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.
Sunday, March 30, 2003
Honda...
I swear that this town is being overrun by fucking retards in rice-burners. You know what those are - the noisy ass, lowered, usually ugly, fucking sporty import cars. You know the ones with all of the tacky-ass accessories and lighting? These shit-balls seem to be traveling in packs now. The bass from their stereos rattle my house and the sound of their spoilers bite my ass. I just might have to possibly tell somebody to shut the fuck up and to slow the hell down with a baseball bat soon.
And to think that I was going to write about Spiderman before the last car came buzzing up my street.
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