Not sure what I'm going to do to celebrate. I do have one, lil' 12-count packet of Black Cat firecrackers, but also three bottles of rum in my freezer. I do not know how I will even out those two elements of fun...but, with the right amount of gusto, imagination, and spare time, I think I can figure something out.
I can set all of the firecrackers off, then drink all the Rum until something else happens. Or, I could drink all the Rum and make something happen by setting off the packet of firecrackers...like setting them off in someone's mouth, or a mailbox or something.
Or, I can set them off individually throughout the night. That may be best. Just kinda walk around town, down a quiet street, chugging from a bottle and setting off single firecrackers from time to time. Perhaps sigh and laugh with equal frequency and psychoticness.
Who knows? There's no end to the limitations in my life.
Anyway, I've started writing a textbook that involves math and things like Will Smith. Here's a sample from the manuscript. Hope you like it:
Hello, my name is ______, what's your name? Let's be human. Come on, me and you. It's hard to be a human being, but let's try it out for a second or two.
Let's talk. We've got much to catch up on, you and I. Are you mad at me? No really, are you mad at me? I'm sorry for whatever bullshit I may have done, I didn't mean to! I feel like we don't talk much anymore, lol.
Let's talk about music, yes? Have you put listen to tape cassette of Aerosmiths? Cryin' by Aerosmiths, the tape? It has a heart break thematics. And has daughter of rock star in video, she dress like dancing stripper whore and drive around America being very whory with another friend whore. I like because it make me love America, have nice music rock, and have dance around. It have me make a super penis and balls when I think about this music videos.
...Aaaaand that was impression of the all too familiar trashy/grammatically awkward Eastern European guy, you know the score. It's harder to write out than it seems.
I used to have that Aerosmith tape single, Cryin'. In fact, I found it recently at my parents house, in pristine condition, which is why it's the subject of this entry. Upon finding it, I sat there and thought about how I used to fuckin jam the shit out of it to no end, no lie. The Sony Tape and AM/FM Boombox that I shared with my younger sister had the Lion King Soundtrack and Aerosmith tapes on constant rotation. To this day, I think her choice was better. But whatevs, right? I also had Ice-T's Original Gangster, which my aunt gave to me for my 10th birthday. That's fuckin redemption, bia. Single handedly the best present a 10 year boy could ever ask for.
Let's go to sleep and think about Aerosmith and what kind of an impact they had on our lives, because if you are eating, breathing, and shitting; than they obviously have. Yeah, you liked them at one point, and you might still. Tell me about it, we're humans god damn it.
I'm going to sign off now and think about us, baby. Let's get the train back on the track, so to speak. The royal treatment, so to speak.
Drink in this photo and indulge your sentimental senses, but don't chug.
The other day (Monday, if you need to know, Mom...I know you've found me, Mother), I was thinking about the Geto Boys. I find myself thinking about the Houston Gangsta Rap trio quite a bit, actually.
Don't ask me why.
That shit's complicated.
Thought about their song "I'm not a Gentleman" and the lyrics and how one single line out of the song has really made a profound impact on me and my dealings with humans.
"I'll take your mother-fuckin' ass to a chicken fight"
Seriously, you're welcome. I know you've been looking for a way to end your failed relationship, or for an awesome comeback to that thing that one dick said to you the other day in front of your co-workers.
-I'll take your mother-fuckin' ass to a chicken fight, Greg. -Lady, I'll take your mother-fuckin' ass to a chicken fight. -Sir, excuse me, with all due respect, I'll take your mother-fuckin' ass to a chicken fight. -Yes, can I get a number 6, hold the mayo, and...oh, yeah, I'll take your mother-fuckin' ass to a chicken fight.
Yes, all fine examples, nay, solutions to your many, many problems in life. But, none fit better than in the actual context of the song. The song is about, like, not being a mother-fucking gentleman.
In the context, Willy D of the Geto Boys, is telling women-at large- that he will not take them to a musical or anything of this nature. Instead, a chicken fight sounds more deserving, and in my own personal agreement, fun.
ANYWAY, I've decided to make everyone a Christmas card for the women or "bitch ass men" in their lives. It's all there, just print it and fold along the lines. It should print out to 8.5 x 11 inches. I've added a Sample so you can see where/how to fold.
peaced.
this is the zoomed in version
the sample version
the real deal print-out and fold version: so, this file's dimensions are a bit too big for the tabs that this blog allows, so it appears smaller than it is...just double-click on it or drag to desktop, or whatever the shit it is you have to do.
I was about to write about all sorts of stuff, particularly about my father and how he once punched a moving train...you know, start my bLOG off with a bang. Then I had deja-vu. It's completely quiet in my house, the lights are off, I'm staring at a computer screen, and I'm alone. So, there's not much to go on to suddenly make me feel like I'm having deja-vu. Typically, you're outside of the house, with some other people, and having a conversation when you have a fit of deja-vu.
I've never written a bLOG before, so that wasn't it.
Then, as always, the feeling starts to slip...I felt like I almost had it, but then it was gone.
As I started to write the words "I feel like I've been here before..." I remembered what it was. So, I'm not sure if that counts as deja-vu. Never have I before had deja-vu and remembered the source, it just gets shrugged off and forgotten.
But, I got it now. Once I read an article online about bLOGS and the ruinous effect it will have on the written word, and every time the author wrote the word "blog", she wrote it as: "bLOG". It may have been a good article.
I'll never know. That fucking shit...writing "blog" as bLOG fucking pissed me off to no end. I couldn't concentrate. Every other sentence of course had the word blog, so like little angry knives these "bLOGS" would dart up at me and provoke me to attack her through the comment section.
I was gonna be all like, "Hey, you fucking bitch, you wanna talk all about the ruin of the English language and you yourself r butchering it up like a mother fucker...fuck you."
I wrote furiously for an hour, calling her a bitch and an idoit several several times (I was so mad I kept misspelling "idiot"). I didn't care, I just kept going and going.
Fucking bLOG, I was so mad at the bLOG's.
By the time I finished my comment and was about to hit the Publish button, my wrists hurt and I was biting my lip. Since it had been over an hour of typing, my internet connection had quit, and I lost the message.
Long story short, I found myself writing the bLOG tonight. Why? I don't know. I have to find that article and ask that author why she herself had made that decision. Did I subconsciously make that decision as a traitorous act of irony on the part of an alliance between my subconscious and my consciousness?
Or is there something about writing the word "blog" as "bLOG"?
Nah, just kidding, none of that really happened. Did I mention I can teleport to anywhere in the world at any given time? (except for depths under 6ft from Sea Level, not sure why, but I do know that I'm 6ft tall, so that may have something to do with it, for whatever reason)
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