I got en e-mail from Ms. YoLaina today. She's always a ray of sunshine in my gloomy midwestern saltmine world. How cool is she? This cool.
We also both have a little problem with a drug that's black and shiny...
You know what I'm talking about. Plus, whenever I'm down she drops some badasssss collage and a present tied to 100 kind words.
, And she rocks.
So... Accolades to the Yo for cheering me up tonight. I had been fixin' to thinkin' about drinkin', but now I think I'm going to drive to Gary with a gut full of Mescaline and without pants, which reminds me that I need to find a halloween costume.
I'm just kidding. I hate Gary. 'There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge," unless he's in MJ's hometown.
I think James Brown all upgefuckt is funny, and it reminds me of cool luggage. Who am I to chuckle at him when he used to be soooo cool, but then again...
it's strange to think that, at one point and time, Michael Jackson was universally beloved.
I don't know anyone of my generation that didn't at least entertain the fancy of buying that jacket from Thriller.
Oh how the mighty have fallen! I wouldn't be surprised to see either one of them feeding an ice cream cone to a dog in one of my bad dreams. I need to make a visit to my ol' galpal soon. She's on of those folks that you don't know how much they feed who you are until they've been gone for a minute, and your tolerance gets all low, like with the booze, and all. She just makes 8 bucks feel like a million.
Oh! She is the original bongo player for shark-in-the-boat.
They're the noisical equivalent of those martial arts competitions held by manaical criminal masterminds held on secluded island bases populated by a secret army wose sole purpose is total world domination. I think they're Australian. My friend saw them play in a bathroom once, and totally shit himself, which sucked, because he was wearing sweat pants with elastic around the ankles. The crowd, quickly realizing that he's walking around calf-deep with a swishing reservoir of yuck, shriek, and establish a 6 1/2 foot perimeter with the single-mindedness of a flock of minnows. He's trapped and encircled like they're going to have a dogfight. Pulling out his waistband to inspect the damage only serves to further upset his karmic balance and forces him to vomit gut-warm beer and 2 scotch eggs... right into the aforementioned sweatpants...
OK. It was me, and this made me want to do the whole thing over again. My friend Knuckles went out with that guy. You think that you know what a big tool is?
No, It's this guy.
I don't know what level of Maslow's hierarchy of needs trashing Danny-boy fulfills, but I think it's between 2 and 4. Meeee-ow.