Friday, October 07, 2005

Man I love the new alkaline trio album. I keep waiting for myself to get sick of listening to it almost every day, and it just hasn’t happened yet. Thanks ryan, even though you don’t exist on the innernet anymore, you son of a goatless grandma, I mean what a rip, why you gotta pull that shit, if I was next to you I’d slap you & hug you in that order. Not that I’m into that gay shit. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Not that there isn’t anything wrong with thinking there’s anything wrong with that, even though there is, possibly, let me check my bible, oh wait, I accidentally replaced it with kierkegaard’s book about how deep it all is. That pit I dug, not the universe.

so joe sat down at the blackjack table with the large black man dealing cards and the two white guys from ohio were winning and they didn’t give him a dirty look as he sat in, as he had courteously waited until the changing of the shoe, as it was the only table with suitable openings in the house of blues section of the casino, which was noticeably cooler than the Mardi gras themed main section, even though he would later win money there as well, and he didn’t drink anything, that was saved for the hard rock café, three beers, or was it two, in a row, staring at the screen and out the window and wandering for a quick spell to look at the memorabilia and thinking soak this in you never know when you’ll get back here again, and he hasn’t since, but it wasn’t that long ago, I mean, hard rock, not the casino, he got back to that all right, of that you can be sure, and the trumps as well, and all that shit, oh yes, he made his way up and down and up and down the strip many a time, and he had the perfect gambling partner, he did. His sister with the nearly identical gambling schedule and habits and wherewithals, not too obessive, not too casual, just the proper amount of over the topped mania for the turns of the cards, and he could watch football at the underground theoretical hooker bar, wondering if he had found the secret sopranos headquarters, conspiracies seemingly afoot, and just as he was about to call an all points bulletin, superman came and sizzled up the atlantic ocean and made a sauna out of and all the old people went out there and complained about that the iced tea was too expensive. And then the narrator realized it was eleven thirty on a school nite and his beautiful wife was asleep in bed waiting for him and he should mos def get to stepping, as there would be plenty of time over the weekend to make excuses for not writing more crap like this. Gracias a dios, if he/she exists. End scene. Cue the purple people eater, stage left.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Hey werdup. So yeah, and fuck saying so yeah. So no. nah, I can’t be like that. Sigh. I write, like, nothing, except official letters of dogshit acre and little e-mails, and memos to various businesses conducting my business in conjunction with their business and trying to facilitate increased monies and success for both parties, which is a great endeavor not in and of itself, nay, quite the opposite, it is completely part of something, non independent, it’s not literary prowess, it’s jargonistic something, but, no, it’s not jargonistic, the jurk storr steelo still comes through, but not. You’d be amazed at how clear I can be in getting a point across when I want to or have to. It’s uncanny. Which is prolly why I write this confusing ass horse manure for y’all (hi joe) to read, it’s my own rebellious id or 18th personality coming out and playing and running around the yard and tearing balls out for the slip & slide and taking the chonies out for a walk with gertle and uncle Jackson, all those peeps, and non peeps, and what have you entities.

Oh, and in other news:


Lock up your daughters and hide the fine china. You’ve been warned. Salud.