I'll Post ABout Pooing In The Mexican Techno Bar When I Get Back From Robbing/Going To The Bank...

Her Melly-ness over at Coffee For One will send you kitty pictures. You should send her some art or pictures or toys or something for her new desk at work. You better be nice to her too because she's, like, a nurse or something, and she'll spit in your drip bag / I.V. thing if you're rude and she meets up with you in a hospital. Her and Amy Choppa are also my internet fiancees. Yup, this summer we're gonna throw a Utah / Internet / three-way marriage party. Boz needs to register with the Universal Life Church and to start thinking up what he's going to say in the ceremony. Gifts will be nice. Yup.

Kevynn The Giant Has A Posse...

Damn tired. I may have to write more later today. I just plum tuckerd out. It is nice when friends stop by the bar and get loose. Buy drinks, buy drinks. Everybody should buy drinks. It's the law. I make it so. The art show was awesome. I might have sold a painting. I got really drunk. So did others. We gave a homeless man a bottle of wine and then he got arrested. My girlfriend had to poo and the art gallery ran out of toilet paper, so I accompanied her to a scary Mexican techno bar...

I'll explain more later...too tired.

But, I do have a question though. If you had to drink one alcoholic drink for the rest of your life, what would it be? Human blood doesn't count, either. It has no alcohol content. Well, unless it's my blood...

Today Is Lucy's Birthday. She is One Year Old. She Is A Dog. I Shook Her Paw Today And Told Her That She Looked Pretty...

Her Raymi-ness, needs some money. You should send it to her. She tells me that she'll give me a cut if you do, or at least we can smoke some cigarettes together. I should go to one of her parties someday, but only if she pays attention to me and hooks me up with drinks. She spelled my name, wrong - but that's okay, because she's Raymi.

Hey, Bubbas. My art show is comin' up and I'm gonna get loose as a goddamn goose. I hope somebody wants to buy something. That would be nice, wouldn't it? Ice cream for everybody then. The doorbell just rang and I yanked open the door and gave a hail Satan sign. It was a girl selling newspaper subscriptions. I apologized and I told her that I thought that she was one of my friends. She kept on looking at my blue nail polish. I think I freaked her out. I'm really friendly to door-to-door people. I think that freaks them out also. Like the two old men who wore Amish-style hats the other day. When they gave me their stupid pamphlet, I thanked them and told them that I would read it. And I would if I could dig it out of the trash without getting dirty. I just gave the girl a donation that I know that she'll pocket. I also gave the guy playing the guitar in front of my work some money for some booze/food. I also tipped the guy who filled up our propane tank at the gas station last night for our barbeque. When he was filling it up, he asked Joe and I something, but we both couldn't understand him. I heard the word finals and started talking to him about the Lakers. He looked sad and said in his Engrish that he was talking about finals for school. Oops. No. Joe and I. We did. My girlfriend does, so I talked to him about Long Beach State. I know absolutely nothing about L.B.S.U. But I still talked about how nice the weather is on campus. Like I know. Tipped him though, cuz' he was a bad ass. He was like the ninja of propane tank refueling. I wanted to smoke and blow everybody up, but there was meat waiting at home - so I didn't.

Say hi to me at the show tonight at Urban Eclectic. Four doors down from The Glass House concert venue. Starts at 8 p.m. Goes til midnight? I'll be looking drunk and bewildered...

Rhubarb Madness By Tom Schmitt...

Atop a small hill, sun sinking behind the hills, carbon dioxide choking the quiet twilight, Beaker was speaking to Prof. Honeydew, wearing nothing but his wiley charms, and Bunson became enraged. That vein, (yes, that one) bulged from Bunson's felt, pale melon, as his eyes reddened, his fingers gripped themselves, creating the fist-phenomena. A cricket sang softly. A fly buzzed, unabashed.
I ask you this, I put forth this motion....
Beaker, unaware of his strange affectations, continued on, high-pitched "Meeps" cascading out in flush, harsh sound waves. See them, watch them, in wonder, wandering through the air. They float, ever-falling as gravity takes them, and crushes them in it's grip. Changing as the air infuses itself within their very core. They collide with Bunsons ear, annihilating the anvil, harrassing the hammer, eating the equilibrium, until the Professor is near hysterics, we watch as he's about to speak, to push forth spiteful syntax, belittling Beaker for his unknowing actions. Restraint prevails, however, at least for now....
"...As time stands still, the soul continues... " speaketh Beaker beautifically.
"...er...."
"...like descending through space, only easier, open-minded, merging with ions and eros, eclipsing the earth, breathtaking and bungling, a baby aware of the womb and rejecting it for a pentohouse overlooking the New York skyline as city lights wink out rousing the wake to slumber...."
"...eh...."
"...nature rejecting the moment for fear of acceptance, for tears of reluctance, for jeers of soaring crowds ripe with disease and putrifaction, stinking like a three-day-old cold, shining oil-like atop the surface of water..."
"...en...."
Beaker relinquishes, the subtle lisp fading.... Bunson stammers on.... and on.. and... on. ......

Kicking Picasso In The Nuts...

Today there were about thirty cheerleaders taking pictures in the park across the street from my house. Maybe I shoud've invited them to barbeque tomight. I'm going to be featured in art exhibit tomorrow night. I was a talking to a girl at a bar last night while she was ordering her drinks and looked ahead and saw a flyer with my name on it. That was kinda freaky, the girl didn't believe that it was me, she said that it was a girl's name, so I started to dig around in my wallet for proof. I don't have breasts. It is not a girl's name. I should've asked her to show me her penis.

Samson...

I got a haircut today.
I always hated haircuts when I was a little kid.
My father would get pissed at me and demand that I got a crew cut because my hair grows at an alarming rate.
If I was a member of the X-Men, my mutant power would be uncanny hair growth.

I'd be known as bushy crotch boy.

Fist Full Of Boom Stick...

I have an art gallery showing on Saturday night. How that I happened, I don't know. I don't paint much. One painting every six months, maybe. And I give them all away. But my friends are all talented, and Ryan asked if I had anything, so, I'll have four things at the show. If you're around Pomona, email me and let me know. Keep your knives at home. Thermo nuclear detonators are okay. I’ll be the drunk guy shrugging my shoulders.

I need to call my brother back. I really lag at calling people back. It's remarkable that people still talk to me. You might as well put a message in a bottle and throw it into the sea. You'd get a quicker response that way, mate.

I met a guy who works on a cable show too. I need to call him. Maybe I can write skits or act in his productions. I washed my car today. I went to the comic book store and picked up some free X-Men and Batman stuff for the Mexican worker's kids at my job. I found nothing for myself, fuckers. I rented Catch Me If You Can, The Ring, and The Legend Of Ron Jeremy. I had a lot of fines at the video store, but the guy knocked off sixteen dollars. Why, I don't know. People do stuff like that for me sometimes. Even the kids at the library knock off my fines. Maybe I have a slight mutant power? Maybe people pity me? Last week when I saw X-Men, one of the kids carried my cokes all of the way to my seat. Maybe I'm a good talker. Shit, I would hope that I had a better way with words than with writing. Otherwise? Mr. Hemingway? Please pass the shotgun.

Oh. About my brother. He's 32 and lives in Kentucky, but is going to move soon this summer to Phoenix. He's like a bigger version of me, but with bushy eyebrows. I don't think that you could ever have a brother more different than you. But we both appreciate fart humor and like beer. I forgive him for being the ultimate asshole that he was when I was growing up. He's cool now. You mellow out when you're balding. So, if my brother moves closer to California, this means that I'll at least be able to see one member of my family, right?

My younger sister wants me to visit Austin in early July. I hope that I can, I miss her a lot. In times past, we were inseparable. But she had to move to Texas with my father when she was still in high school. I think that we both suffered for not being around each other. I raised her and she's always been the only girl who I kept in the back of my mind while doing something wacky and crazy. While she was here, she was the only person that kept me from dangling off of a cliff or racing down some freeway. I've had to learn to be a more responsible person without the benefit of her being here, and she has too. I feel that we've missed out on a lot, but the core connection is still around. We still have a horrible sense of humor, and appreciate a good fart joke here and there. Do you see what my family was like growing up, folks?

Damn, I can't concentrate. I think that we're all going to watch the Laker game at my house tomorrow. Maybe I can give you a play by play. Not of the game, but of my freaky friends fiendish actions. Maybe there will be a couple of guest posts. Maybe not. Maybe they'll all get me drunk and take me to the comic book store instead. Maybe? Maybe I'll get a call on that new job? And then I'll be a semi-wealthy guy and get back on track and then I can pay for all of you to come to a BBQ at my house.

I hope you like strippers.

I Want You To Curse Me As Hard As You Can...

Curse club, baby.
Tell me off.
Because, we all deserve to be put down sometimes, I think.

And if your imagination fails you, try to work through the alphabet, or just see how many words this commenting system will take.

P.S. I humped your mom. Yes, I did.

Hi, My Name Is Carol N...

COKE 12PK
Bud LT 12 PK
VALET DEGREE
RICE A RONI
CHZ IT CHDR
ARRWHD 15/24
1.48 lb @ 1.59 / lb MINNEOLAS
KRSPY SLTINE
CHORE BOY
TWININGS TEA
SALT & PEPPER
RA TRSH BAGS
PWRADE MATRX
YO CRUNCH
VLASIC DILLS
YO CRUNCH
J.D. BISCUIT
PACK CIGS

TAX 1.95
BALANCE 62.25
CASH 62.25
CHANGE 0.00

05/13/03 10:27 pm

$ 2.31 Toward Wine Club
$ 10.32 Toward FINDING NEMO
$ 17.90 Toward Pet Club

Speechless…

Hey, that’s good. Joe might have set me up a new interview with his job. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Kevynn the waiter/bartender is fun and all, but this job was only supposed to last a couple of months. Not two and something years. But, I don’t regret it. I was a desperate, laid-off, dot com guy. Funny, huh? Isn’t everybody a laid-off dot comer? All of them have jobs or are dead, though. I smile and talk, and look smart in my big, fat tie and wrinkled, white shirt. I ask you how to make your drinks and sit down at the tables with the old men. People ask me how my weekend was. I tell them stories, they laugh. They tip. I follow them to their car, and say, “ Hulk Smash!” and then tip their car over. I wake up in an alley with nothing on but a pair of shredded, purple pants. Nuff’ said.

I don’t know what the hell’s been going on with me recently, but ever since I came back from my two month hiatus, my sense of discombobulation has increased. My fingers don’t respond to me as well as before. There’s a bad connection. My sleeping habits have gotten worse, I think about things to write, projects to tackle, things to start, and my arms fill with concrete. The fire from my brain starts to slow down. Eventually it congeals and solidifies. Making me walk around like an ape. Apes can’t talk; so then people can’t understand me. People can’t understand me, so then I get frustrated. When I get frustrated, I get mad. When I get mad, I get violent. When I get violent, I throw things. When I throw things, my bad aim comes into effect. Old ladies walking their poodles get hit in the ears. They can’t hear me apologize. Nobody is happy.

No, really. I need that old, mad, flavor. The premium gas. The bomp dee bomp. The ramma lamma ding dong. I need to lop off my arm and replace it with a chainsaw. Rip up this keyboard. I need to stop typing like an old woman.

Or, at least, to get an old woman to do my typing.