I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Tuesday, March 11, 2003
Guess Who's Coming To Visit?...
Besides Ian. Oh, no...there's some haircutting going on in the bathroom, and I'm here at the computer, so I know I'm safe. And Ijazz, the pilot just asked me where to pee now that the bathroom has been overrun with girls butching? butchering? themselves, or their hair for that matter. Fuck, I forgot what I was writing about. People never can get it stright in their skulls that if you see a thin, feverish, imp clacking away at a device - don't bug them. If you destroy the mountain while it's being built, then you're gonna have a sand pile if you don't let the sediment pile up.
Oh, yeah...Google hits, anyone?
As of the last hour...
Spider Monkey Masturbating.
Horse Humping.
Overcooked McDonalds Hamburgers.
This is just in the last thirty minutes, folks...
Picture what I get in a month. You and all of your mammary gland, slightly robust, lactation fetishes, you sick bastards.
Fat Free Milk, indeed.
Ugh.
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