Friday, December 16, 2005

Yo yo yo. Yup, still here. Well, there, for you. Bleh. This whole blogue thang is like so 1982. but yet I still meander back to it, spittin half truths and balderdashed slogans of a bygone era, one that no one really misses, except for lonely janitors, soliloquizing to their mops and cudgels, staring at a mirror in the high school auditorium bathroom, remembering the hair they used to have up top and that what wasn’t growing out of their ears, before cans collected in paper bags from foodmart weren’t their secondary income and their wife’s bowling habit what with hanging out with nether dweller’s down in ohio’s back alley’s wasn’t sapping both heart and wallet, fearful of mentioning any what where why just to avoid another spat and long ago the slacks falling by the wayside and that face, you know that in 1982 it had the look of the tiger, the eye of the walrus, and here you sit in Columbus, cleaning up some 15 year old’s vomit streak from drinking strawberry creek during detention, sip snuck out of a flask carefully hidden in a jacket pocket, your members only façade now worn thinner than the greasy lips with which you voice to yourself the faithless words of keep it going, don’t give up, tomorrow’s another day, and then you pick up your goddamm broom and head over to the library because that old filthy troll that lives in the eaves might have some left over candy for a servant of the night. And that’s all you’ve become. Some sad pathetic creature’s substitute fantasy, a leftover remnant from a society that once glamorized pall malls and sweater vests. It truly is over, and yet it’s only begun, which is probably the most depressing aspect of the whole charade. You know, for that janitor. I think his name’s Charlie? Anyway, he’s not real, but maybe if I have him meet some alligator in the sewer and they come up with a zany hairbrained scheme to rob first national and then do the second cross species panty raid at the gamma phi beta house then I could sell it the fox family or maybe tbs and it’ll be the next big hit after the waltons and that nonexistent show with the guy with the whispy mustache and his motorcycle that always leaks oil and talks to him in his sleep, analyzing his innermost dreams and laughing at what a useless excuse for a human being his skewed sense of reality has made him become. Maybe he could be the getaway car driver. Shit, I’ve got a fucking sitcom on my hand. In fact, you didn’t read this. If I see this on fuckin cbs next year, my lawyer’s gonna go to the courtroom dressed in a suit and give a couple jackers the boot. Long Beach style, via Tacoma. RIP Darrell Russell. I ain’t saying he was a bad guy, I ain’t saying he was a good guy, but he did play for the Raiders, and he’s dead now, so, shit, put her in 4th and drive that Cadillac to Mars, na mean?