Friday, October 01, 2004

Well it looks like we have a wee smidgen of a time on our hands with which to bring to the bank something that we hope the whole family can share. All of them together. For the happiest day in happtown, for the grand junction of locomotion Andrew pennylotion to grace the scene with a gangsta lean wit slippahs on his feet and a chip on his shoulder, he’s the kind of guy to, fuck, I don’t know, whutever, fuck that guy.

And it’s also kickin the shit with tenderoni stony mcgrolcracker himself, the mightiest panda slaying mofo you’ve ever met in this or 17 other appendages of the smock uniformed alleycat we all knew and er luvved on the boardwalk of broken amateur sports boxing kangaroos with oversized stereos, no, not stereos, phonograph players, like, from the 30’s, and then this, uh, green lantern shows up and makes a giant green pair of boxing gloves and then green, no, not that. Fuck. I knew it. Sorry.

And then, well, it all disentagrated into a pile of assless masticated custard seed oil. Including and or not limited to the jurk storr’s new training class. It is the ultimate training class and better than any other becuz for only the simple price of 19.99 plus shipping and handling we will have that bad bitch of your dreams right there in your doorway, literally in! I mean, partway in, you know, on the precipice, but pieced to come in, knowing full well and good that flaggerty mcflacklesteen and his 83 friends grover and rover will understand what it means to be truly at peace at the moment of piece. And not with each other, with like these really hot uh smurf slash sailor moon vibe ladellers of the night.

Thursday, September 30, 2004

I feel like spoony g except the cranky version. But conversely, I’m not cranky, ie, when I get into closer proximity of the source of said crankiness, for some odd reason I mellow, whut is up with that? Maybe it’s cosmic rays.

PS: it’s my weekly silver & black fuck a city shit. This week’s city is Houston. Fuck you Houston. Fuck texas in general. Fuck the geto boys. (oooh, ok I don’t mean that bit, can you guys move to Oklahoma for a week & call it a dillio?) fuck Houston the porn star, and not in the biblical sense. Fuck Houston the rapper, fukn on sale mofo when keith is buried in the racks. Fuck Houston airport, making me walk around when your fukn automated walker thingies are broken. And, uh, fuck, uh, every ward except the 5th. And uh, the Houston Texans, eat a dick, think of a better fukn name next time. Hi, were the Los Angeles Californians. Dumbasses.

Speaking of places, is it me, or does north Carolina seem like one of those places that’s not real. Like it’s just a finely tuned promotional campaign. For whut, I don’t know. I mean, it’s too perfect. Michael Jordan, Duke, how there’s mysteriously a “south” Carolina, superbowl outta nowhere last year? I think it’s just like a giant area 51 type deal where once you cross state lines they abduct you & brainwash you and then hold you on lockdown and have your stunt double with a pencil thin mustache like make fake phone calls to your relatives saying how much fun you’re having and that the scenery is so magical and like how you just saw the prettiest cow pasture. And when it’s time to go, they put this little chip in your brain so they can control you whenever necessary and you go on your merry way. I mean, Michael Jordan could be a robot for all we know. Why else would mike chackevsky or however the fuck you spell that shit say “no” to the lakers, I mean besides the obvious that they’re gonna suck donkey dick this year.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

There’s another thing I was gonna say, something about how everything written or thought up about if you get deceived vis a vis where your body is is, in effect, or at least viewed suchas through my postmodern subconscious cranium, as a matrix ripoff, and how I believe that that may not (nay, must not) be fair in the biblical sense, cuz the idea of not being, or, wait, the concept of everything being fake, I mean it’s been around since dolly parton first busted a bowling ball in sly stallone’s slugged mug.

Thanks again, or thanks first, or, yup, to comicsdotorg, cuz I’ve been jacking their beats nonstop for like, an eon, and if they went belly up in the middle of the nite, you’d all be screwed cuz you wouldn’t be able to see the ingenius selections of yours truly, the mc trickleberry.

Not to say nay or aye or whutevs to the concept of, fuck it, you know, just that, well, the cuckolds are heating up and barbecuing with dr. ruth whipping up kibbles and bits out by the rodeo bullriding machine. (that's a good thing)

Now I just have to call the hondoc about my auto. He’s like the a-team. No one knows how to get a hold of him. No one is sure what his story is, where he lives, how he works, but they know he gets results, and in order to hire him you have to meet Murdock in the back of a liquor store dressed like a mariachi. That way he’ll know you’re legit.

you never know whose fucking side anybody is on, and if I taught you nothing else, know this, that things ain’t always, in fact, almost never, what they seem. Even to the degree that they might be switching shit up just to make you think opposite that to which you would normally think, ya dig? It’s too real. Imagine yourself in some kinda fukn oasis, ocean spray, palm trees, drinking out of like a fukn coconut or some shit, and it’s like the 28th day of the month and yer like, shit, it’s all gravy, I mean, there is no stress in any indicator level blinking, nothing, and then suddenly, the electrolyte transmitter’s backup system craps out and outta nowhere you’re in this room, but yo like a conference room, and you’re like strapped to this table, with all these electrodes clipped onto various junctions of your physicality, and it’s like all these people in suits and business blouses are like writing down notes and reading figures off of alien looking machines and shit like that, and even when you wake up and start screaming they pay you no mind and just keep scribbling shit on their secret papers.

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

thas right bitch. Fukn carlton. And yes, I know it’s fucking, uh, Wilson instead. Fuck it. Don’t care. It’s all about the, fuck the benjamins. Fuck all the founding fathers, buncha racist ass fucks with Lysol infested hair dryers actin like a bunch of kooks with long falooted Eskimo shoes on, serially, dogshit central.

Oh yah, so, wait. I gotta finish reading this book.

Damn, that was good. Diamonds are Forever, Ian Fleming, you heard it here 83rd.

Monday, September 27, 2004

hey all. First off gracias to the goose for his fine treatise on zero. Zero was once & still is on certain rainy days my hero. Big ups to all other peeps who have graced the netic with their esthetics. I been contemplatin and, eh, shit, I’ll give it a few more, you know, housecalls, before I ring the bell bang the gong all that shit, but, well, hmmm, I dunno.

I do know that, wait, what was I saying?

update: wang chung called, they're not who you think, and it had to go down tonite. aloha mahalo nui loa and all that (don't say jazz) to all the pepcid ac extreme sport providers, I think I got the perfect mix, in my view each peep gave the ultimate, nay, the ultra.

to any haters who question my motives, say whatevs, think it was lame, check the fucking files, check the goddamm fucking files, there's gold in there, Jerry, GOLD, pirated, yet with full copyright protection to the innocent ships they were plundered from, shit that I don't know would have ever occurred if not for this little experiment, so sip on that and shit it down the loch ness monster's esophagus.