Saturday, June 24, 2006

What's the matta man? We gonna come round at 12
With some Puerto Rican Girls that's just Dying to meet you. We gonna bring a case of wine

Have a good time...

Lord, you know I miss you.

In a case of mistaken identity, they put a bullet through his heart.

What up?

I just have to say...

I enjoy the comments on this blog.

(Fuckin' A, I hate using the term, "blog," because, despite my world-renown proclivity for gaiety, the term is extremely gay. I just go with "website," when inevitably confronted. Gaiety and all. Cause you know I got the Gaiety. Some of my best friends are Gaiety.)

Despite all the gaiety above, motherfuckers... how come y'all are scurred to comment?

I have never been possessed of a penchant to bust balls (complete and utter fucking lie... I was BORN to bust balls), so why oh why would you be afeared to leave a simple comment here?

(If I could cram another parenthetical in here, I would.)

Could've tuned in, tuned in, but he tuned out

Alright, I admit it. I haven't been myself lately.

I just haven't been as entertaining here lately as I have been for the last year.

I have my reasons.

The first of which is that everything starts with the lyrics, when it comes to my posts.

I used to sit down, queue up Itunes, and let the music take me ... well, I let it take me to you. There were over 3000 songs.

Now they are gone, and, unlike Steve Austin, I just don't think I can fucking rebuild it.

So, without that foundation from which to write, I find myself somewhat ... lost.

There are other reasons that I may feel that way. Some of you know them, some of you don't.

But, trust me, it's primarily the music.

Because, motherfuckers, we all know it isn't as if I don't live a pretty interesting life.

And that I don' see interesting things.

Every damn day.

Things worth sharing.

Really, the bottleneck is taking place in the music department.

I need a music transfusion.

And a few other things.

But, y' know?

Fuckin' A.

Fuckin' A.

(My sister, Liz, who absolutely, indubitably, indisputably, rocks the fucking house in an old school way, insists that I am personally responsible for keeping the term "Fuckin' A" alive and in ciculation from 1988, when it first died, until 1995, when the Big Lebowski, by and through the Dude himself, revived it.

I don't know.

I'm a humble man.

I don't lay claim to such things.


Fuckin' A.

I stuck with it.

And here it is.

And all you can really say is

Fuckin' A.)

By the by...

I received a phone call yesterday.

From Will Danger.

You remember him, right?


I pick up the phone, and say,


And I hear...

Dios Mios. I see you rolled your way into the Finals.

Me and Liam?

We gonna
FUCK you up.

And if you pull that piece around me?

I gonna take it from you, stick it up your ass and pull the trigger til it goes 'CLICK.'

So I says to myself, I says,


That's right.

Nobody Fucks With The Jesus.

Thst's right, Will.

Fuckin' A.

Nobody fucks with the Jesus.

By the by...

I just talked with Blain.

You know Blain.

He appears in the pictures just below.

And if you don't know him, you will soon.

Because he is the best friend I have made here in Montana.

Anyway, he wants you to know...

That he is the prodigal, the prototypical, the preposterous,

Son of a Preacher Man.