Friday, November 03, 2006

When it comes to the 4 w’s, there’s one that I completed like a champ, I mean, I was the jesse owens, the kurt cobaine (?), the larry legend magic Cronkite of that W, and that was (w)atch the clippers, I did it, yes, and they won, and that’s all I’ll say, even though it was a great game, and cognizant of many things upcoming with the L, and superclose, and melo got thrown out, and Q, well, Q, well, and sam, but fuckitt.

In other news, man, deal or no deal, that shit sucked me in! that lady really worked it, I must say, got over 300 g’s, and only a dollar in the case, wellie well, and the office was a grand champion, that show just never disappoints, and I think the current season is the best, but shit, who am I? tv malone? Nah, fuck that.

But sadly I have not much else to say, oh yeah, the other three w’s. work out. Well, I finished what I was supposed to do yesterday on that front, minus the running, but who can blame me with this weather & the pali being closed, and, um, oh yeah, well, I did, uh a quarter of the day’s routine? The resistance routine, the cardio officially starts tomorrow, I promise, just like celine dion promised that old bald guy that she would, uh, love him forever or some shit like that.

The other 2 w’s are (w)rite, which I’m doing write (har har) now, even though this doesn’t count, but in honor of the late great William styron I’m disregarding that and telling myself that every word pounded out onto the keyboard and into the screen and into the negasphere counts, so, um, yup, good job alfredo sauce. The last & final (sigh) W is walk the dog, which sadly I just feel is not going to happen tonite, but I promised betty that a double walk would commence in the morrow, and the cool thing is she’s a dog & can neither understand me nor call me on my shit even if she does so I win. Yup, I win. I’m the winner. The champ. And, uh, I, um, won. Aloha.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

Time in its bitter pill extrav seems to be pulling like the tide that the prince wanted whut to wack, so I gots to blab blabs atcha and drink tab cola. Nah, I don’t. well, the clips lost last nite. I’ll say no more, leave it for the grand reopening of the other joint which’ll prolly nevuh happen. Let’s see, what’s some deep thought shit I could spit? About ka-zar and shazam and allie mcbeal all meeting in a dimly lit underground (literally) bar with dollar bills thumbtacked to the ceiling? Nah, it’s all too vague, no one would believe it, or, even worse, be the slightest bit interested. Civil war, the comic, not the actual historical event, continues to amuse me, despite the obvious hackitude and crapiness of it, although the art in the main rag is pretty good. Fuck, I’m sorry, the two people that like clips and comics are even pissed off, prolly even more so than you, the reader, the person who, shit, I know, but I don’t know, you know, or you don’t. it’s really, just, it’s really just, it’s really unjust.



did anybody rock the cane style mic like wink martindale? methinks not, but meknowst (knownst?) that anything is possible, but goldang that's a hard look to master, i mean, there's foohs in boe ties and rasberry berets having better times of fashion fo paws than whats wit if your hand is a solid foot from your mouth and your blabblin about hold that tiger or whammy no whammy. serially.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

a bird in the hand is worth 2 in the bush, and i don't think the bush is gonna be a problem (not that bush NOR that bush) but the bird is accomplished and completo. que sera and not lastima, as in gude good. so how are you? don't answer that. the clips are down to the suns, but at a juncture that can still be rectified. i promised myself i would write some shite in either slot 1 or slot 2 or create a new slot tonite. yup, that's what has to be done, and this doesn't count. so, sheeitt, last year it was thompson and this year it's styron, all the greats are becoming the lates. well, i shouldn't say all, there are still a bunch, at least a bushel, well, i hope, of people that don't entirely suck at penning a verse out there, and not a poem, well, it could be a poem, but you know, stringing a sentence or two together that isn't sold for the highest dollar to pimp trucks across the boulevard or some shit like that, a la john cougar or other piles. but hey, money is money and it does make the world go round on its ever loveable axis, now don't it. anyway, the tivo is calling and the clips i'm thinking have a comeback in em on opening nite. i have this feeling that i'm gonna open up clipper again bigger and better and reinstitute comments and turn back on the stattracker and the whole 9, so noone can continue to come and but then i can know about it, ferrilly tho, i don't wanna diatribe you with bball talk & there will be plenty. my 4 w's are work out, write, watch the clips and walk the dog, not necessarily in that order. gracias.

Yo, the Jeffersonian institute called in a way shape form analogy in which you may not comprende nor understand, well touché on that. Goldamm. Well. William styron is dead, que tragedy. For real, though, great great talent. Even though he didn’t finish a book since 79, well, still, hey, lookee um, that guy, you know, whut wrote huck finn, dammitt, not that, the one with Caulfield brandonson, dammit, no. um, who sean connery played an analogy of him in that finding forrester movie, you know, the one they said drank his own piss? He only wrote like one book, er, well, a bunch, but none since, shit, you know whut I mean, so anyway, it’s not how much, it’s how good, even if you only write one quality sentence in your whole life, it’s more than what most people, including this fuckdouche (moi) did, so I have to go home now and try and write my magnum opus, and I’m not talking about the penguin or the, uh, catsup mustard sounding dillio. Bye.