Thursday, March 09, 2006

ey yo. in honor of the revival of the master thesis, here's the paltry three hundred something words I bashed out of my magnus opus tonite before the taunting chimes of pop tarts and college basketball highlights lured me away from my sanctum sanctorum. you can kinda see where it's at yet still have absolutely no idea what it's about (kinda like me) so it felt adequately appropriate. It's a little saucy, so, um, drink some ovaltine first. In the meantime, keep out from under heavy shit that may be falling from the sky. salud.

At least he’d had the sense to pull out and bust on the tile. Fucking, her wetness just insane in its completeness, the sensation of the hot water falling on him, her moaning, his thrusts, the buildup, he’d came too late too early at the perfect time; she didn’t seem to care, he didn’t even know her name yet, just that she looked like Samantha fox and it wasn’t even the 80’s anymore, but who could tell with wet hair, both up and down, and he’d remembered at the last second, her bent over and no words of whether or not to withdraw as he announced the moment of truth, he’d yanked his shit out and spurted into the waterfall of blue green shiny formica or whatever the hell it was, confident that his paramour for the moment would not come back with the turkey baster and make a cake inside her uterus for posterity’s purpose of jacking all his money that he didn’t even have anyway.

Seriously, though, what the fuck was going on? Yeah, it was Vegas, and times were crazy, but who had flipped the anti-doom switch on this rambunctious yet g-rated scenario that had up to this point been his life? Suddenly he was that guy, the one who has a bitch on each shoulder and laughs at the billboard showing the family man going outside to fix the lawnmower. The world was sitting on a platter in front of him, the tv dinner of endless poonanny, and all he could think of was when was guy smiley gonna burst out from behind the curtain on stage left and announce he’d been the most recent butt of the nation’s joke as they choked on chicken bones in front of their televisions and laughed their asses off at him to prevent the endless supply of tears that might ensue if they were to take all of 4 seconds to take a deep look at their innermost souls and motivations.

Whoah. I just busted out 695 words of the master thesis. I can’t remember the last time I scribed a one, and that’s a sad state of affairs of which I’m sorry to admit, but rome didn’t get that extra bathroom and the sunroof over the library in a day, I mean, what canya say, I suck so thereby my job is to continue sucking? Nope, fuck that, gotta break the cycle of piling by the pilons. Oh yeah, so, um, yep, the 695 words. They were pretty effin rambling (big surprise) and probably repetitively catching up, so the final payoff may only be in my own mind, the driver seat internal dialogue, even if it does go literary platinum, but it feels good, and there were some nice lines, and I’m not not proud of it. And that feels nice. It hit me tonite that I need to write. I must. Not for money not for fame not for honus wagner cards or wagner records or free hamburgers at Arnolds. Fuck all that shit. No, because there is something bursting within me and it ain’t my colon, at least not right this minute, and not listening to it works for a while, but once that while hits the appropriate nonce or lack thereof, bacdafucup kids, and that’s good and bad, and the interesting thing is that the more I let him out the more ferocious he gets, and maximum ferocity tempered with just a salt dash of 321 contact style safety dance inspired operational manuals and I really do think I’m in business, but not the dinero kind, just the good ol fashioned bangin on a keyboard to hear the strokes and see the words and that magic feeling when you look at a sentence that just appeared or that is in the middle of appearing and you go “damn” and you think “how the fuck I come up with that” and you’ve impressed yourself, and yeah, you might be lying out every last one of your teeth to your ever most captive audience, but as long as you believe it, even for a second, then it’s a successful woolgathering of losses cut and definitions blurred, and the winner is all of humanity starting with you, yourself, and, uh, I. ok, now I really gotta go to sleep.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Hosftra. I know nothing about them, except they are to win. It’s kina like northwestern vs. USC in that rose bowl a while back (12 years) in which, except, for that time, northwestern lost, even though they were supposed to win, but this time, the tables will be turned on fate’s evil whims, you’ll see, hofstra will prevail, it’s colonial conference action.

m68 doesn’t believe. Obviously he is a fool. Forgive him, he knows not what he does, not everyone can have the prognosis skills that I have, of knowing the pride involved with hofstra.

This is very important, vital even. Know it, live it, put all your money plus your goat on this game. And then don’t come after me if you lose, blame it on e-40. congrats in advance on how this will change your life. You’re welcome & I’m sorry.

Does UNC Wilmington have carlos rivera? I don’t think so. Who is carlos rivera. Ha! That’s like saying who is art vandelay. Jesus, man, c’mon, it’s obvious. He’s the antithesis of Lancelot Clokey. He’s the real deal, not a pretender. If you understand that reference give yourself a dollar & send me a bill. Mahalo nui loa and yes it’s true.


muscle68: you will lose
alfred: if by lose you mean win, then yes
alfred: but i will win even by losing
alfred: it's like yoda
muscle68: whoa

update II:

yeah, yeah, I'm sure you all heard, as it was top of the world headlines, hofstra lost. a nation lies in mourning. fuck elvis.