Molly Malone, General Viet Or Fat Free Milk?

For whom do I blame for the madness that runs through my veins?

The Irish?

The Vietnamese?

Or Myself?

Jamal Just Said To Me...

that I should get a tattoo of a Spider Man suit on my chest. Now shouldn't Peter Parker do this? But to his whole body? All he'd have to do is to keep the mask in his back pocket and then he'd be set. He would never need to wear socks, either.

Payment Summary...



Sometimes you catch yourself being yourself - and you don't understand how you managed to grow up and become a dick. You start to tap your finger against your temples and then stop when brain starts to ooze out.

I feel like a million bombs reproduced at the rate of cockroaches and had an orgy in my gut and have now exploded. All that's left now - are regrets, memories and my two pointy fingers.

This is how I'm typing the drivel that you're reading now. But I'm leaving red blood marks on the keyboard letters.

I don't know why and when I became a wandering Frankenstein. Ask the Doctor. Ask the millions of innocent, little girls with snapped necks that I've left behind in my travels.

I am not a nice man.

I am not a nice monster.

I am not ANYTHING.

urgh

I was listening to Jisa Yu Holem Hand Blong Mi...

when Tony called me and told me that he was riding a bike and would be at my house soon. I said okay. The he called me back and said that he ate shit and thought that he was going to go home. I said no, to come. I got in my car and looked for him and then went all of the way around the block. I didn't find him and assumed that he went back home. When I got inside my house - Tony was there. He puked, cleaned up the blood from his elbow and is now talking to fat girls on the phone. I love Tony.

I...

don't trust anybody.

Mother Nature's A Cranky, Old Whore...

I'm so poor - I only donated five dollars, but it's better than nothing.

Go here, Bubba.

Fat Free Milk...

would like your help...

YOU

Need to tell me a story (or as many as you want) about a wild and crazy night involving drunkenness and a/or w/ members of the opposite sex. Tell me what you drank, what was the deal and why it was so memorable to you and - did you ever see the person afterwards?

Basically. Drunk story. Date or otherwise involving a guy or girl.

By responding to this, this means that you absolve all ownership of this particular embarrassing moment of your past for ME TO USE and to give you NO CREDIT. This might wind up in a story. I will become rich. You will die poor.

Thank you for your cooperation.

I'm Ready...



Dig?

William Shatner's Nights Will Always Be More Boring Than Mine Even Though He Lives In Outerspace...

I catch myself, sometimes, thumping my fist aginst the desk to a rythym that, if not produced from speakers come from within my own head - which is fine, just as long as the shit's catchy. People might think that I'm angry, though...which is okay because I'm a third angry all of the time anyway, with another third...cloudy-wishy-washy, and the other third...vacant.

I'm nodding my head up and down right now. The world is asleep. When I want to talk to people and to go out - everybody's always very, very, far away from me. And then, sometimes when I am out - all I get from everybody else is primal, fecal throwing. Which is better than nothing, but still stinks all the same.

For every minute that I'm bored out of my fucking mind tomorrow at work - I will trade that for two minutes worth of equal time when I get off and go bat-shit-crazy. I will be out and about because it will Thursday. I will be glad to not be working. I will be glad to think about...being glad.

I am the luckiest person in the whole world right now because I am me right here and you will never know what it's like because you suck, or are asleep. or grounded, or narrow-mindedly poo-headed, or on a spaceship, or a communist, or a Republican.

The great thing about tomorrow - besides not spell-checking this...

The GREATEST thing about tomorrow will be................
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I Blame
Frank Black,
Burl Ives
And The
Satisfyingly Dichotomous itunes...

for making me not further contribute to the great american novel. Instead of telling you about the further adventures of Jem, Scout and Boo Radley, instead of telling you about what Holden Caulfield did after the loony bin, instead of telling you about Payne and what he did after working for the Los Angeles Times, instead of telling you about what Tony, Chris, Kevin and Joel did after that horrible road trip, instead of telling you if the guy and girl's dating experiment worked or gave them further reason to avoid bars and alcohol, instead of telling you about Beezus killing Romona, instead of telling you about Hermione's muggle-born punk rock, drug-addicted children, instead of telling you about Chinaski snorting blow off of the breasts of Sophia Loren, instead of telling you about Ender Wiggin waking up and realizing it was all a dream right before his first visit from Col. Graff, instead of telling you about the same poison that killed Romeo, Juliet and Hamlet's mom, Instead of telling you about the penis ring of Sauron's, instead of telling you about Eliza Doolittle eventually getting Alzheimers, instead of telling you about The Old Man coming home and then going down to the local A&P and just buying an 8 oz. filet of shark, instead of telling you about Tom Sawyer writing under the pseudonym : Samuel Clemens, instead of telling you if Pennywise The Clown ever came back to the town of Derry, Maine, instead of telling you if the prince found the princess, instead of telling you if the bee found the honey, the fly found the shit, A found the Z, Ying found the Yang, if William The poker player found the Tell, if Norman found the Fell, and if the money inevitably made it back into Akbar the store owner's till.

Yes.
I Blame
Frank Black,
Burl Ives
And The
Satisfyingly Dichotomous itunes...