Monday, August 28, 2006

wutt’s da haps on the craps? Serially. Man, I loves me some 90’s rap. Loves me some. Loves me lots. Peeps hadn’t got they heads full a cotton balls and dreams of mtv slurpitude quite yet. They just wanted to rhyme and kick down doors. Or slap speakers with leather whips and chain up a cat to a radiator. Shit like that. Mo money mo problems. Or should it be mo money mo everyone try to get they cookie cutters out and go cutting down to Indiana U like an American flyer. That’s the prob with kids these days, they don’t understand the old days. Like, uh, 13 years ago, when Hi-C was making fun of Tony-A for getting the drips.

And finally someone has built a wondrous shrine to this shit. Bust the Facts. Live it love it, take a bath in it. Load of the uploader and hang out in Lodi for about 83 hours with Jim Morrison’s rotting corpse and tell me how it all went. So far so good so good but I ain't done rummaging. And yes, no, maybe so, exactamundo JJ, none of this makes sense, join the club, the movement, the brigade, or don’t, just hide in your room with your 2 liter bottle of seven up and stare at the wall, maybe the bumrush will come find you. Salud.

Just cuz I busted a metaphorical Swahili proberb doesn’t mean the contingent's off the hook. See that big homey milagro? He gonna eff you up. He gonna smack around a 2x4 and come over to your house. And maybe like build you a deck or some shit. But before he does that he’s gonna look deep in your eyes and check if you afraid, and if you ain’t, he’s gonna offer you an ice cold bud light ice circa 1994 and then the balls are all gonna hit the ceiling in a united front of interminable fortitude, or something like that, depending on the size of the gat. Now tell me when the last time you saw a gangster using a gatling gun? That’s some chachi cream pie tallullah type shit. Gratzi and dusseldorf.

update 9/1/06
wtf? they dumped my link. oh well, see this is why I don't, uh, metablog? is that what you call it? from now on I will link no one, except the frankincense store on nuuanu, right by cheap ass cigarettes. it doesn't exist, but they make a hell of a fondue. anyway, bust the facts is still a bad ass site full of good shit, even if I've been deemed unworthy via my commentary on them. maybe they're irraz'd I pigeonholed them as 90's when they're 79-97. After I axe murder myself in effigy, remember me as a man that, um, was. mahalo. oh yeah, I wrote some crap over at Mal's house. werd ta the bird.

update 9/1/06, later...
just ignore me, seriously. and if you can't, if i'm just too damn interesting, don't take anything that appears to be bitching as such, it's just observational type dillios. see, i ain't keith, but I am, but more than that, i'm not. if you thought i was, then, well, that's that, and I am alfred, but i'm not, i'm not a butler, nor do i spit izms. i did go to berkeley but my name ain't joe. i hate being a certain kind of bird that burt liked and would feed outside his front porch just as much as the next guy, so I won't front on another man's gallivanting ways on that arena. I just won't do it, it's not for me to perpetrate phrases that may or may not be taken without that which comes in the box with that chick with the umbrella on it. oh & don't axe me why i keep doing this update shit today rather than just posting again, you know, drawing out the agony and car accident type spectacle that was something that shoulda been washed under (thru?) the drain anyway, just don't axe me, or ask me, cuz i don't know, it just seemed right, and right makes might, just ask that guy with the guns and the skull fetish going, he gets all kines of props with mickey and pluto, and never has to get a hair cut, not even one, even when people say he looks like dolph lundgren.