Tuesday, December 12, 2006

You all seem turrribly interested in what I have to say on this flog, not that you should be, but, well, mayne, writing is something that has to happen more mein freundes por mi, but, well, the screenplay is about halfway done, but, shit, the goal was for it to be done by now, so, um, goals is like soccer and hockey, though, right? And they suck, er, at least, no one likes them, kinda like this here space, but that’s justified, na mean? In all eventualities, so, yup. Ok, what the fuck is up with my space bar, shit is starting to piss a type of fill in the blank off, like a kettle gurgling and burning up that water, you know, the kind of which you make your tea, your coffee, and then throw out with the bathwater to scalding reviews. So I painted my kitchen yellow. You may now form a single file line to congratulate me, there may be a loop de lai around some foreign objects in order to facilitate the crowds into a small space, we ask that you keep some semblance of order and restrain from stabbing yourself with sharp or blunt objects, as danger and will robinson have been semi permanently banished from the premises. I didn’t use the word premises already, did I? awesome.

In other news, I promised I wouldn’t say in other news anymore, punishment thereby being derived into the form of having to cancel this whole diatribe and call up mike Wallace and confess that I am the hillside strangler’s step son’s step son, frank, the one who had the dog that didn’t talk to him, the dog that just walked with good manners and even waited to lick his privates until no one was around so as to encourage no one getting offended and potentially switching the channel away from regularly scheduled programming and thus throwing into a complete wack the Nielsen ratings, which we know would be disaster incarnate.