Friday, August 19, 2005
Check it out, much more nicely laid out & presentable than the slapup I did in haste and pique over at clipper. Added bonus there’s a pic of my bodyguard throwing up his set plus some other nice graphics from across the eons of this crapfarm. Gracias to Malatron for taking the time, squeaky wheels, grease & etcetera notwithstanding. Werd to the third.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Mr. Blog Soup interviewed me on 8/5/05 and almost two weeks later he’s been much too busy documenting trips to the shoe store among other fascinating endeavors to make the time to edit it, post it, whatever, so it’s up at clipper if you give half a fuck to read it.
Nobody puts Baby in a corner, and, likewise, nobody puts my ass on the backburner.
Mess with a bull, you’ll get the horns, etc.
That is all for now.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Starting over. This is not about what I have to say, more so in the fact of that I will just come out and say it. Right after this.
Right. Here I am. Saying what I was going to say. Important stuff. And that is, uh, that, um, you should always drink ovaltine.
confessions of a terminal slacker
Monday, August 15, 2005
well, muscle68’s supposedly retired. Cry, argentina. Cry like the little bitch you know you are. Cuz it’s the end of an era, skipper. Almost akin to Roger Clemens' last farewell, both for the seasoned vet/still serving insane heat when the bell rang dillio, as well as the prompt comeback after much ado over a premature exit.
But possibly it’s not like that at all. Maybe the last post we ever see of the san diego grandmaster will be of him kissing off the world and a final fuck you adieu as we embrace satan and the lord of purgatory all the while hoping that god has not actually forsaken us, knowing in our hearts that the odds are slim and the house always wins.
Meanwhile this garbage, sadly and against all potential logic, continues unabated, a punchdrunk madman, trudging on for reasons unbeknownst. Spinning yarns on ass crapterpieces and jurk storrs and jinx bathrooms and the air travel velocities of unladen swallows plus or minus infinity squared, all lashed to the back of a homeless shopping cart pusher wondering aloud and in an eerily clear and concise manner what the fuck he, you, I, anyone, is doing here. Who are the sane and who the crazy? It’s mos def not for me to judge. In a world where yadda yadda happens and (insert cause of the month here) is allowed to continue on, well, the yardbirds have inherited the henhouse. Postscript metaphors notwithstanding.