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.
Thursday, March 20, 2003
Mr. Rourke...
Okay, who has tattoos? I don't have any. Never really got around to the grand masterpiece that I wanted. A guy I work with just got these prison-looking anchor tats on his forearms. Dude...c'mon, gay? Yes. Very. I have a couple of pierced nipples, though. I put peanut butter on them and let my dog, "Skippy" lick it off.
So where are your tattoos, you heathens? When'd you get them and what the hell are they. And all the girls with tattoos of butterflies or an asian symbol on the small of their back, need not reply. You buttholes.
Da' plane, boss...da' plane...
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