Tuesday, July 06, 2004

Time is a funny, finicky, fickle, filleted, and flamboyantly fraternizing ho of a bag. No, no, I don’t mean it like that, but, well, let’s just say, in one instance, it seems like you have all the time in the world, and then, all of a sudden, with little or no warning, it’s like you have no time, or at the very most very little. Time, that is. To do, you know, those things that need doing. That you’re always putting off. You lazy bastard.

Well in 2 days I board a jet plane for points unknown, except known. And at the end of said journey, my better half will be waiting with open arms wink wink nudge nudge say no more and then it will all be even better than cheddar and as for the hood, you know it’s all good, even if it is up to no good. You know those people that just make everything better, and when they’re not there, it’s like, the overall goodness of life o-meter goes to the left, and then percolates, but, like, cannot find stasis, or, like, the bueno equivalent of total consciousness? sometimes I think that show manimal really had something. I mean, take away the actual show, and shit, pretty interesting idea there. Um, yeah, it’s like that, and that’s the way it is, I’m a sap deeper than an oro. Deal with it negasphere.

I wanna bury this jurkstorr shit so deep in the Amazonian darkness that nobody except for Alan Quattermain will even have half a sheep’s chance of finding it, but then, sometimes, I think, well, it already is, I mean, add internet obscurity plus sentences that don’t actually say anything to those uninitiated in the transcribing of gibberish, and then add a sprinkle of the almighty fact that nobody gives a flying fuck, and wha-lah, you’ve got flambayed rat’s asshole burger, except the one that makes a hell of a fondue.

Sunday, July 04, 2004