Saturday, August 21, 2004
Howdy. I’m drinking wine, minus the swordfish. I know, I know, that is supposed to basically never happen, but rules were made to be broken, nest pas? That’s French for yeah guy. Or a close variation thereof.
Oh yeah this isn’t keith it’s his, uh, uncle? Yup. Hi there. Keith, you see, he ain’t here no more. He got fired. Yup, canned. Canned like a piece of tuna. There’s like a rotating stable of real writers with real ideals and ideas and common and not so underlying themes taking his place, including me, his, uh, uncle, that’s what I said, right? Yup.
And, shit, I noticed even my own great grandmother, I mean, keith’s great grandmother, which is my, uh, grandmother, maybe, depending on which side of the family I’m on, uh, yah, I’m on the same side as grate granny, which is, uh, keith’s dad’s side, yah, that’s the ticket. And yes, were talking keith the earth x version (not to be confused with the artist sometimes known as reverend tom)
So back to the swordfish. Nope, not tonite. Sorry Charlie tuna, you’ll have to join the wahoo force five seven down with the down with it committee if you want to get any regards on that piece.
Yah, so, uh, greater things to come. Sorry for my rambling state, you know, the vino, and me being keith’s uncle and shit like that, we have slightly similar tones of expression, just like grannie, and, well, but serially, you know the story, your doggette chose me, and like snoop said, you’ve got a choice between gentlemen or gangsta shit style, and it’s like have it your muthafuckin way, and then you go out like q-tip in poetic justice, and then it’s like, whut, or it’s not like it, whatever you decide. I guess I’d just like to take this opportunity to throw up a big eff you to carlton for treating my nephew like that. Years and years of humble albeit possibly misguided servitude and one misplaced reference to a scarf laden parrot and he’s out on his ass.
It just ain’t right. That being said, I really hope, and I’m not just saying this, it’s a real deal holyfield type dillio, gnawed up ears the whole nine yards, I really hope that you’re all having a pleasant evening, well, prolly morning by the time you read this, cuz what with it being at the earliest like 2:30 am on the mainland, you damn mainlanders, with your daylight savings time hijinx, whut involving shit I didn’t even mean to say.
Ah. That feels much better. I’m glad I got all those vitally important issues off of my chest. Me being keith earth x’s aka alf the bat butler’s uncle that is. You understand. Appearances are not just to deceive, there are bigger things here than just you and me, you dig, like, whut ever happened to gilbert grape, shit like that. Peace.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Hey there, this is kool keith earth x version’s pseudo artificial great grandmother, assigned back in aught seventy three by that fake corporation. What’s my name? None of your goddamm business. I’m like, what, 115 years old? I forget. Some of my circuits are a little fried. It happens. Just know that mr. fizzle stick or whatever he calls himself paid off my tab at bennigans and plus threw in some matlock dvd’s so I am good to go and will discuss just about anything you have to wonder about.
How could I betray keith aka Alfred aka joe aka my own flesh & blood like this? Well, he’s an ungrateful ingrate anyway. I mean, where do you think he got his gift of gab? I had to trudge through 3 miles of snowbanks just to even look at a picture of a camel in the store window at Macy’s, and he’s got his pocket computers and fancy wristwatches with the moving hands and all that other malarkey, and I can’t even plug in for a recharge without a chevron card anymore, or at least a letter from Doctor Luthor.
Who do you think taught the kid to talk for christ’s sake? You think his folks had time? They were buried under paperwork from the center for disease control, whut with all the radiation after he developed the 5th nipple. So they're knee deep in I-34 forms and saliva gland tests, the grandparents are off cruising in Majorca or God knows where, and voila! lucky me, I’m watching junior, who for reasons unbeknownst, possibly some good lawyers or said results of aforementioned form transcribing, escaped the clutches of the lab geeks, and, I’m telling you, not a clean situation. The kid could crap through a lead enforced door whut which superman couldn’t see through, that’s the kind of circumstance we had here going on in the peaceful town of the fake name I’ll give, say, uh, Spooner.
Anyway, it’s time for my medication. Thanks for the quick cash Mr. Fisk, you large and in charge pile of masculinity you, and Keith, wherever you are, at least drink your ovaltine. If I didn’t teach you anything else, make an old woman proud and digest your processed glucose. Mmmkay? Alrighty then.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
But this ain't Humpty. I'm the one that said "Just grab them in the biscuits". I'm all for sexual harassment. Chris Rock was right. The only difference between sexual harassment and flirting is how attractive the man is. If Clarence Thomas looked like Denzel Washington, none of that shit would have even happened.
And that's real. I'm not easy on the eyes. I know it. Humpty knows it. Hell, even my mama would say I'm ugly. And I've felt the affects of being aesthetically unattractive. Strippers dont' come up to me right away. Pimple-faced 15 year olds don't smile back at me from behind the counter at McDonald's. Juries convict me of crimes I didn't do. You know, the usual.
But I still get by. I'm not mad at the world. I'm not mad at the hand I've been dealt. I've spent a goodtime bluffing my way through life. Kind of like Humpty, ya know? His nose is big. Uhuh, he's not ashamed. Big like a pickle, he's still getting paid. He's parlayed his super nose into getting busy in a Burger King bathroom. He's crazy. And he's amazed me. He's a freak of the industry.
But I digress. I'm still getting in the girls' pants and I even have my own dance.
editorial staff note: this has been a guest post by bastitch, and he does have his own dance. we've seen it. it's dope. we'd do it. if we could. but we can't. fuck.
You think i'm happy about this picture? Well I aint, jerky.
And I know, I know, I'm dead. How am I making this post? Well, I owed it to Keith.
I met Keith back in 1943. He was a struggling piano player. I told him about what I did, and my dreams and goals.
And if it wasn't for that curly haired sumbitch, I'd be dead by now. Well, I AM dead, but you understand what I mean. If you don't, go fuck yourself Charlie.
I told Keith, Keith, I wanna sing show tunes. He told me no. Go for some soothing, lounge style music. It'll sell. So I did.
I said, I think I should be called The CEO.
He said, No, Frankie, you're the Chairman of the Board.
One night in Atlanta, I said Keith, let's just ditch the hotel room.
He said No Frank, we gotta bury the bodies and burn the evidence.
Keith, I'm not hanging out with a black guy and a drunk.
Don't worry Frankie, he said, Sammy's not really black and Dean's a loveable lush.
I'm glad I listened to him, who knows what the fuck woulda happened.
Lemme tell ya something...I run this city. Ever run a city? Well I have. Which city? Whatever fucking city I'm in, I run it.
If it wasn't for Keith, I'd be like you. But thanks to Keith, you all wish you could be me.
the Chairman of the Board
Gosh, like I said, very busy yet not much going on. I think Mr. Fisk alienated a lot of people or at least scared them off brushing Keith/Joe/Alfred out the door so unceremoniously. He really did bring in a snow drift too. From Antarctica. There was plenty in the northern reaches of Alaska apparently, but Mrs. Fisk had her heart set on visiting a scientific research center near the south pole anyway, so they were in the neighborhood.
Well, I have to go. Catch up on the accounts payable, you know. A lot of bitches owe us money, and like AMG said, they better have it. Our collections department has ways of overextending our parameters beyond the phone line and getting a little more personal, although these days it rarely comes to that.
Monday, August 16, 2004
Hello. I am the adminstrator. Mr. Fisk has asked me to let you know, in case you hadn’t noticed, that Mr. Pennyworth is no longer in our employ. We are still trying to figure out how to remove his name from that designated as the author of each post. Much thanks to the wonderful folks from the 68 and 8 corporations for contributing likely the most quality material that we have ever had the joy of experiencing within these walls, having endured over two years of the “maniacally deranged scribblings of a snobby pseudo intellectual sloppily dressed agoraphobe” as the boss has taken to calling him.
Don’t shoot the messenger. Once our technicians figure out how to undo the butler’s apparent stranglehold on the last vestiges of the template and a few minor proprietary matters, which I am not at liberty to go into now, we feel that this forum or tableau will be even better than any imagined it could ever be. We are orchestrating maneuvres which will bring more of the most brilliant and ingenious persons exhibiting wares within the walls of justice at apropos times declared in a never released schedule which will soon be made known to nobody. knock on wood.