Wednesday, July 06, 2005

I’m fucking tired. I lifted a lot of fucking batteries today. Let’s say you got 72 batteries. And then you gotta lift all them mofos. And then you gotta lift 72 more. And then say you gotta lift like 72 of those batteries one more time each. So let’s say, just for argument’s sake, and obviously this is all entirely hypothetical, that you did as I just said, you would have lifted over 200 batteries, and these batteries each weigh about 65 pounds apiece. Now that’s over 13,000 pounds of weight that you done lifted. And in this hypothetical situation, it was (un)actually more, prolly add another at least 35, so that’s another 2,275 pounds. So that’s over 15,000 pounds you lifted in the span of about 3 hours. At a certain point your arms turn to jelly. And then you start almost dropping shit. And then you have a few beers, you’re feeling alright, you’re typing some horseshit for some bullshit website shit, and you start thinking, phew, glad I went to fucking college and like got a degree and shit, so I could lift 15,000 pounds worth of shit in the morning and then come back and like look at a screen and have to do more shit, and then, I mean, yeah, you can pick up beers and maybe some rum to make a 10th of the pain go away, but it doesn’t go away, now does it? Not all the way. No. you wake up in the middle of the night with your, yes, beautiful wife, and that’s a blessing, no doubt, and she’s got a heart of gold, but your body is hurting, and obviously, even though it’s all hypothetical, you still wonder sometimes, if it really did all happen, that despite the amazing blessings if you didn’t take a wrong turn somewhere, and then you look over at aforementioned beautiful wife and you remember the odd feeling of exhilaration you felt in the middle of throwing all that heavy massification around, and you think, well, sometimes, yes, in a weird way, hard labor is a reward in itself, and then you remember, well, fuck, you ain’t doing this shit for free, and then you think, well, fuck, maybe I ain’t as dumb as I look, and then maybe you fall back asleep, and watch goats jumping over horseshoes maybe of cotton candy and then the alarm rings and you wake up and you might be sore in body and mind but you think, well, fuck it, what’s the alternative, and you realize there are really a million of ‘em, and then you’re out of ideas on the subject and you decide to get up take a shower and shut the brain down for a few hours, just for ole time’s sake.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

Howdy again. ummm, hmmm, I decided it was retarded to hint at a band that I saw play and for reasons unbeknownst except for me, kinda, and not really, to not say who they were, well, one reason is for reason one, and the other to think that people will be like “boo hoo, he thought that band was good? Oh que sera mon dieu,” and etcetera, you know how it goes. Anyway. It was papa roach. Now go eff yerself.

Hmmm. Now that I have uttered the unutterable, what now to do. Sigh. Oh yeah, tony pierce hates jack Kerouac, or, rather, thinks he was a hack. Heh, nice, I rhymed. I disagree. I liked on the road quite a bit, but, granted, it’s been years since I read it. But I liked it. Or did I?? Maybe I’d hate it now. Maybe I’d want to eat it then barf it out then spray paint chartreuse. The point I’m trying to make is, eh, umm, I dunno, but that, shit, is it so fashionable to dump on the mediocre yet talented nowadays? Cuz if so, shit, take a phat dump on me. On my forehead. Cuz, fuck, I dunno. Maybe I’m too praising, maybe I need to start saying shit sucks. Let me start with Meyers’ Rum. Meyers' Rum sucks. Oh my sweet Jesus, I don’t mean it. I could never poop on Meyers’ Rum. It should poop on me. It should take gigantic dumps all over me, not just my forehead.

See this is why I rarely post shit, or rather, more rarely, lately, because I write dumb ass crap like this and then in 50 years someone will read it and say what a hopeless fucking hack I was because my shit didn’t sing like liberace with an electric guitar up his ass. What the fuck ever. This whole if it’s not botticcelli it’s gotta be bottled shit ravioli idiom that is just running rampant like a cheetah that raided the red bull factory is just a donkey anussed beaver ramming horn swaggler episode waitin to happen. Mark my werd(s). by the way, I’m not sure what point I’m trying to make, or if I have a point, the only thing I’m certain of is that this proviso is not an excuse either way. I have no excuse nor point, thus you are fully within your rights and also encouraged to hurl whatever barbs of criticism towards my non-point that you can come up with, they don’t even have to make sense, you could just randomly insult me, so g’head, have fun with it. Gracias.

Well hello there. Yes it is I. Or he. Or it, as it were. Heh. I just did a triple quadruple entendre. Ok, no I didn’t. and in fact, I’m not even sure what that or the other is or are. Ok, I kind of am. But kind of just doesn’t cut it in this day & age, now does it.

Now I could go into all the this that and the other thing that I’ve been up to in the last few days, and, admittedly, or, rather, anti-admittedly, it’s been quite a bit, most of it enjoyable, but, eh, fuck it, who gives a rat’s. I mean, you prolly do bout that more than this, ie, idle chatter is less than actual description of events, but, I dunno danielsan, in that aspect I have this sneaking suspicion, and I’m willing to bet my lack of a reputation on it, that you would be wrong.

Yup, so then there’s that. I will admit that I was able to view a live performance by one of the modern day rock groups and I was pleasantly impressed. I’d honestly thought that rock and roll post 1995 was completely and irrevocably dead in the sense of any type of quality. And not that I’d ever given this band more than a glance and a nod like, “hmmm, they might be ok,” but their live show was heavy on the energy, heavy on the rock, lotsa attitude, strong showing. So, contrary to reports, shit’s alive.

Now we gotta worry about rap, which it would appear is ruling the universe harder than the greatest fears of the dino-riders. But, shit, the way I see it, prop up the goddamm tombstone, cuz Pat Garrett or whoever is right on mofo’s tail, and almost has his head in a locked up sleeper hold, I mean, shit, when ludacris can cavort and pimp out the jams all over the world and keith has to slither through the underground, with admittedly solid cash and of his own accord, I dunno, I’m going nowhere with this, but I think you get my point. And it’s not that rap is dead, but it sure as fuck is hurtin’.

You know, now that I think about it, djxplicit has much more cogent shit to say on that topic than I do, and if he ain’t doing so today, dig through the files. Added bonus: the artist formerly known as Ronnie Ock is slanging his wares on the low over there on a here & there basis as well. Shit, what more can you ask for, except maybe an ice cream sundae and a baseball cap with a super brain scrambler with a range of 30 feet plus options for non retreaded tires to magically appear whut when your shit busts from so many miles traveled seeking out the so-called "truth" only to end up crying in a river of alligator tears upon realization that it’s nothing but a screed-infested myth.