Thursday, August 05, 2004
End of an era in oaktown. Tim brown heading off for greener, nay, less crowded, pastures. Gotta respect the man. Shit, I wouldn’t want to cap off my career “waving a towel” either. Sad to see you go, but good luck, mayne. Yah, like you’re reading this. Does it matter? Nein. Is it possible? Aye. Am I a pirate? Maybe in another life, but if I am, I hope at least I have a green parrot with a red scarf. Serially.
Dear editing staff: this is Mr. Fisk. It has come to my attention that the butler has, in fact, done it. By having done “it” I mean sucking up the premises with overbelated talk of birds with clothing, of which my ex-wife Vanessa informed me that I am no longer allowed to ever view in any way shape or form. If and when such an action is undertaken, I have to immediately unestablish myself from any associations involved, and, frankly, at this time I am not ready to relinquish my control of this endeavor. I have also grown extremely tired of the confusion over my first name with that of a baseball player, although I have let it go up to now for the sake of the inherent quality of confusion and my desire to be known yet unknown.
Because of this debacle I currently find myself in, despite the fact that I find much of his work quite stimulating, I must request that mr. Pennyworth immediately be removed from the premises and given a gold watch with the emblem “jurk storr enterprises. Mucho mahalo for many years of quality service.” Then he should be unceremoniously shoved out the door, preferably into a snow drift, and I know we don’t have snow here in Hawaii, but please see what you can do. I understand that this is the first time I have ever called for your services, as you know, normally I am loathe to involve the editing process in this operation in any capacity, but the terms and conditions of my current legal team have informed me that due to impending massive lawsuits designed to cripple my organization, I have no other choice. If you enjoy the continued receipt of your paycheck, I’m sure these actions will be undertaken swiftly and ruthlessly.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
I typed up some crapsterpiece verbatim over at muscle68 which you could & should & would check out if you had any sense of the moment or aftereffects thereof. And after you read my blah dee blah you really owe it to yourself to read every word he ever wrote cuz he’s like mr. Og showtime of which you prolly already know cuz he’s a legend with his own mime. Plus woodsy owl had him as the only guest rapper on his 3rd album, so that should illustrate the argument quite nicely, sign it, dot the line, send it to the printer.
Today is like rainy day central and as my coworker was saying it’s like the day when the substitute teacher shows up and you get to play heads up 7-up instead of running around in the heat outside, which is at the same time crappy and dope, and that reminds me of a comment I got at the aforementioned, so if you who penned it see this don’t think I didn’t give you props. Yah, mad shitty weather, rained all night, to the point where the fam pooch even jumped on the bed even though she’s notorious for chilling on the floor cuz the summer heat, but it was cold scary thunderville and well, this is the point, shit, dammitt, editor, editor, there’s a cockroach in my salad, get the tongs out stat and electrify that shit with the battery cables. Mahalo.
Ooohhhh. In case I ferget. You have to go watch this grayson extended movie trailer, it’s like a promo for a movie that I don’t believe will ever exist, which is a goddamm shame. Many props and thanksgivings to goose for educating my retarded ass as to how to watch it. You gots to save it to your computer, then right clickie and unzip or some shit like that (extract, that’s the term, you prolly already knew this, cuz you equal way more proficient at computer kine shite than me), plus did you know the cackoo cacckoo kayoo from jingling baby (uncle L) is from black belt jones?? I’m pretty sure that’s a true statement, unrelated, yes, but relevant in the cosmic scheme, truss.
Oh yah, here’s the link, clickie the lickie, to catch that grayson dillio. Grayson equals dick grayson, fooh, the og robin, aka batman’s sidekick, and batman’s dead, kids, and robin’s pissed, and ain’t nobody, including a benedict Arnold ass chief o’hara (apparently), gonna stop the bumrush. Aloha.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
good morning, all mein freundes. It is a wonderful day, if only for the sole reason that you get to hear my immortal words of wisdom. But no, alas, my ego does not allow for such pontifications, despite my id’s protestations, so let me now degrade myself by rubbing my head in a puddle of mud, in the typical fashion of an early 90’s rock star, shining in my unknowable knowledge of self, inflicted with the angst and wonder of an aging icon. Depending on the size of your gat, let me know how that digests with your in-n-out burger, chief, cuz you and I both know that the izms I speak are both disposable and irreplaceable. They are what they are and no more, no less. Not even the medium level of haphazardness will allow you to contain your effervescence upon the acceptance of said information. So don’t even try.
I would show you like the most ill shizzles, but then you’d know that batcave shit, and even if you were like the joker sliding down the batpole and accidentally getting caught up in robin’s uniform, I’d still zap your ass with batgas and like leave you in a field somewhere for the commish to pick up and beat your sorry noggin down with o’hara in the hole, and you know they’d pile on the whuppins when bats wasn’t looking, just like you know about those midnite visits to Julie Newmar from the executive trailer. Don’t act like you don’t.
You know whut’s weird, I’ve only watched one episode, but from what I saw, that meth & red show is actually funny. Which is like 360 degrees, to quote Jason kidd, ok, 180, from what you would think, becuz, I mean, shit, it looks mad shitty. I don’t like officially have tv though so don’t take my werd for it. In fact, I need you to forget all that you have read within the borders of your computer screen this morning, and look at the wall for at least 3 hours, thinking nothing of cornfields and bunny rabbits. Mahalo.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Happy birthday, Wes Craven. Good job on that freaky shit.
I know you didn’t have anything to do with adam west batman shenanigans, but, well, I don’t feel like lookin’ at freddy’s ugly mugg on a Monday manana, wait, tomorrow, or morning, or both, questions to ponder over leftover Louisiana hijinx. Well said, but not, well, um, traversed over the 88th parallel. Yup, that one.
Oh, and btw, dead horses are the best ones to beat. They don’t fight back.
In other news, uh, the jurk, um, ferget it.
g-money once said to six-deuce, which is a close personal friend of mine, and don’t tell me I should have said “whom” instead of “which” because 62 happens to be a robot. And he’s not a cop. So, no, you don’t have to desist your altercation. Comprende? oh and what he told me? I forgot. It was vitally important though.
Yah, you better run. To the nearest phone booth. And call me, care of the jurk storr, cuz I’m their #1 goddamm best seller. beyotch.
Ok I’m not, but front street is my fave spot on mundanes. PS: woodsy owl got slapped.
PPS: if anyone has a problem with anything herein unless you’re name his hibi jamb bolt janers jiba you better get to the back of the line and take a number. Excuse me? oh, right. Your number is about 72. aloha.
what was really in that suitcase in pulp fiction?
Clipper is a dog that you’re SO jealous of.