Friday, September 03, 2004

I need this.

I’m such a silly fucking hoodeler. Well, we got 8 peeps in the fantasy football all world whatevs now, but I guess I set the limit at 15 teams. Silly me! Haha. But, well, you know, we could have a perfectly incredible and that which you would be jealous of for all eternity fake football uh, whatever, with the aforementioned 8 expert managers but, hey there’s room for, uh, hmmm, 15 minus 8, ah yes, seven. 7 more spots if you wanna be down, so don’t clown with downtown Julie brown, get yuir, uh, drown on. &, uh, I mean your sorrows and/or your gullet, not your actual self. We’re not about self inflicted suffocation in this etcetera acre. Truly. Oooh yah. Yahoo. League name bloggerville, password snoopdogg, and, uh, don’t ever accuse me of repeating shit too often cuz it’s a blatant lie as due to the fact that it was my 37 other clones that said it all those other times & good luck proving otherwise. Seriously, good luck. For real. I mean it. Ok.

Fuck, I’m fukn exhausted. Was stuck here last night late with old leary lady (not literally) doing whatever it is that I seem to have to fricken do to keep the whatever with the, well, you know, and, uh, it could be worse &, well, it could be better, but what situation here on god’s green frikken earth CAN’T you say that about? FUK IT.

Yop. So?? Well then. Let’s see here. And then, the, uh, ball, hit the, uh, FUCKN CEILING.

Yuuuupppp. So then, well then, and how about them, uh dodgers? Still in first. Chuuch.

Why oh why oh WHY do I post this doggerrelll? It’s like, a schism inside a whatsistat inside, of a, uh, quandary?? Fuck, I know that’s not the word I’m looking for. Ah vell.

Thursday, September 02, 2004

Howdy mein pards, the fun thing about your car not werking is that when you try to start it it goes chugga chugga bing bang pow except for the last 3 werds are a total lie.

Uh, drinkin heinies & rappin on the innernet.

Don’t you wish you were in my posse? You could be. Simply come to my seminar. You’ll have crazy bitches and like speedboats and mafia kingpins all up in your shit on a positive vibe and even a bad hair day will turn into a magical miracle.

You’ve gotta truss me on this one. Rollin with this crew is like, uh, like, shit, it’s like, uh, it’s phat. Phatter than, uh, a really phat barrel of extremely toxic chemicals about to roll down a hill & crush your spleen.

Ooohhh, I just got awarded a job, which means money in my pocket, which will go towards fixing my car which appears unfixable, which will go towards mortgage, towards electricity, towards credit card bill, towards, uh, water bill, towards, uh, the jurk storr, towards, uh, none of your goddamm business.

See, whut we’ve got here is failure to communicate. I’ve got my suspicions that homey the clown is sparkin doobs up in the hizzle when he should be here checkin out my, uh, flux capacitor &, uh, muffler bearing. Yup. Oh well, don’t talk down on a player’s name. Heard that one from, uh, jack lalayne? Yah, why not.

i feel obsessive complusive. i want to be friends with him because it will show me that i'm not that kind of girl. unreponsive so far. what can i do? become a stalker? i mean, all i want is for my esteem in my own eyes to rise to the top. i guess it's out of my hands no? the friendship isn't for me to choose and if i feel cheap and bad, it's probably because i am cheap and bad.

could we not be friends?

There’s still time to join up with the world’s coolest yahoo fantasy football dillio by going to yahoo and typing in fantasy football and then hitting your return button & clicking on that whatever and entering the dillios of league name bloggerville and password snoopdogg and then showing up for our draft this Sunday. I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say it will prolly be the signature moment of your life. 3 spots left, so don’t forget to run over your neighbor’s throat on the way to the computer.

Beans and rice is hella fukn nice.

Take a pencil and insert it into a sharpener and it gets sharp. Take a, um, wee willie winkie escalade, and insert it into a, uh, flattener, and, fuck, that’s just stupid.

The really lame thing is there are people like bastitch that type out these incredibly eloquent ponderances on race relations, humanity, the economy, the motivations of individuals and ourselves as an overall society, and, I mean, dog asses like moi that just type until their fingers bleed, none of yielding any quantifiable yield, are not, like, uh, kicked off the internet.

It’s really quite a deep statement on, uh, klingon mating rituals, if you think about it.

Who gives a fuck whut I write. Who gives a rats burger if you give a rat’s burger. Who gives a slice of cheese if I forget my cheese slicer.

I’m like the avant garde instapundit up in this bitch today. Check your ham sandwich at the door and keep your shoes on the opposing didgeridoos. Like Australian outback fucktard essential acreage in the afghanistanian forest.

You know whut bums me out about the deal with Afghanistan? It’s that it used to be my trademark random country to say, like, “oh, I was eating some afghanistanian goulash” or “yeah, meet me on 3rd street, in the main promenade of jersey city, Afghanistan” or, uh, ok, not that one, but, well, now, like, Afghanistan means something.

The saddest part of human & American society is that I just actually had that thought. How could I be so fuckn selfish as to be concerned about my inner thoughts and blah blah ishes with fishes in regards to a war torn country with women children and innocent mens and their dogs dying in the streets as warlords rape & pillage and I’m just thinking “oh, there goes my catch phrase” and it’s not that I’m evil, it’s, uh, shit, that’s a cliché.

FUCK. What isn’t a cliché? Can I write one goddamm thing that isn’t a fuckn cliché, please? What, if anything, hasn’t been done? Knock fucking knock. Anything?

Fuck it.


And I only meant antithesis of copyright for the sigh part, as in, eh, fuck it, you get it, and if you don’t, check my size 9’s, except they’re size 11’s, trick.

Sigh (opposite of copyright) I guess it’s that time again, time to type up shite that no one except you dear reader, reader my dear, dearly reads, becuz, well, why, I don’t know, that’s something between you & your, fuck, whutever.

I was thinking this morning about, eh, it doesn’t matter.

So here I sit. Hmmm. I’ve got shit to do. Fuck this. Maybe after I do that which needs doing I’ll pound on this keyboard some more. Or not. Fuck it.

Wednesday, September 01, 2004

Howds. I’m back in the saddle at the, uh, well, semi in the seat? Fuck I don’t know, but I just wanna tell all the fans of toto that we ARE going to do a reunion tour and they’re WON’T be an announcement. That’s just the way it’s gotta be. Many apologies, and, uh, fries with that.

Make the, fuck, switch? Nah, that was an unconscious reference to something I read that true wrote, who is, in actuality, living the dillio while all of us, ok, me, ok, fuck, I don’t know, just whatever on the frillio. Fukn retarded. Me not her. Uh, this not that.

Anyway. Mosey on over to bring the beef and see whut she’s up to. All kinds of uh shenanigans and high falooting rootin tootin fresh and fruitin type whatevers.

I feel, like, guilty that I’m not, like, concerned with all this heavy shit, I mean, I was watching jimmy carter deliver his stump speech at the dem convention in 80 and then Arnold in his speech today at the gahden (btw watch the OG Manchurian candidate) and, uh, fukn Arnold, it was, like, ok dude, what catchline from your movies DIDN’T you use, you fukn pile of donkey ass shit burger especial?

And that line about the soldier saying “I’ll be back” in iraq to fight with his buddies? Uh, shit, I guess I shouldn’t touch that with an 80 foot long astromedallion, but it’s like, how blatantly can you pull on heartstrings and like fake the funk on a something or other, I mean, fuck, I mean, c’mon mayne, it’s not all good in the hood, you can’t just propogate like that’s the norm, that there are peeps with half their leg blown off like “yeah, get me back out there” but I guess maybe there are, and, I mean, sports analogy, I mean, it’s like a football player who blows out his leg being like get me back out there, and that’s nothing right? That ain’t war, so maybe we DON’T know the cause, maybe it IS all super propogation out there, maybe the soldiers ARE super down for this cause, maybe it IS the democrats mixing the message and casting blame and maybe this IS a just war.

Fuck, I don’t know, but I prolly disrespected like 60 million people with my retardedness. But my point, yes, buried deep within a cubic squirrel, wuz that it’s fucked, in my opinion, to use a wounded confused kid as a tool for your smiley faced whatsistat, especially when you’re followed up by two smoked out bimbos of blue blood joking about how their old man who supposedly is holding the country together had nothing to do but burn time and fuck off after he gradded college. I guess that’s just me, maybe my prescription running dry has affected more than my nervous tic and secret invisible friend reappearing circumstances.

Having said that I’m downing this glass of wine and bidding you adieu to go to sleep and leave you with the knowledge that Hawaii sucks cuz they won’t let me play no limit texas hold em on the innernet, cuz if they did, um, I’d win a shitload of cash.

oh yah and i haven't decided if i'm really back, uh, this might be like, shirley who you don't call that impersonating me if anyone is checking the records for like posterity.

Tuesday, August 31, 2004

Hmmm. Seems to moi like this lil smidgen or at least my portion is getting way too much about me explaining blah blah blacksheep type scrappies instead of just delineating into whut the fuck I was gonna talk about in the first place anyway, which was prolly nothing anyway, so, uh, fuck it.

Eff you carlton. Serving notice. You too unk. This is the original franklin mint delegator. I can and will throw down biffs and henries whenever wherever necessary notwithstanding.

Suckas. Enjoy yer fake paradise aka jurk storr dogshit. See there I go, whether I’m my uncle or me or my great grandma I still just fukn belay on shit that does not fucking matter, I’m too deep in the, fuck, whatever the fuck it is, fantasy ass fark salad street sweepin ass crack of my ingrown psyche to crawl my way out, I mean, whut the fuck??

Whut is going on when you deliberately and purposefully tell yourself and, uh, the brigade, that you specifically will not elaborate on a given topic and or lack of topic and then you immediately just waver off into the exact exactitudinal forecast that you predicted you would not endeavor on? What is that called? Definitely not, fuck, whatevs, shit, I feel painted, corner, john candy on his boat eating fishsticks, all that shit.

Oh yah, postscript unrelated: Ennywayz, hey, there’s still 5 spots in this yahoo fantasy football dillio. Check it out, league name bloggerville, password snoopdogg. If you’re interested hit it up.

Maybe I’ll delete this later in a moment of paranoia of whut I know not, so if yer down, there’s no better peep than downtown Julie brown and no better time than now.

Oh yah postscript unrelated part deux, the return of steven segal’s ancient sideburns: I watched a DVD about the outlawz and wrote a song about, like to hear it? Here go.

Monday, August 30, 2004

Well site meter, er, actually, gostats, or, whatever, came and went quite quickly if any of you noticed. I’m starting to realize why alfredo aka keith aka ungrateful pile of donkey ass nephew sacked the whole idea last year, it was just too much posse of looking at that shit and thinking “hmmm, such and such came here, let’s see where they came from, let’s see where they live, ooh, this person linked this crapsterpiece,” blah dee blah dee blah, who serially gives a rat’s asshole burger. I verified my suspicions, which is that we get about 8 million hits per hour. Beyond that, i'm over it. End scene.

I’m thinking about revamping the side bar to reflect the new direction etcetera without bat servants and potty mouthed verbalists but well at this juncture I just can’t be bothered, so bust an egg foo yukmouth if ya don’t like it. It’s all good in my hood, dig it. And even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t thrash on yer noggin with my wherewithalls, cuz, shit, truss me, I could and possibly would but I know it wouldn’t be good, and not that that’s the reason I don’t, but it’s among a plethora.

I must say that carlton and myself are deeply satisfied with the status reports we’ve been getting in with regards to the product quotient numbers, especially from the eastern Europe judges. Mahalo and aloha and anything in between that’s considered a muy bueno is on its way to all those, and you know who you are, who make the struggle a little less of a debacle on a daily basis. Peace versus grease, do they have to be sworn enemies? Expand your mind and your dog will follow. And if he doesn’t, well, it wasn’t meant to be and maybe you should give him to the circus. Mad good jobs, kid.

How-dee pards and pardettes. Some super fast crapsterpiece action for the Jackson brigade whut with ta whet yer whistle and tinkle on yer funnybone, ya heard?

Well, the Olympic flame in Greece is out and this drunk welsh jurk storr (yah I said it beyatch, coopt this in your chicken feed stable) aficionado says good riddance to bad rubbish, even though I quite enjoyed it, parts, I mean, but, fuck, if you can’t keep the lucky charms guy off the race track it’s like go back to the drawing board, or at least really run him over with a car, issues with the mentally ill notwithstanding, meaning I won’t let them stand. Whatevs.

Well, there’s a bunch of crapsterstyles that were gonna be the additional features in some kinda, uh, escalade, but, well, there has been an influx of other necessities which have called for me to say hasta la vista to your babies.