Good morrow, turdlets. Welcome to another week of mindless drudgery. It’s days like this when we should all take the time to reflect on…no. I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’ve got a heavy heart. You’ll have to forgive me. I mean, you all know why, right? You know what I’m referring to, don’t you? I mean, it was devastating…well, to all of us frankly. What do you mean you don’t have any idea what I’m talking about? Okay, fine. Fine.
Ahem.
Last week was a pretty rough week for Brendans everywhere. Now, there are a lot of us, mostly in Ireland, sure, but there are sprinkles and pockets of Brendans everywhere, and granted, we don’t have a lot of celebrity Brendans out there, but there’s a few. I mean, there’s Brendan Canty, drummer of Fugazi, there’s me, and I mean, I’m not really famous, (but I’m more famous than that prick kid Brendan Houser who punched me in the stomach and stole my toy semi truck when I was five), and of course there’s the actor Brendan Kelly, who, presumably knows who I am, as we share a wikipedia signpost.
So, well, you get the idea. There’s a few mildly notorious Brendans. Not a lot. Not like Seans or Charlies or Brads. Nah. There’s just a few of us and we don’t really clock in very high on the celeb meter. For that matter, I can only think of a couple of other Brendans I’ve ever met. I have an in-law cousin once removed named Brendan (what’s up, lil B!). He’s probably the best Brendan I know, and he’s followed by Brendan Kelly the guy who’s an actor but not me, and also not the actor Brendan Kelly that we were just talking about. He’s just a guy from Chicago who acted in my movie and made all the email threads confusing as shit.
There’s Brendan Houser, who I knew as a kid, and who, as I mentioned before, stole my truck, and there’s a guy named (I’m not shitting you here) Brendan Dickout (that’s how it’s pronounced, at least. DICK-out) who played guitar in some crappy band that we toured with once. That’s pretty much it, Brendan wise. I mean, once I got called to the gate at the Milan airport only to realize that it was the flight to Dublin calling another Brendan Kelly. That was pretty funny, but you get the point. There’s not a lot of us.
When someone yells “Chris!” around my friends named chris, half the time they don’t even turn around. If someone yells “Brendan!” it’s about ninety percent that they’re talking to me (though lately there’s a lot of moms yelling at about 8 yr old Brendans all around me and my kid when we’re at the zoo and shit like that, but anyway, that’s neither here nor there.)
Okay, so, in this tiny little club, the Brendans, we have one big, grand puba of a leader, and I’m sure you all know who he is. That’s right, the Encino Man himself, B Fray, the biggest Brendan out there, Brendan Fraiser. Generally, I’d say he’s led us with dignity and aplomb by keeping our shared name classy as the marquee star of such kick ass cinema as Airheads, School Ties, Monkeybone, Bedazzled, George of the Jungle, In the Army Now, the Mummy franchise and of course Blast from the Past.
His blank, oafish affability helped me define my own idea of Brendandom when I was a mere pubeless, personality challenged weakling out there on the soccer field trying in vain to not look like a sissy as people hurled variously shaped balls in my direction. Yes, the Fray really piloted his ship of Brendans calmly through the nineties and aughts, and we all went to see all his wonderful movies in exchange. But then, last week something terrible happened.
I mean, what was he even DOING at the fucking Golden Globes? Was he nominated for his role in GI JOE:The Rise of Cobra? Because, well, he was great in it, sure, but we brendans are kind of used to the Hollywood foreign press turning up their noses at BeeF’s work at this point. Anyway, I digress. Point being, right there, on camera, when Deniro and Scorsese were having a moment, as Marty (as I like to call him) was being presented with the Cecil B Demille award by Bobby (as he’s colloquially known) suddenly, the camera shot to BeeF as he’s pulling this retard clap and slap, mongo guffaw combo that seemed so classless and gauche coming from the thespian that had absolutely vanished into the role of Dudley Do Right and melted us when he reprised his famous “Link” character from Encino Man in Pauly Shore’s Son In Law.
Gone was that gravitas. All that was left was a tubby shell of a once great actor who had obviously snuck into the Golden Globes, clapping, chuckling and vibrating like an inbred Georgia orphan watching a dog fuck a goose down by the crick out back.
It was rough.
THEN, Joel Mchale picked up the footage and played it over and over and over and over again on the Soup. It seems like it’s going to become some sort of recurring joke. Our dignity is gone. Thanks B Fray. Thanks for the humiliation, but you know what else? Thanks for everything. Really. You’ve been a great most famous guy with my same first name. BUT, times are changing, and you’ve gotten soft, and, well, it seems like we need a new “most famous Brendan in the world” now. I better leak that sex tape.
Sigh.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
It opened up my eyes!
Okay you fucking smart ass. Look at this for a second.
shock1 [shok]
–noun
1.
a sudden and violent blow or impact; collision.
2.
a sudden or violent disturbance or commotion: the shock of battle.
3.
a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities: The burglary was a shock to her sense of security. The book provided a shock, nothing more.
4.
the cause of such a disturbance: The rebuke came as a shock.
5.
Pathology. a collapse of circulatory function, caused by severe injury, blood loss, or disease, and characterized by pallor, sweating, weak pulse, and very low blood pressure. Compare anaphylactic shock, cardiogenic shock, hypovolemic shock.
6.
the physiological effect produced by the passage of an electric current through the body.
7.
shocks, Informal. shock absorbers, esp. in the suspension of an automobile.
–verb (used with object)
8.
to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc.: He enjoyed shocking people.
9.
to strike against violently.
10.
to give an electric shock to.
–verb (used without object)
11.
to undergo a shock.
Origin:
1555–65; < MF choc armed encounter, n. deriv. of choquer to clash (in battle) < Gmc; cf. D schokken to shake, jolt, jerk
Know why I bring this up? Anyone? Well, yesterday one of my lovely socks suggested that my hyperbolic Avatar review (which, I’d like to add, was neither hyperbolic nor was it a review) contained the selfsame perversions of language that my very brother had railed against in the previous days comments section (check day before yesterday’s sock drawer and yesterday’s post and subsequent sock drawer if you need to be brought up to speed).
Well, firstly, dildo, I’d like to point out that in your haste to suggest that I may be igniting a family feud with my ignorance, you neglected to actually take into account that this definition of shock: “a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities” AND this one: “to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc” LITERALLY represent the emotions I was presented with, involuntarily, mind you, upon realizing that the most expensive and most successful movie of all time was laden with expository dialog so wooden and clumsy that it would be laughed out of a night school screen writing class. SO, therefore, you get the point, right? Right. Okay, no need to fight here. Just want to clarify. I don’t cotton to accusations of stupidity, espesh when I’m in the midst of a dialog about stupidity with my brother in the room. You’re trying to dog me out in front of my family, bro. Not cool. Now, they’re all presumably smart enough to recognize this dog and pony show mock trial that you’ve set up for me in the sock drawer for the banana republic monkey tribunal that it is, but, well, you understand, right? Good.
Okay. Moving on.
Today is my kids last day of school at the bite zone. He’s going to a real, nice scholastically oriented place where the vibe is less chaotic and maybe, hopefully, less conducive to biting other kids all day long. It’s a nicer place. It’s in a free standing school building instead of a store front in a strip mall, for one thing, and, well, I’m pretty stoked. Enough about kids. Let’s talk about what you really want to hear about, namely, my opinion of teen hearts.
Yesterday, in the sock drawer, beneath the suggestion that I don’t know how to properly exemplify my disgust in prose, was a suggestion that I discuss the Teen Hearts, who are, for those of you who don’t know, this fruity band of skinny androgynoids who play some sort of Strawberry shortcake by way of matt and kim synth dance music that’s undeniably catchy and would be completely dismissable as a bunch of dorks doing a less offensive brokencyde except for one thing: they’re a little too old to be doing it.
Okay, so brokencyde has the tubby dude with the combover in their band, so does teen hearts. Teen hearts also features a girl and a singer with an alkaline trio tattoo. Teen hearts ALSO (brace yourselves) seems like a joke to me. I don’t believe for a moment that it’s real. Those dudes are too old, it’s too manufactured and clean to just come out of the gates like that. There’s none of the trademark sloppy youthful exuberance that indicates genuine passion and excitement for finally getting out there and trying to get heard. It’s cold and calculated. I mean, that singer guy is close to my age. They cover ace of base. That means he REMEMBERS ace of base and knows how fucking goofy the situation around him is. It’s an elaborate ruse. That’s my opinion of the teen hearts. AND, if I’m right…well, they’re about the coolest group of people out there, honestly. Wait…Is that too hyperbolic? Maybe. Maybe so. Let’s tone it down. If I’m right…well, that’s pretty funny. How’s that? Better? Good.
There was a band called Hard Skin that was an oi band from England. We played with them on our first tour of the UK. They were all skinheads and so were their fans, EXCEPT, the dudes in the band weren’t really skin heads at all. They were regular guys who wrote all the music as a joke and were as surprised as anyone when it caught on. Their mongo fans, however, didn’t get the joke, which made for one of the most hilarious bits of live theater/rock and roll I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing as these dudes openly mocked a room of cheering, bloody skinheads who couldn’t stop loving them and had no idea that they were being made fun of. It was great, AND it truly was one of the best things I’ve ever seen, live show wise. No exaggeration.
So, if the teen hearts are like the fruity hard skin, well that’s rad.
I gotta go to work. Be cool out there.
Bye.
shock1 [shok]
–noun
1.
a sudden and violent blow or impact; collision.
2.
a sudden or violent disturbance or commotion: the shock of battle.
3.
a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities: The burglary was a shock to her sense of security. The book provided a shock, nothing more.
4.
the cause of such a disturbance: The rebuke came as a shock.
5.
Pathology. a collapse of circulatory function, caused by severe injury, blood loss, or disease, and characterized by pallor, sweating, weak pulse, and very low blood pressure. Compare anaphylactic shock, cardiogenic shock, hypovolemic shock.
6.
the physiological effect produced by the passage of an electric current through the body.
7.
shocks, Informal. shock absorbers, esp. in the suspension of an automobile.
–verb (used with object)
8.
to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc.: He enjoyed shocking people.
9.
to strike against violently.
10.
to give an electric shock to.
–verb (used without object)
11.
to undergo a shock.
Origin:
1555–65; < MF choc armed encounter, n. deriv. of choquer to clash (in battle) < Gmc; cf. D schokken to shake, jolt, jerk
Know why I bring this up? Anyone? Well, yesterday one of my lovely socks suggested that my hyperbolic Avatar review (which, I’d like to add, was neither hyperbolic nor was it a review) contained the selfsame perversions of language that my very brother had railed against in the previous days comments section (check day before yesterday’s sock drawer and yesterday’s post and subsequent sock drawer if you need to be brought up to speed).
Well, firstly, dildo, I’d like to point out that in your haste to suggest that I may be igniting a family feud with my ignorance, you neglected to actually take into account that this definition of shock: “a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities” AND this one: “to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc” LITERALLY represent the emotions I was presented with, involuntarily, mind you, upon realizing that the most expensive and most successful movie of all time was laden with expository dialog so wooden and clumsy that it would be laughed out of a night school screen writing class. SO, therefore, you get the point, right? Right. Okay, no need to fight here. Just want to clarify. I don’t cotton to accusations of stupidity, espesh when I’m in the midst of a dialog about stupidity with my brother in the room. You’re trying to dog me out in front of my family, bro. Not cool. Now, they’re all presumably smart enough to recognize this dog and pony show mock trial that you’ve set up for me in the sock drawer for the banana republic monkey tribunal that it is, but, well, you understand, right? Good.
Okay. Moving on.
Today is my kids last day of school at the bite zone. He’s going to a real, nice scholastically oriented place where the vibe is less chaotic and maybe, hopefully, less conducive to biting other kids all day long. It’s a nicer place. It’s in a free standing school building instead of a store front in a strip mall, for one thing, and, well, I’m pretty stoked. Enough about kids. Let’s talk about what you really want to hear about, namely, my opinion of teen hearts.
Yesterday, in the sock drawer, beneath the suggestion that I don’t know how to properly exemplify my disgust in prose, was a suggestion that I discuss the Teen Hearts, who are, for those of you who don’t know, this fruity band of skinny androgynoids who play some sort of Strawberry shortcake by way of matt and kim synth dance music that’s undeniably catchy and would be completely dismissable as a bunch of dorks doing a less offensive brokencyde except for one thing: they’re a little too old to be doing it.
Okay, so brokencyde has the tubby dude with the combover in their band, so does teen hearts. Teen hearts also features a girl and a singer with an alkaline trio tattoo. Teen hearts ALSO (brace yourselves) seems like a joke to me. I don’t believe for a moment that it’s real. Those dudes are too old, it’s too manufactured and clean to just come out of the gates like that. There’s none of the trademark sloppy youthful exuberance that indicates genuine passion and excitement for finally getting out there and trying to get heard. It’s cold and calculated. I mean, that singer guy is close to my age. They cover ace of base. That means he REMEMBERS ace of base and knows how fucking goofy the situation around him is. It’s an elaborate ruse. That’s my opinion of the teen hearts. AND, if I’m right…well, they’re about the coolest group of people out there, honestly. Wait…Is that too hyperbolic? Maybe. Maybe so. Let’s tone it down. If I’m right…well, that’s pretty funny. How’s that? Better? Good.
There was a band called Hard Skin that was an oi band from England. We played with them on our first tour of the UK. They were all skinheads and so were their fans, EXCEPT, the dudes in the band weren’t really skin heads at all. They were regular guys who wrote all the music as a joke and were as surprised as anyone when it caught on. Their mongo fans, however, didn’t get the joke, which made for one of the most hilarious bits of live theater/rock and roll I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing as these dudes openly mocked a room of cheering, bloody skinheads who couldn’t stop loving them and had no idea that they were being made fun of. It was great, AND it truly was one of the best things I’ve ever seen, live show wise. No exaggeration.
So, if the teen hearts are like the fruity hard skin, well that’s rad.
I gotta go to work. Be cool out there.
Bye.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
whatever happened to twisted sister?
Okay, first of all, I’d like to pull back the curtain on my most articulate of commenters. Yesterday, you all may have noticed an extremely erudite and verbose comment in my sock drawer that dealt extensively with the retardation and active retarding of the evolution of modern thought vis a vis contemporary English. You remember what I’m talking about, right? It was long and pretty funny. The poster’s name was rjk and then some numbers, so like rjk23345, or something like that. Not that his name’s terribly important, just trying to paint a picture.
Well, I went back to check that little essay out again in the harsh sober dawn, and it turns out the author erased it. Seems he’s too good to have his wordy little rants immortalized here on the sock drawer. What happened rjk32245? Your essay was being met with critical acclaim by all the biggest names and brightest stains in the drawer. Did you get nervous? Caught in the spotlight? Icarus complex? Felt the pressure to top that post with another one that’s even better? Look, I’m no stranger to the dangers and fears that accompany massive adulation. Believe me. I’m quite popular. But erasing your footprint is never the answer, rjk23423. That only serves to undermine your most basic of instincts to preserve remnants of yourself long after you’ve gone. Now, I’m no fancy big city lawyer, (that’s my favorite way to start a sentence by the way, and this is a surprise twist way to end it>) but rjk234523 is. I know this because he’s my little brother. No shit. That K at the end of RJK stands for Kelly. Believe that, assholes.
Anyhoo, right now, he’s got his panty hose socks and snakeskin shoes up on his mahogany desk and he’s sipping brandy from a snifter (like a mad homo, yo!) and he’s thinking to himself “damn you, handsome yet unsuccessful bohemian brother, for calling out my hubris and subsequent attack of humility! I should have you written out of the old man’s will!” And he could, too. He’s a powerful bigshot. Hey, how do you think I’ve avoided jail all these years, eh? That’s right assholes. I’ve got people on the inside. Anyway, I’d just like to point out that he’s obviously the smarter of the two of us (told you, asshole!) and he’s the one who erased his comment, not me. Last night he told me that he gets told that he looks like a less attractive howie mandel, which I don’t see, but I wonder if he’s ever really had someone say that to his face. World may never know. Okay, moving on.
Have you dipshits seen this show “locked up abroad”? It’s the single greatest re-enactment series of all time. Here’s why: every single show is about drugs. It starts off with some dumb young Brit/American/Canadian/white person just partying somewhere and they take the time to make the people actually look like younger, more attractive versions of the people who are retelling the story, AND they take the time to make the partying look legitimately fun. SO, here’s this woman, narrating her tale of snorting coke in the bars on the beach in Goa and getting fucked six ways from Sunday by a bunch of filthy dreadlocked backpackers, and they’ve got this girl who looks like the woman, but hotter and younger (cuz, you know, it’s before her prison term), reenacting all of this. Then she gets into smuggling. THEN she gets busted. THEN she goes to jail in India and THEN!!!!!!! She stays there for years and then they show the footage of them actually getting reunited with their families. It’s awesome. It’s everything I love: hot slutty young people making bad decisions, peeks into foreign jails, hilarious hindsight and subsequent self immolation (sound familiar rjk235?) and finally, great tips on what sets off the people who bust smugglers. SO, if you want to internationally traffic cocaine or hashish, I’d say there’s no better place to start than tivoing locked up abroad. It’s really a great show.
Okay, what else? Avatar, right? I saw that shit the other day. Man, oh man. It sucks. It’s the most manipulative, shitty, emotionally bankrupt piece of garbage I’ve maybe ever seen in my life. I mean (spoiler alert!) what a dumb fucking movie. Have you seen the matrix? Have you seen dances with wolves? Have you ever wondered what would happen if the two of them were seamlessly combined in the best looking video game of all time? Well, wonder no more, because Avatar is here to answer the question that no one wanted to waste time asking.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s absolutely fucking stunning to watch. I completely dig why people are flipping out over it, but man, really? They’re literally invoking 9-11 imagery, they’ve got bad guys getting hearts of gold, a cripple with a chance to walk again, a guy that dies and is reanimated by the love of a woman, pets dying, the spurned ex lover finally realizing that his romantic rival may be a bigger, better man than he credited him with initially, all sorts of bullshit white man/native dynamics, expository dialog that is so shameless that I was literally SHOCKED (example: “I don’t want you on this mission. I want your dead twin brother, the PHD who studied this project for three years. You’re just a dumb marine.”) and enough beautifully unrealizable cgi bodies to give even the most confident person cause to consider barfing up lunch a few times a week.
In short, you gotta see it. I’m in no way done talking Avatar with you people, but I have to go to work right now, so I’ll pick this up tomorrow.
xoxo
Well, I went back to check that little essay out again in the harsh sober dawn, and it turns out the author erased it. Seems he’s too good to have his wordy little rants immortalized here on the sock drawer. What happened rjk32245? Your essay was being met with critical acclaim by all the biggest names and brightest stains in the drawer. Did you get nervous? Caught in the spotlight? Icarus complex? Felt the pressure to top that post with another one that’s even better? Look, I’m no stranger to the dangers and fears that accompany massive adulation. Believe me. I’m quite popular. But erasing your footprint is never the answer, rjk23423. That only serves to undermine your most basic of instincts to preserve remnants of yourself long after you’ve gone. Now, I’m no fancy big city lawyer, (that’s my favorite way to start a sentence by the way, and this is a surprise twist way to end it>) but rjk234523 is. I know this because he’s my little brother. No shit. That K at the end of RJK stands for Kelly. Believe that, assholes.
Anyhoo, right now, he’s got his panty hose socks and snakeskin shoes up on his mahogany desk and he’s sipping brandy from a snifter (like a mad homo, yo!) and he’s thinking to himself “damn you, handsome yet unsuccessful bohemian brother, for calling out my hubris and subsequent attack of humility! I should have you written out of the old man’s will!” And he could, too. He’s a powerful bigshot. Hey, how do you think I’ve avoided jail all these years, eh? That’s right assholes. I’ve got people on the inside. Anyway, I’d just like to point out that he’s obviously the smarter of the two of us (told you, asshole!) and he’s the one who erased his comment, not me. Last night he told me that he gets told that he looks like a less attractive howie mandel, which I don’t see, but I wonder if he’s ever really had someone say that to his face. World may never know. Okay, moving on.
Have you dipshits seen this show “locked up abroad”? It’s the single greatest re-enactment series of all time. Here’s why: every single show is about drugs. It starts off with some dumb young Brit/American/Canadian/white person just partying somewhere and they take the time to make the people actually look like younger, more attractive versions of the people who are retelling the story, AND they take the time to make the partying look legitimately fun. SO, here’s this woman, narrating her tale of snorting coke in the bars on the beach in Goa and getting fucked six ways from Sunday by a bunch of filthy dreadlocked backpackers, and they’ve got this girl who looks like the woman, but hotter and younger (cuz, you know, it’s before her prison term), reenacting all of this. Then she gets into smuggling. THEN she gets busted. THEN she goes to jail in India and THEN!!!!!!! She stays there for years and then they show the footage of them actually getting reunited with their families. It’s awesome. It’s everything I love: hot slutty young people making bad decisions, peeks into foreign jails, hilarious hindsight and subsequent self immolation (sound familiar rjk235?) and finally, great tips on what sets off the people who bust smugglers. SO, if you want to internationally traffic cocaine or hashish, I’d say there’s no better place to start than tivoing locked up abroad. It’s really a great show.
Okay, what else? Avatar, right? I saw that shit the other day. Man, oh man. It sucks. It’s the most manipulative, shitty, emotionally bankrupt piece of garbage I’ve maybe ever seen in my life. I mean (spoiler alert!) what a dumb fucking movie. Have you seen the matrix? Have you seen dances with wolves? Have you ever wondered what would happen if the two of them were seamlessly combined in the best looking video game of all time? Well, wonder no more, because Avatar is here to answer the question that no one wanted to waste time asking.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s absolutely fucking stunning to watch. I completely dig why people are flipping out over it, but man, really? They’re literally invoking 9-11 imagery, they’ve got bad guys getting hearts of gold, a cripple with a chance to walk again, a guy that dies and is reanimated by the love of a woman, pets dying, the spurned ex lover finally realizing that his romantic rival may be a bigger, better man than he credited him with initially, all sorts of bullshit white man/native dynamics, expository dialog that is so shameless that I was literally SHOCKED (example: “I don’t want you on this mission. I want your dead twin brother, the PHD who studied this project for three years. You’re just a dumb marine.”) and enough beautifully unrealizable cgi bodies to give even the most confident person cause to consider barfing up lunch a few times a week.
In short, you gotta see it. I’m in no way done talking Avatar with you people, but I have to go to work right now, so I’ll pick this up tomorrow.
xoxo
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
....for me to poop on!
Well, hey there. Sorry about yesterday. I was running all over the place getting shit, setting shit up, emailing from my phone like some sort of loudmouth dipshit at the airport/restaurant/talent show/movie theater. Oh, I seemed important yesterday, boy. Believe you me.
Wait. Believe you me? Is that a phrase? Okay, that’s not what I meant. Of course it’s a phrase. “Believe you me” they say. Like, for example, they’ll ask: ‘oh, was his dick big?” and you’ll say “Believe you me it was!” What I want to know is, who the fuck was running things when this dogshit phrase slipped through the back door and into general usage? Who was the gatekeeper that allowed this lazy piece of syntax into our lexicon?
“Believe you me” is akin to what a cave man might say in attempting to piece together the general idea of “I believe you,” it’s just fucking mongolidian in its etymology.
It’s funny, because when I see certain etymologies, for example, the story behind OK, they sound so fucking retarded that I can’t believe that I sit here on a day to day basis and let the same sort of thing transpire, and even facilitate and indulge in it myself. I know, this isn’t making sense, so let me explain.
“OK”, it’s said, comes from a dark and murky corner of the English language. No one is quite sure where it originated or why. There are competing theories and some are more popular than others. The top few, I’m told, all have their ardent supporters who, presumably, give a shit about this kind of thing, believe it or not.
Okay, anyhow, the prevailing story in how OK, or okay, came about has to do with the hip fad that caught on around the turn of the century that involved purposely misspelling words. OK, some believe, is an abbreviation for Oll Korrekt or ‘all correct’ (though why anyone would ever say ‘all correct’ in response to something is beyond me. That’s the response of a square robot, man [and I mean square like majorly unhip, not like a paralellagram]). Some dumb journalist shortened this dumb phrase in some dumb newspaper (I actually think it was the Post Dispatch, believe it or not) to OK, and there you go. Linguistic history, or linguistory, was made.
So, as I heard this dumb story for the first time (and I heard this for the first time when I was in grade school), I couldn’t help but think “how fucking retardedly lame is the fad of purposely misspelling words? I mean, that’s like “wear an onion on your belt” or ‘wear shortsleeved button ups and bike around with a big moronic hillbilly version of the bible” level, in terms of totally pussified and otherwise dorky fads. BUT, then I think about it a little more, and I realize that if I think shit’s cheesy, like a movie or a song, I usually write cheezy, even though that’s improper. I also find myself writing lite and tonite. Know what that means?
That’s rite, man. I’m purposely misspelling shit as part of a small, insidious dorky little fad that I was, more or less totally unaware of perpetuating until this whole thing about Oll Korrekt came back to me a couple of weeks ago, for some reason. Anyway. Jeez. How’s that for a lame little bit on syntax and spelling, eh? Yeah. Maybe I’m just hung up on the building blocks of education because my kid got into a new school today. That’s right, turds! He’s got a whole new crop of innocent toddlers to chew on! Look out Tyson and Miss Angela!
Okay, none of this has anything to do with what I wanted to talk about today, which is Avatar, but I think I’ll save that for another time, because I’ve got a lot to say on the subject of avatar. I saw it, in “Real D” on Monday, and well, you’ll just have to wait, but yeah. I got a lot to say.
Speaking of entertainment, how bout Jay and Conan, eh? I mean, this is, far and away, the most entertaining thing that’s ever happened to either of their sad fucking pathetic shows. Yeah, sure, sure. Conan used to be pretty okay, but he was never as great as his wildest, drunkest supporters claimed he was. The shit was always amusing, funnier than Jay and funner than Dave, sure, but that’s like saying that you’ve got the biggest dick in the second grade. No, Conan was fine, and when he had guest bits (like Rob Smigel and Triumph) his show rose above amusing mediocrity and really took off, and shit man, the most important quality in a leader is the ability to delegate, recognize potential and weakness and work selflessly towards the good of the unit, and Conan was able to do that sometimes, BUUUUUUT, nothing was ever as magnificent as this strange “Jay vs. Conan united against NBC, backed by Dave who hates them all and fuck me, what the fuck is gonna happen to Carson Daily?????” situation that’s developing here right now.
Personally, I think NBC is retarded to gag Conan, as he’s pulling down the biggest ratings of his tenure as Tonight Show host. They should, in the words of a very astute and erudite humorist of our times, embody the important qualities of leadership and work selflessly towards the good of the unit, right? Right. But of course, that would be the smart thing to do, and it would involve executives not being able to overtly tell people what they were doing, which would potentially lead to some form of fake, manufactured humiliation which is all too messy and sordid for something as important as drunk assholes in their beds laughing vaguely at some shitty halfassed comedian hosts right before they flip off the lights and whack themselves into the drunken oblivious sleep of the damned, right?
Sheesh. Sometimes I think that I need to do everything around here, which is funny, because I’m not allowed to do almost anything.
Oh yeah, we’re goin on tour in the UK in March. We can talk about the UK tomorrow when we talk about avatar. Good god. Is anything good anymore?
I see you, my brothers and sisters.
Wait. Believe you me? Is that a phrase? Okay, that’s not what I meant. Of course it’s a phrase. “Believe you me” they say. Like, for example, they’ll ask: ‘oh, was his dick big?” and you’ll say “Believe you me it was!” What I want to know is, who the fuck was running things when this dogshit phrase slipped through the back door and into general usage? Who was the gatekeeper that allowed this lazy piece of syntax into our lexicon?
“Believe you me” is akin to what a cave man might say in attempting to piece together the general idea of “I believe you,” it’s just fucking mongolidian in its etymology.
It’s funny, because when I see certain etymologies, for example, the story behind OK, they sound so fucking retarded that I can’t believe that I sit here on a day to day basis and let the same sort of thing transpire, and even facilitate and indulge in it myself. I know, this isn’t making sense, so let me explain.
“OK”, it’s said, comes from a dark and murky corner of the English language. No one is quite sure where it originated or why. There are competing theories and some are more popular than others. The top few, I’m told, all have their ardent supporters who, presumably, give a shit about this kind of thing, believe it or not.
Okay, anyhow, the prevailing story in how OK, or okay, came about has to do with the hip fad that caught on around the turn of the century that involved purposely misspelling words. OK, some believe, is an abbreviation for Oll Korrekt or ‘all correct’ (though why anyone would ever say ‘all correct’ in response to something is beyond me. That’s the response of a square robot, man [and I mean square like majorly unhip, not like a paralellagram]). Some dumb journalist shortened this dumb phrase in some dumb newspaper (I actually think it was the Post Dispatch, believe it or not) to OK, and there you go. Linguistic history, or linguistory, was made.
So, as I heard this dumb story for the first time (and I heard this for the first time when I was in grade school), I couldn’t help but think “how fucking retardedly lame is the fad of purposely misspelling words? I mean, that’s like “wear an onion on your belt” or ‘wear shortsleeved button ups and bike around with a big moronic hillbilly version of the bible” level, in terms of totally pussified and otherwise dorky fads. BUT, then I think about it a little more, and I realize that if I think shit’s cheesy, like a movie or a song, I usually write cheezy, even though that’s improper. I also find myself writing lite and tonite. Know what that means?
That’s rite, man. I’m purposely misspelling shit as part of a small, insidious dorky little fad that I was, more or less totally unaware of perpetuating until this whole thing about Oll Korrekt came back to me a couple of weeks ago, for some reason. Anyway. Jeez. How’s that for a lame little bit on syntax and spelling, eh? Yeah. Maybe I’m just hung up on the building blocks of education because my kid got into a new school today. That’s right, turds! He’s got a whole new crop of innocent toddlers to chew on! Look out Tyson and Miss Angela!
Okay, none of this has anything to do with what I wanted to talk about today, which is Avatar, but I think I’ll save that for another time, because I’ve got a lot to say on the subject of avatar. I saw it, in “Real D” on Monday, and well, you’ll just have to wait, but yeah. I got a lot to say.
Speaking of entertainment, how bout Jay and Conan, eh? I mean, this is, far and away, the most entertaining thing that’s ever happened to either of their sad fucking pathetic shows. Yeah, sure, sure. Conan used to be pretty okay, but he was never as great as his wildest, drunkest supporters claimed he was. The shit was always amusing, funnier than Jay and funner than Dave, sure, but that’s like saying that you’ve got the biggest dick in the second grade. No, Conan was fine, and when he had guest bits (like Rob Smigel and Triumph) his show rose above amusing mediocrity and really took off, and shit man, the most important quality in a leader is the ability to delegate, recognize potential and weakness and work selflessly towards the good of the unit, and Conan was able to do that sometimes, BUUUUUUT, nothing was ever as magnificent as this strange “Jay vs. Conan united against NBC, backed by Dave who hates them all and fuck me, what the fuck is gonna happen to Carson Daily?????” situation that’s developing here right now.
Personally, I think NBC is retarded to gag Conan, as he’s pulling down the biggest ratings of his tenure as Tonight Show host. They should, in the words of a very astute and erudite humorist of our times, embody the important qualities of leadership and work selflessly towards the good of the unit, right? Right. But of course, that would be the smart thing to do, and it would involve executives not being able to overtly tell people what they were doing, which would potentially lead to some form of fake, manufactured humiliation which is all too messy and sordid for something as important as drunk assholes in their beds laughing vaguely at some shitty halfassed comedian hosts right before they flip off the lights and whack themselves into the drunken oblivious sleep of the damned, right?
Sheesh. Sometimes I think that I need to do everything around here, which is funny, because I’m not allowed to do almost anything.
Oh yeah, we’re goin on tour in the UK in March. We can talk about the UK tomorrow when we talk about avatar. Good god. Is anything good anymore?
I see you, my brothers and sisters.
Monday, January 18, 2010
office closed for holiday
Yeah, man. It's MLK day. If the post office isn't open, neither is BSC world HQ. We can't get our nudes, you know? Right. Anyway, in honor of the day, here's a joke. Be cool to each other and we'll rap tomorrow.
Q:
What do you call a black guy flying an airplane?
A:
A pilot, you fucking racist.
xoxox
Q:
What do you call a black guy flying an airplane?
A:
A pilot, you fucking racist.
xoxox
Friday, January 15, 2010
I smell gunpowder...
Man, last night was my friend’s birthday party. It was at a bar and I showed up, had three beers over the course of about two hours and then went home because I knew I was gonna have to be up early today with my crazy child eating monster. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m becoming responsible or something. It’s terrifying, to put it mildly, but I’m getting to the point where reading sounds like more fun than going out and whipping my dick out on the table at a bowling alley. What’s happened to me? I used to be beautiful, man. Sigh. Well, you know what they say, right? Do you? I don’t either. Ha! Take that. There’s still a little irreverence in me yet. I’m not memorizing tired old adages about getting old and slowing down. No siree. Save that shit for your great aunty, am I right? Good. Okay, moving on.
Did you hear Pat Robertson? He let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, on this whole Haiti thing. Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Pat Robertson is a decrepit old assbag that preys on dumb people who are foolish enough to send him money when he tells them stories about people rising from the dead and walking on water and hating gays. He’s been doing this for years. He’s up there with Anal Roberts and Jerry Falwell (not literally, because, you know, they’re both up in heaven, presumably, with all their 21 virgins and all that, and pat Robertson’s down here overtly cavorting with his saggy old wife [I’m assuming he’s got one of those] and secretly with gay slaves and all that, none of whom are virgins, but we’re really getting off the point)…uh, oh yeah, he’s up there with falwell and Roberts in terms of being a manipulative genius/prick that’s made millions of dollars just begging from people. Howard Stern recently referred to televangelism as ‘one gigantic homeless jar’ and he’s right. You’re better off spending your money watching that guy that’s painted silver down by the shore come to life for a second than sending it to these dipshits. Check out the suits. Those are nice suits. Know who bought these assholes these nice suits? YOU, you fucking mouthbreathing reatards (rip).
Anyway, sorry. I get emotional when I talk about these guys, because lord knows I have a healthy hatred for a huge percentage of the world and I can make up bullshit fairy stories and pass judgment haphazardly with the best of them, but I’m not a millionaire, buying thousand dollar glasses and cufflinks with people’s similac money in exchange for empty promises about mansions in the clouds and a world without gays. Sheesh. I need to focus my energy. I bet falwell was already living in a house with an indoor pool by the time he was my age. Sad. That’s what I am. Just unmotivated. Where’s MY jesus, man? You know?
Anyway, so you get the idea, Pat Robertson, genius, man of faith, got a hotline to god, uh…wealthy, and host of a show called the 700 club. Recently on this show, he let us all in on the bombshell: The people of Haiti made a contract with Satan (‘this is true’ he paused here to interject) and now it’s biting them in the ass.
Let’s pause here to reflect on the fact that a GROWN MAN who’s supposedly a spiritual leader said this on television.
…
…
Are we good? Okay. Firstly, dude, Haiti is one of the most overwhelmingly Christian nations on earth, clocking in at over 80%, so well, I guess at least you guys are talking about the same satan, right? Of course, man. Only one devil. Thing is, not a very cool way to shepherd your flock through what may very well turn out to be the greatest natural disaster of your lifetime, P Ro. Kind of leaving those Christians in a lurch, or you know, buried under tons of rubble, just figuratively, of course. Secondly, let’s just assume that there is a satan, and that he’s cutting deals with people. I know. I know. Just bear with me for a sec. They’re estimating half a million dead in Haiti, right? Yeah, that’s the sensational, yellow journalist high number, but let’s take that as fact too. AND, let’s just say that those are the ONLY people in Haiti that signed the deal with satan, kay? Okay. Good. Now, show me exactly how the fuck you get half a million people to come together and agree on anything at all, much less enter into a contract? I mean, fuck, dude. They don’t have hospitals and pipes in Haiti. Much less free wifi and town square flat screens. What’s satan doing, cuz I could use some promotion for my band and my blog and all that, and he seems to really know how to galvanize motherfuckers, even the poorest and most marginalized and fucked with of people, so good on him, I guess. Good on ya, satan!
Sheesh.
You know, the ambassador from Haiti was asked to respond to this statement, and he pointed out Haiti’s role in the development of the US, their integral role in the Louisiana purchase and so forth, and said something to the effect of ‘after all we’ve done as neighbors, this is how you’re talking about us when our dicks are in the dust?” Now, that’s a decent answer, but I would have rather seen him say “you know what? I’ve got a massive city in ruins, I’ve got dead and wounded on a level that I never thought I’d see, and I don’t give a fuck what some dumb, ignorant hillbilly has to say right now. There’s real shit going on, man.” That’s what we need in this world, a little more angry dismissal. That way, we don’t have to be subjected to, for example, two weeks of replays of Imus calling those chicks nappy headed hoes. He’s a fucking retatard (rip), man! He’s gonna say dumb shit. That’s what reatards (rip) do, man. Move on.
God. I’m so fucking sick of all the outrage. Sack up you fucking pussies!
Did you hear Pat Robertson? He let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, on this whole Haiti thing. Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Pat Robertson is a decrepit old assbag that preys on dumb people who are foolish enough to send him money when he tells them stories about people rising from the dead and walking on water and hating gays. He’s been doing this for years. He’s up there with Anal Roberts and Jerry Falwell (not literally, because, you know, they’re both up in heaven, presumably, with all their 21 virgins and all that, and pat Robertson’s down here overtly cavorting with his saggy old wife [I’m assuming he’s got one of those] and secretly with gay slaves and all that, none of whom are virgins, but we’re really getting off the point)…uh, oh yeah, he’s up there with falwell and Roberts in terms of being a manipulative genius/prick that’s made millions of dollars just begging from people. Howard Stern recently referred to televangelism as ‘one gigantic homeless jar’ and he’s right. You’re better off spending your money watching that guy that’s painted silver down by the shore come to life for a second than sending it to these dipshits. Check out the suits. Those are nice suits. Know who bought these assholes these nice suits? YOU, you fucking mouthbreathing reatards (rip).
Anyway, sorry. I get emotional when I talk about these guys, because lord knows I have a healthy hatred for a huge percentage of the world and I can make up bullshit fairy stories and pass judgment haphazardly with the best of them, but I’m not a millionaire, buying thousand dollar glasses and cufflinks with people’s similac money in exchange for empty promises about mansions in the clouds and a world without gays. Sheesh. I need to focus my energy. I bet falwell was already living in a house with an indoor pool by the time he was my age. Sad. That’s what I am. Just unmotivated. Where’s MY jesus, man? You know?
Anyway, so you get the idea, Pat Robertson, genius, man of faith, got a hotline to god, uh…wealthy, and host of a show called the 700 club. Recently on this show, he let us all in on the bombshell: The people of Haiti made a contract with Satan (‘this is true’ he paused here to interject) and now it’s biting them in the ass.
Let’s pause here to reflect on the fact that a GROWN MAN who’s supposedly a spiritual leader said this on television.
…
…
Are we good? Okay. Firstly, dude, Haiti is one of the most overwhelmingly Christian nations on earth, clocking in at over 80%, so well, I guess at least you guys are talking about the same satan, right? Of course, man. Only one devil. Thing is, not a very cool way to shepherd your flock through what may very well turn out to be the greatest natural disaster of your lifetime, P Ro. Kind of leaving those Christians in a lurch, or you know, buried under tons of rubble, just figuratively, of course. Secondly, let’s just assume that there is a satan, and that he’s cutting deals with people. I know. I know. Just bear with me for a sec. They’re estimating half a million dead in Haiti, right? Yeah, that’s the sensational, yellow journalist high number, but let’s take that as fact too. AND, let’s just say that those are the ONLY people in Haiti that signed the deal with satan, kay? Okay. Good. Now, show me exactly how the fuck you get half a million people to come together and agree on anything at all, much less enter into a contract? I mean, fuck, dude. They don’t have hospitals and pipes in Haiti. Much less free wifi and town square flat screens. What’s satan doing, cuz I could use some promotion for my band and my blog and all that, and he seems to really know how to galvanize motherfuckers, even the poorest and most marginalized and fucked with of people, so good on him, I guess. Good on ya, satan!
Sheesh.
You know, the ambassador from Haiti was asked to respond to this statement, and he pointed out Haiti’s role in the development of the US, their integral role in the Louisiana purchase and so forth, and said something to the effect of ‘after all we’ve done as neighbors, this is how you’re talking about us when our dicks are in the dust?” Now, that’s a decent answer, but I would have rather seen him say “you know what? I’ve got a massive city in ruins, I’ve got dead and wounded on a level that I never thought I’d see, and I don’t give a fuck what some dumb, ignorant hillbilly has to say right now. There’s real shit going on, man.” That’s what we need in this world, a little more angry dismissal. That way, we don’t have to be subjected to, for example, two weeks of replays of Imus calling those chicks nappy headed hoes. He’s a fucking retatard (rip), man! He’s gonna say dumb shit. That’s what reatards (rip) do, man. Move on.
God. I’m so fucking sick of all the outrage. Sack up you fucking pussies!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Oh god! you devil!
Man, I’ve been cranking out songs like they’re sneakers and I’m a seven year old girl with real, honest to god motivation to keep working (you know, for the good of the prefecture and all that). I just slayed another one and it’s uh…awesome. Motorheadian, to use the scholastic term. Pretty excited. Here’s a little lesson in songwriting, turds: NOTHING motivates and inspires like success, so if you stumble onto a tune that you’re proud of, you must NOT sit on your laurels and be stoked on yourself. You MUST keep writing. Write the next day and the next day and even that same afternoon. Yeah, it’s rough, because like everything, you’re only as good as the last song you wrote and sometimes it’s brutal to crank out a great song and then just jump back in, but I promise you, that’s the only way to write the really, truly great songs. Now that I’m at 5.5 songs in the can, the pressure is completely off me, and I can do whatever the fuck I want, and THAT, my friends is when shit stops being polite and starts getting real. That’s why there was no entry yesterday, I was writing shit, and you know what? It was worth it. You’ll all be stoked later on. Promise.
Anyway, God sure kicked shit up a notch in Haiti, didn’t he? I guess it goes to prove what we’ve known all along here in the first world: God hates the poor. Sure, he fills the bible with all sorts of references to the meek and the poor inheriting the earth and all that, but those are post dated checks, man. No one’s inheriting any earth, AND even if they were, it’s still a dick slap, because in theory, the rich can live righteous lives and get into heaven and all that too, right? BUT, they also got to be rich while they were alive. That’s better. Obvious favoritism. I mean, you can’t tell me that god would let someone into the great hereafter just because they were poor, right? Like, for example, some rapist who grew up poor isn’t getting into heaven, is he? Just because he was born poor and died poor? That’s kind of fucked up. What’s a rapist’s heaven like anyhow? Just a bunch of nervous women walking around with dead cel phones and it’s nothing but alleys and apartment gangways as far as the eye can see? Unless you go inside and then it’s all keg parties, I suppose. Hmmm. Sounds gross.
Well, it’s rapist heaven. I guess that’s why it’s gross, but see my point? You can’t just have poor people in heaven, just like you can’t keep rich people out if they’re good. That’s not fair either. I mean, as far as I know, the game goes “Be good, go to heaven, be bad, go to hell” and that’s it. And THAT, my friends, means that god hates the poor.
Think about it, when Diddy gets to heaven, not only will he not smell terrible anymore, but he will also be completely at home and comfortable with all the trays of caviar and all the different options for his hi def tv and what to tip the butler and all that. BUT, when the poor get up there (ha!) they’ll be confused as shit. Sure, they’ll get used to it eventually, but there’s always gonna be that lingering thing in the back of their minds, that Jlo thing, where they kind of feel like they don’t belong so they over compensate and end up gaudy and ostentatious, married to a zombie, raising hideous children, jumping off male strippers and falling on their asses all the while wrapped up in a tiny strip of gold saran wrap like some kind of loaf of deli meat, and man, that’s not heaven to me. I don’t want that shit in my heaven, so poor people, sorry. You’re fucked. Listen to god. He hates you.
Well, I suppose technically, he’s killing all those people in Haiti. Some of the most desperate to keep the dream alive would maybe say that god couldn’t wait to get them to paradise, as they were suffering here on earth anyway (Haiti wasn’t all that nice in the first place, you know) but that creates a series of questions: Why not just hook em up in the first place? What’s the difference of a few measly decades in the eternity that is god’s reign? Is dropping boulders on people so they starve to death all mangled in a puddle of raw sewage the coolest way to check these folks out? Is god really that fucking impatient that he needs to shake and terrify everyone? What is he, two?
Look, I don’t know much, but I’ve seen tons and tons of evidence that god loves the rich and hates the poor and almost no evidence otherwise. Also, I’ve seen lots of evidence that god’s a bully, a racist and kind of a petulant cocksucker in general. That’s kind of funny, because it really explains why he chose the envoys he chose here on earth. I mean, oral Roberts? Oral? That’s your name? Oral? Funny thing about oral Roberts: his sister, Anal, was a real bombshell.
Last question: is jesus as much of an asshole as his dad? I mean, he went through that ‘yeah, my dad’s rich and powerful, but I’m rejecting all that, man. I’m kind of a hippy” phase that all trust fund dipshit hippies go through, but then he up n died. Who knows. He might be up there with a smart goatee, hair slicked back in a new suit just laughing around the table with Rockafeller, Oral and Anal Roberts and Bin Laden Senior (a good dude by all accounts that I’ve read).
I dunno, man. I’m going to play the guitar.
xoxox
Anyway, God sure kicked shit up a notch in Haiti, didn’t he? I guess it goes to prove what we’ve known all along here in the first world: God hates the poor. Sure, he fills the bible with all sorts of references to the meek and the poor inheriting the earth and all that, but those are post dated checks, man. No one’s inheriting any earth, AND even if they were, it’s still a dick slap, because in theory, the rich can live righteous lives and get into heaven and all that too, right? BUT, they also got to be rich while they were alive. That’s better. Obvious favoritism. I mean, you can’t tell me that god would let someone into the great hereafter just because they were poor, right? Like, for example, some rapist who grew up poor isn’t getting into heaven, is he? Just because he was born poor and died poor? That’s kind of fucked up. What’s a rapist’s heaven like anyhow? Just a bunch of nervous women walking around with dead cel phones and it’s nothing but alleys and apartment gangways as far as the eye can see? Unless you go inside and then it’s all keg parties, I suppose. Hmmm. Sounds gross.
Well, it’s rapist heaven. I guess that’s why it’s gross, but see my point? You can’t just have poor people in heaven, just like you can’t keep rich people out if they’re good. That’s not fair either. I mean, as far as I know, the game goes “Be good, go to heaven, be bad, go to hell” and that’s it. And THAT, my friends, means that god hates the poor.
Think about it, when Diddy gets to heaven, not only will he not smell terrible anymore, but he will also be completely at home and comfortable with all the trays of caviar and all the different options for his hi def tv and what to tip the butler and all that. BUT, when the poor get up there (ha!) they’ll be confused as shit. Sure, they’ll get used to it eventually, but there’s always gonna be that lingering thing in the back of their minds, that Jlo thing, where they kind of feel like they don’t belong so they over compensate and end up gaudy and ostentatious, married to a zombie, raising hideous children, jumping off male strippers and falling on their asses all the while wrapped up in a tiny strip of gold saran wrap like some kind of loaf of deli meat, and man, that’s not heaven to me. I don’t want that shit in my heaven, so poor people, sorry. You’re fucked. Listen to god. He hates you.
Well, I suppose technically, he’s killing all those people in Haiti. Some of the most desperate to keep the dream alive would maybe say that god couldn’t wait to get them to paradise, as they were suffering here on earth anyway (Haiti wasn’t all that nice in the first place, you know) but that creates a series of questions: Why not just hook em up in the first place? What’s the difference of a few measly decades in the eternity that is god’s reign? Is dropping boulders on people so they starve to death all mangled in a puddle of raw sewage the coolest way to check these folks out? Is god really that fucking impatient that he needs to shake and terrify everyone? What is he, two?
Look, I don’t know much, but I’ve seen tons and tons of evidence that god loves the rich and hates the poor and almost no evidence otherwise. Also, I’ve seen lots of evidence that god’s a bully, a racist and kind of a petulant cocksucker in general. That’s kind of funny, because it really explains why he chose the envoys he chose here on earth. I mean, oral Roberts? Oral? That’s your name? Oral? Funny thing about oral Roberts: his sister, Anal, was a real bombshell.
Last question: is jesus as much of an asshole as his dad? I mean, he went through that ‘yeah, my dad’s rich and powerful, but I’m rejecting all that, man. I’m kind of a hippy” phase that all trust fund dipshit hippies go through, but then he up n died. Who knows. He might be up there with a smart goatee, hair slicked back in a new suit just laughing around the table with Rockafeller, Oral and Anal Roberts and Bin Laden Senior (a good dude by all accounts that I’ve read).
I dunno, man. I’m going to play the guitar.
xoxox
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