tuesday, May 18, 2004

Ian Fleming is a better writer than you me and fukn kierkegaard put together. Just trust me on it. shit, you gotta read casino royale. I’ve tried my pen (er, keystroke) at describing detailed torture sessions, but I don’t know, fleming just blows away anything I could’ve thought of with such an elegant simplicity, as can be seen here as Bond's nemesis (of the moment) outlines the finer points of the forcible info retrieval game, specifically from anyone of the male persuasion. The short version: concentrate on the nuts, which Le Chiffre has been doing for some time before dropping said knowledge on our good buddy 007.

If I may be so bold, allow me to quote Mr. Fleming:

Le Chiffre was talking again.

‘Torture is a terrible thing,’ he was saying as he puffed at a fresh cigarette, ‘but it is a simple matter for the torturer, particularly when the patient,’ he smiled at the word, ‘is a man. You see, my dear Bond, with a man it is quite unnecessary to indulge in refinements. With this simple instrument, or with almost any other object, one can cause a man as much pain as is possible or necessary. Do not believe what you read in novels or books about the war. There is nothing worse. It is not only the immediate agony, but also the thought that your manhood is being gradually destroyed and that at the end, if you will not yield, you will no longer be a man.

‘That, my dear Bond, is a sad and terrible thought – a long chain of agony for the body and also for the mind, and then the final screaming moment when you will beg me to kill you. All that is inevitable unless you tell me where you hid the money.’

Uh, uh, uh, uh, I know I’ve said it before, but shit! this is just, the final word, I don’t know, say it any way, fukn whisper it in Swahili to your secret lover down by the dock, but ian fleming is the fukn man and, well, take that to the barn and roll in it.

PS: you can click here, and then clickie the thingie that says audioblog and listen to me read another ian fleming james bond excerpt, hmm, this one was from on her majesty’s secret service. While you’re over there, hang out and read some of m68’s old shit, he’s like a top notch blogger even though he’s strictly a weekly affair nowadays. He’s a funny guy, seriously, and when I say that, I’m not trying to imply that he’s like a mushroom or something.

Monday, May 17, 2004

check under the lid and tell me if el cid calls. It’s vitally important to victor popopalenko that this pertinent information is transacted via the transatlantic continental shelf bridge over by 40 acres alleyway, yeah, not spike lee’s company, the other guy.

Uh, nah. Um, anyway, the, uh, jurk storr is about to call and that means I have to say “ok” cuz the ball will have hit the ceiling at, oh, I don’t know, 8 billion miles an hour. A time for everything and everything in its place.

Geez, that which shall not be spoken and that which must be addressed, it’s like, what the hell is that, unverifiable phone ringing, it’s, fuck, it’s not, it is, it’s not the batphone, it’s the fuckheadvillephone, strait out of 81st street. Just, not with that edition. The one with the 2x4’s and the 8x6’s, you know the ones, the ones that are straight out of some boatman’s dream of dry shores and licensed figurine sales records. Up there with, say, a gigantic frantically unethical trafficway into the human soul.

Or sold. Heh. Anyhoo. Soul, who sold the soul, who stole the soul as, was it public enemy? Said, anywayz it’s neither here nor there, and that’s from somewhere too, but not just one somewhere, say, like, 2 or 3, or 4 if it’s an afternoon of riverdance tunes. I’m full but I’m hungry and it’s very confusing to a marooned space alien. Not that that is me, I’m just saying, if it were me, or you, or anybody, it would prolly be a little confusing. Depends on your perspective, I guess.

PS: this is ultrab's 667th post. does that mean since i passed the number of the beast that i've gone over to the devil's corner or that i've escaped his evil grasp? or, seemingly, most likely neither? pontificate, discuss, and prescribe medication as desired.