Friday, October 25, 2002

hidey howdy ho. once again i sit here and ponder what to say, and what comes out? blah.

you should really check out utter wonder. a super hilarious hill of hilarity. he even reminded me of who it was i was trying to think of the other day. Bob Eubanks. THAT's who i was saying was a copycat Chuck Woolery. Now i don't know if that's fair, they're both pretty damn old school, but it was bob eubanks making an ass out of himself with that clear eyes guy - ben stein - on some bloopers show the other day. it is so vitally important that you know this! please get out your notebooks and a very sharp knife and write it in blood with the feather from a cockatoo. i mean, what if you get kidnapped, and you've gotta come up with bob eubanks or it's hasta la vista baby? you laugh now, but you'll hear me later and then it'll be ME who tells YOU how it is. how it IS.

DAMN. it is a day, nay, a week, where crap turns to frigid frozen crap. i shall remember this week of blogging fondly as the period where i really found my voice, and then went and got an esophagus transplant. maybe a fukn rhesus monkey should be writing this. ya know whut? fuk it. come here Coco. ok here's the keyboard, go for it.

HI i AM rhesis munkee alfred is a fukn dumbass i am the true BATMAN butler. attention all primates, the super secret meeting is this weekend at gorilla grodd's swampland legion of doom office. i'll bring the bananas and copies of 1984, both the album and the book. we'll blast van halen and read george orwell until we sort all this crap out. over and out. ok i'm gonna start going ooh ooh ooh ahh ahh ahh again so the human will think i am stupid.

isn't that cute, Coco pounded on the keyboard for a while. oh Coco, the blissfull ignorance that you live in, if only i could be a rhesus monkey, i would swing from a tree and take dumps on people on safari and pound my chest and smile that super cool monkey style smile.

hmmm, that should be enough for a friday. happy weekend all you phillie blunted philanderers. oh yeah go BEARS! oregon state this weekend. and don't forget to catch the UH Rainbows, (oh EXCUSE the fuk out of me, i mean Warriors, wouldn't want to think our football team is gay or affiliated with Jesse Jackson, now would we?) take on Fresno State in an hour and a half. go bows! um warriors!

and to that 13 year old kid outside 7-11 that kicked my ass and took my Tony Hawk t-shirt yesterday - you're going down punk! I was distracted by my blue vanilla slurpee, and dammit i had been doing some serious weight lifting earlier in the day and was SUPER sore. if i see you and your goddam red bicycle and notre dame hat EVER again i swear to God i am telling your mom.

long beach.

well happy aloha friday everyone. it's a fairly mellow day here at the skunkworks, just catching up on thangs, thought i'd shout at you for a minute.

coming from the maybe there is some fuckin justice in the world after all department, 2 very different things:

1) looks like they finally caught the snipers - must feel GREAT for those in the affected are that they can go outside and chase the ice cream man and run in their sprinklers again! can we take a few days before all the movies of the week get started in production? let's all give a little mental thanks to the law-enforcement personnel, the guys that called in the car at the rest stop, and whatever higher power you may prefer, that this thing was stopped before any more people were killed. Thanks and prayers are also due to the victims and their families, whose sacrifices may have provided the evidence which finally nailed these shitbags.

2) ah-HA! the shoe is on the other foot, eh? jesse jackson is now being asked for an apology. from the national association of cosmetologists, who say his DUMBASS remarks regarding the movie, Barbershop, namely that the creators should edit out certain parts, has hurt their business. they furthermore make the excellent points that Jesse by attempting to dictate rules and boundaries within black film-making, has possibly potentially stifled the creativity of other black artists throughout the country who may be hesitant to fully express themselves due to the fear of some asshole like Jesse coming down on them. the ever-informative instapundit alerted me to this and you can find his take on it here as well as the full story here. some of you may remember that when jesse first made his comments about the movie (about a month ago) i posted a nice little tirade about it, which you can read here.

Jesse, please, just step away from the microphone. go home. put on some relaxing music, take some happy pills and RETIRE already. you irrelevant media-hound.

ok that's it for now.

Thursday, October 24, 2002

i am number 1!!!

not nelly, not elvis, not the beatles, not the frikken beach boys and not madonna and sure as hell not led zeppelin or quiet riot, but damn that would not be inadvisable.

i am number ONE and have ultimate shit-talking rights and all associated privileges when it comes to the following topics:

fuck the rest oakland raiders t-shirt

elvis impersonator camel toe

i mean, what else do i goddamm frizokken need? whoa.


i nkow i told yu about hoseman interviewing meesh, yeah? it's here. so you should definitely read it. and don;t worry there iznt any weird stuff that would alert the authorites. strictly clean well visually that is :? well then.

so az you may hve knowne a certen varsity member of the g-town moneyhandlers were evicted from section 89 off the block about hmmm 5 minutes ago. and the guys name was bill.

anyway that's all for now.

not feeling particularly inspired today, but the boss is heading out for a little while, so i'm gonna take this opportunity to babble for a little while.

what is it about the late hours that everything seems so frikken meaningful and deep, and then you wake up in the morning eat breakfast drink coffee go to work and it all seems like a fukn chore again with little or no tangible substance or essence beyond x,y,z. you know, algebra, x=y+z. waking up=breakfast+coffee. work=call people+type crap. lunch break= drive+eat. writing blog=go to blogger + type crap.

cool. someone called and ordered some crap. little crap. but commission for me. every little bit counts. word.

was listening to Body Count this morning, that old Ice-T with his heavy metal band album that had tipper gore in such a fukn uproar ten years ago. probably the main reason that i didn't vote for gore, besides the fact that he annoyed the hell out of me, was that i could not abide by that self-righteous censoring hobag being first lady. i'd rather have fukn martha stewart as the first lady than that dumb bitch. anyway, i've got the OG body count album WITH the cop killer song on it. I still can't believe that Ice-T pussed out and pulled that song off that album. anyway, whatever. some of the other songs on that thing are way more hardcore than that, i mean there's one where he chops up his mom for being a racist bitch and hating his white girlfriend and scatters her body pieces all over the country. oh well that's ok, but just don't talk about killing cops. bullshit.

the weird thing is i'm not really in a bad mood right now. seriously. it's just that, i don't know, sitting here looking at this frikken computer i just don't feel the super neato meaning of life jumping out of the refrigerator with a fukn glittery cane and singing "always look on the bright side of life"

i know i've used that line before somewhere in here. it's from monty python's meaning of life, which if you haven't seen, go rent it.

i just don't have the energy right now. i don't feel like being clever, funny, amusing, i just feel like typing enough crap to the point where this looks like a decent sized blog entry. then i'll head over to google and type in the first phrase or word that comes into my head, hit image search, and whatever picture looks good, even if it has nothing to do with what i'm writing, ya know, especially if it has nothing to do with what i'm writing, i'm gonna slap it on here. i'm not gonna spell-check this, i'm not even gonna read it over. this is my new art for the day. fukked up crap. it's so artistic that the artist wanted you to feel the angst and issues he was having, so he couldn't sell out as far as checking it for errors, that would be like throwing a wad of donkey shit at the mona lisa. no links either, not for this blog entry, that would involve going back and reading this for words to link. i just couldn't sell out like that. not this morning.

that's it, i'm out of words. i was gonna add a paragraph about my sam snead og golf clubs, but i don't know, it just seems so cliched. i mean, everyone blogs about their rusted out ready for the trash but you hold on to them cuz you never know when you'll throw that old ratty golf bag full of rusty clubs over a fence and sneak onto a golf course with a 40 ounce of Schlitz and play a few holes with the big boys. i mean, god, i just can't be that typical can i? i won't. i refuse. and i would go back and edit out this paragraph if it didn't go against my current beliefs about editing and reading crap and giving half a fuck about who or where or how my words are interpreted.

do you speak chinese? i don't.

exit: stage left. lights dim, curtains close. audience looks at each other in stunned silence and horror. sound of birds chirping. end scene.

Wednesday, October 23, 2002

Mooseman and Garfunkel were chilling like villains. If they had dipped any harder they would have been in violation of section 85 of the temperature code. Their Members Only jackets were properly pressed and draped for maximum carnage. Their sideburns were groomed yet slightly ruffled. Their aviator sunglasses and belt buckles were perfectly centered and shined to a buff not seen since the chariots of the Roman Empire.

"Is it me, or are we the two goddamm biggest players ever to touch base on the 808?" crooned Mooseman in his signature baritone. Garfunkel flashed his patented k-swiss judo sign. There was absolutely no doubt that their pimp factor was at least 5 and most likely 6, totally shattering the scale established by OG Ratbone in 1957.

They headed out the front door of their East Side condominium duplex. The children running through the sprinklers outside parted ways like the red sea in awe and admiration. It was as if you could hear a pin drop. A young mother wearing jean shorts and a tank top that said "sugar and spice" batted her eyes and mouthed out the words "off the heezy" to them, smacking her lips. Their swagger and momentum allowed for only a slight nod and a lazy smile. There were bigger fish to fry.

The Yugo with chrome spiked rims and flames of purple and green was waiting in spot 22. The only spot allowed for true ballers. The booming system kicked in, and Pretty Boy Floyd, Leather Boys with Electric Toys, blasted from all 68 speakers throughout the fine piece of Eastern European engineering. The patent leather seats were reclined to the specified measurements of 3.8 and 4.2 respectively.

All that was left to do was let the vibe carry them. The games had begun, and their quarry had already caught their scent on the wind. But they weren't running. Oh no. They were waiting. With bated breath and heated engines. Revved to maximum capacity, deployed for ultimate satisfaction of the 69 Kings of the Pacific Rim.

And they were off, nothing left but the faint scent of Drakkar Noir and the telltale whistle of a nearby whipoorwhill, fluttering from tree to tree, looking for that which could no longer be found.

I was watching cnn/headline news on the ol' tellie this am, and they were talking about the sniper. One thing that struck me was, they suspect that possible witnesses are not coming forward because they may not be legal citizens (as in illegal aliens). The police chief guy was on the news saying something to the effect of, "we want to emphasize that we are not concerned with that, and we really need people to come forward and help with the investigation."

However: I never heard the guy say, "We will not fuck with you, and/or detain you, due to your legal status, if you come forward and help us out." If I was an illegal alien, and I had witnessed something regarding a case with the HIGHEST media coverage possible, I have to admit I would be pretty damn hesitant to come forward unless I felt assured that I would be able to say my piece, help out the authorities, and then go on my merry way. The government has to EXPLICITY tell the country that if you are an illegal and a witness in this case, you will not be hassled due to your status. Especially in light of the language barrier more common to illegal immigrants and their natural (due to their circumstances) paranoia of law enforcement. I feel this is CRITICAL in this case, as the cops need any little clue that may be out there, from any source. And if this has been said by the authorities, and I didn't see it in the soundbites, then it's the media's responsibility to make sure it GETS in the soundbites, as that is what these people are most likely to see.

Rusty Trumpet has come up with a very original theory behind the motivation of the sniper. It's based on the idea that all serial killers are sexually motivated, and that the sniper is no different, even in light of his impersonal and random pattern. Check it out here. At first you might laugh, but then you'll think, "Shit, that makes a lot of sense…"

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

So anyway, it all started innocently enough. I was reading a little DC Pierson and listening to Iron Maiden's Number of the Beast. I was getting to feel a little antisocial and demonic from the bumping rythms of Children of the Damned. There was a small trickle of goat's blood dripping from the left side of my lips, as I'd stirred some in with my coffee (one of those mornings, indeed.)

The recipe was set for some violent hijinks. The kicker was Mr. Pierson's interesting description of his new attitude towards life. He doesn't give a fuck, he's flipping off old Grandma's with leukemia or something like that. I thought, well fuck, if he's doing that, I should kill the head janitor here at the skunkworks! I mean I've hated that fucker for a long time, him and his combover and swashbuckling attitude, thinking he's the shit with that newfangled mop and his fancy chair.

So I grabbed the plastic flyswatter that hangs from the corkboard on my office wall. I had my keys with the bottle opener attachment that I had modified while sitting on the throne the night before into a very sharp little knife. Funny how you do little things, harmless hobbies really, while you're dropping the kids off at the pool.

Anyhoo, I walked into the head janitor's office. He's sitting behind his desk, surfing the internet, that smug fukn bastard. There's a plaque on the ceiling that says, "Janitor of the Year award, 1977." Who the fuck puts a plaque on their ceiling, Gus? So I start up on his face with the flyswatter. He's like, whut the fuk main? And I'm like payback is a bitch Mr. Oh I'm so cool, and I start stabbing him through his gabardine lined aloha shirt and his plastic pocket protector. He's squirming and flailing around and like grabbing me and shit, but I'm like, hasta luega janitor-joe, it's time to swim with the fishies, and Julio says "hello" and I can feel this crazy grin spreading across my face.

After it's done, I decide to hang his bloody body up from the skunk desmellifier we've got out in the shop, then I start like throwing darts at it. It's pretty fun. 20 points for a nostril, 10 points for his mouth, 5 points for his forehead. Damn this is the life! All I need is a fukn Atari and it would be like something out of a Toys R Us commercial. That fukn Giraffe, though, ya know what, NO. fuck that giraffe. That giraffe is not of this earth and not of the grain of alcohol that I need to ingest at this time. Goddam FUCK that jeffrie giraffe son of a bitch. Wait, where was I, oh yeah, playing darts on a janitor's hanging corpse.

Pretty soon, one of the fukn skunk inspectors had to bust in and ruin all my good times. Fukn prick. I guess I should have planned this out a little better, like with a getaway route and everything. But fuck, I mean, all that MTV and Street Fighter had me off my rocker. Long story short I'm writing this from Jail. From Jail, that's right, and all I wanted was a goddamm Pepsi. One fukn goddam pepsi, and he wouldn't give it to me. I'm not crazy, you're the one that's crazy, I went to your schools, your institutions, and now you're gonna tell me that I'M crazy? Just cuz I slaughtered some dude and skinned his foot and used the skeleton foot for a tribal hat and did a rain dance and drank Snapple Rasberry Ice Tea. I didn't WANT snapple, I wanted a FUKN PEPSI, but YOU wouldn't give it to me, you fukn corporate bigwig in your $80 necktie, now WOULD you?

The sucky thing is just as the title track was coming on, "I left alone, my mind was blank, I needed time to think to get the memories from my mind, what did I see? Could I believe? That what I saw that night was real and not just fantasy?" JUST, as the banging guitars were gonna kick in, my fellow employee who I THOUGHT was my friend knocked me over the head with a golf club and it was light's out.

Jail's not so bad. Once they found out I killed someone, especially a maintenance technician, the other guys in here give me a pretty wide berth. Apparently the janitorial arts are HIGHLY respected in the slammer, and if you've bested someone of that caliber, well, let's just say I've got all the cigarettes I could possibly smoke. It'll probably suck a lot worse once I get shipped off to some mainland jail, I mean I'm chilling in the HPD lockup right now. That's assuming I lose my case, I mean, I was under severe mental anguish, and I'm pretty sure that I can sue Iron Maiden, I mean, that wasn't me, that was NOT ME. It was Eddie. It was fukn Eddie.

Oh well, I'm almost out of room on this roll of toilet paper that I'm writing this on. Gotta seal it up in a piece of mattress fabric, toss it out the window, and hope my buddy G-Dog remembers to come by, pick it up, and throw it up on my blog.

Hopefully I'll be out of jail pretty soon and back entertaining all of you. It's been a fun ride.

PS: then I woke up and it was all a dream and everything was OK and Mrs. Cleaver brought me milk and cookies with spiders crawling on them and she had on devo sunglasses and an axe coming out of her head but she was OK. She was very very OK. And wally and the Beav were OK too. But Eddie Haskell. Eddie, he was FUCKED up, I mean, he has seen much much better days. Eddie, if you get out of the emergency room, we'll play that game of 5-card monty, playa, we will play, playa dog, and you know this, cuz I SHOW this, and it's no BOGUS it's on the rizeal.

Happy Birthday Tony Pierce!!

I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Tony Pierce is the blogmaster in G-major. If blogging was basketball, he'd be Michael Jordan combined with Shaq, but without the advanced age and fucked up knees (even though he IS 109) of MJ, and the post-KaZaam stigma of Shaq. If blogging was Football, he'd be like a cross between Bo Jackson (pre-horrific-injury) and Jerry Rice, but with the kicking leg of say, a Morton Anderson. If blogging was chess, he'd be Boris Spassky or that Russian guy that is really good, um, combined with that Bobby Fisher guy and that giant computer Deep Blue. If he was an actor, he'd be Adam West in his Batman prime - that is the HIGHEST compliment possible, to those laughing in the background. No disrespecting of Mr. West will be allowed here.

Wait, I know - Tony's a big baseball fan, so, um, how bout Tony is the blogging equivalent of Fernando Valenzuela and Orel Hersheiser in their glorious Chavez Ravine peaks? Howz that? But instead of throwing heat he's tossing verbal grenades, simultaneously keeping it real and so not true.

Anyway, Tony continues to amaze, entertain, inspire, and challenge the internet world, and from what it sounds like on his blog and those of others that know him in the land of the real people, his own actual world as well.

Rock on dude!!


Monday, October 21, 2002

I rang the bell, and I rang the bell hard and loud. I rang the bell in such an aggressive manner that my right ear is buzzing a little. Ah well, it made it through all those raves sitting next to the speaker with a vapo-rub surgical mask, I think it'll deal.

Have you ever seen that Seinfeld episode where George is out of a job, and his father invests in a computer sales business? The two salesmen for Mr. Costanza are George and Lloyd Braun, the recently released from the loony bin childhood playmate that George never measured up against according to his parents. So anyway, there's a bell in the Costanza garage, that whenever someone makes a sale, they ring it. Lloyd Braun keeps selling computer after computer, ringing the bell and irritating the living hell out of poor George. (it's later revealed that the nutjob was talking on the phone to the computer weather girl or something, so, uh huh, let's move one shall we…)

Anyway, my boss being an even bigger dork than me, bought a bell and hung it in the office, and when someone makes a sale they ring the bell. Now I didn't technically make a sale, but some info I just received has let me know I'm gonna make about twice as I thought on this big skunk deal I've been wrangling. You see, I need Malaysian Tiger Skunks, very rare, usually up to $ 5,000 a pop, but they're having a fire-sale, everything must go, those skunks are getting ragged, so I'm getting them at like 75% off, which means Benjamin city (well, Benjamin township? Uh, Benjamin Swim Club?) Well, so I rang the FARK out of that bell. No one's here so I could really go to town, and I think I damaged my clavicle or something like that.

Stoked! And even better, Def Leppard was playing, High & Dry, no less, their best work. Don't listen to those Pyromania people, that was a good album, but it was no High & Dry. I grew up with High & Dry, I lived with High & Dry, I went to fukn war in the jungle with just a fukn Pez Dispenser with High & Dry, and you, sir, are no High & Dry.

Understood? Well, then, I guess we can move on from this. Hopefully we all learned a little something.

Good day.

nice weekend. Chilled out and watched some good football games and saw some good movies and played some b-ball and enjoyed sun & fun. The mighty golden bear D was strong in a big win over UCLA. The raiders fukn pussed out and let the clock run out in regulation with a chance to go for the win, and then lost the coin-toss and never even touched the ball in OT, thereby losing to San Diego. Fukn Phil Simms can sit there and bitch and moan about every little decision made by either coach the whole game but he didn't say anything about that. That was the fukn game to me, but I'm no football coach, I'm a corporate scrub, so I probably don't know shit.

Saw the Ring and Secretary this weekend. Meesh was right, Secretary is a damn good flick, worth checking out fer shure. Plenty of ass-spanking and sadomasochist hijinx plus James Spader playing just about the shadiest dude in the history of small office suburbia. The Ring is nice and freaky, but freaky in a different way than the secretary, as in scary, not as in zee erotic freakozoidical stylistics. Good frightening imagery action that will give your heart a bump. One man's opinion. One man's way. One man's road, highway, thoroughfare, offramp, turnpike, and stretch of blacktop for the ol' noggin to go scootin' down.

Well seeing as it's Monday and like I don't get paid to talk football and movies with all y'all, I best be getting back to my real life job of cataloging porcupine quills. Peace.