If there were any less people reading this crap it would be a, um, queer eye episode? Wait, that didn’t come out right. Dammitt. Nothing seems to now. Come out right. Well, not nothing, er, not everything, eh, fuck it all. Man, the master thesis is like covered in cobwebs like that tractor rusting out in the field, but I know I just gotta pop the key in and crank up the motor & I can get it started again there’s just too much shit going on & whut with this that and the other and fuck it, you know, it’s like, I just can’t find the time and space and necessary motivation to really knuckle down and take the 24 hours and deep bottle of rum I’d need at this point to seriously get into the swing again, and I know I will, and I know the rum ain’t necessarily necessary but it helps and whatever helps and doesn’t kill you and still allows you to live a peaceful existence can’t be all bad, at least in theory, but, oh, who really gives a fuck anyway, certainly not the nonexistent you.
Posted
6:55 PM
by Alfred
Howdy. Yes, you’ve missed me. Or not. I haven’t really been gone. But I have. You know it, I don’t know it, the bum on 7th ave. had no idea it was even pondered, and, wait, you ARE the bum on 7th ave.? oh. My goodness. Well. This is uncomfortable. I just want you to know that I bear no ill will towards your, um, people. I think the domicilically challenged are a vibrant and much underappreciated segment of society. Besides that, someone’s gotta clean my windshield and then almost get run over & flipped off by me, so thanks in advance and arrears.
Lots of incidents occurring throughout the cosmos, but none so much as in my & your backyard(s). Have you ever got down on your hands and knees with like a shovel and got into that shit and figured out what’s in there with like the earthworms and/or concrete mites? Yes, those. They totally exist. Oh you didn’t know? Shit, I wasn’t supposed to tell you.
Yah, when you walk on concrete there the ones whut crawl up your pant leg or skirt opening and get all in your business. Not that business, you sick bastard. No, into your wallet and count your money. You know, like for identity theft. How do you think 73% of that shit happens? It ain’t crackly malone rummaging through your garbage cans, it’s concrete mites, and earthworms, combing through your wallet, writing down your credit card number on their PDA’s, and you, totally oblivious. Jesus, dude.
I’m telling you, man, shit, I got the scoops. I got a newsletter. Lemme know. Or come to my seminar. We can work out the details. I want you informed. I don’t want you getting scammed by mike jones impersonators. I’m a goddamm businessman. Mucking up the water with beuracracy ain’t my motus operandi. Let’s set up something mutually beneficial, win-win, etcetera. Just leave a message with my secretary, and if she’s on her cigarette break, well, count to 10 and punch the wall, it’ll work out.
So I heard that as we (or I) speak, Randy Rhoads and Jim Aparo are playing backgammon, with no fucking idea who the other one is, randomly matched up in an ethereal tournament of the stars. Why shouldn’t a star still be a star in heaven? Yah, of course, some stars are janitors and some janitors blingin and baggin britney clones up there, whut with the karmic balance police, but back to the point, the rhoads vs. aparo backgammon match, you can bet that despite their mutual anonymity, there’s respect in each & the other’s eyes, like, they know they’re dealing with a vintage spirit of striving for artistic perfection, of course neither the type to ever say or intimate such information out of turn or without altruistic necessity, and, well, that shit’s a veritable arcane setting of wills battling for ideals unknown here nor there. Unmitigatedly.
![[Powered by Blogger]](http://buttons.blogger.com/bloggerbutton1.gif){kind=small}
If there were any less people reading this crap it would be a, um, queer eye episode? Wait, that didn’t come out right. Dammitt. Nothing seems to now. Come out right. Well, not nothing, er, not everything, eh, fuck it all. Man, the master thesis is like covered in cobwebs like that tractor rusting out in the field, but I know I just gotta pop the key in and crank up the motor & I can get it started again there’s just too much shit going on & whut with this that and the other and fuck it, you know, it’s like, I just can’t find the time and space and necessary motivation to really knuckle down and take the 24 hours and deep bottle of rum I’d need at this point to seriously get into the swing again, and I know I will, and I know the rum ain’t necessarily necessary but it helps and whatever helps and doesn’t kill you and still allows you to live a peaceful existence can’t be all bad, at least in theory, but, oh, who really gives a fuck anyway, certainly not the nonexistent you.