Tuesday, February 18, 2003



Ah shite in a shitehole. Now THAT’s what I call a weekend, gus. THAT was fukn weekend material, not like some of those other pussy ass milk-shake dunking freak fakas that they try to pump down our fukn throats like vanilla coke. Naw loc, that was the real deal. Three days of serious funkenstein doctorials. If I had to pick one word to categorize it but at the same time grant it all the freedom to develop and unfetter its wings that I know it deserves the word would be TRUE.

Gyeah that’s the ticket, that’s the bombudd, that’s the good shit. Farken arken with Johnny Starken.

I was up real late last night remembering my first dog Lindsey. We found her in the mountains when I was like 2 years old and named her after one of the little towns on the way back to la la land. The mellowest jello-est black lab that you never seen. Grew up with that dog, dawg. We was brothas from anotha motha and it was like butter on toast when we were up in the scene. Props to the downest pooch that ever kicked it on four legs and a tail. Chillin in the doghouse with a case o’ cognac and a fifty dollar sack a milkbones.

Valentine’s dinner was the bambucha. I had the veal. And no, frankly, I didn’t feel guilty, but yes I did think about those innocent baby calves hunkered down in their feeding pens, suckling hoses of fatty nutrition and barely moving a leg. But ya know, I think my veal calf was the one happy calf that died of heart failure despite the fact that it got to be let out in the world and frollick and play. My veal calf was lazy and died of natural causes associated with an unhealthy lifestyle of little or no exercise and eating mars bars and hersheys kisses. Yes all the other veal-eaters are heartless bastards for eating the innocent chillskiers but I am happy in my knowledge of a happy little cow that was put in with the others to send out to the restaurants of America because his pappy would have wanted it that way. Oh and the rice milanesa was the SHIZNIT.

Drove up Waianae way on Sunday and kicked it like a funky chicken. Kaena point was a straight panic dawg. Like a fukn dumbass left the lights on but luckily some cool ass Bombay bombers jumped us and we were on our way like George Clinton to the spaceship. The end of the road is a rough place to run low on proton torpedoes but we made due. oh and the water was a little chilly but very refreshing thank you!

Waikiki was the name of our game yesterday. That and windward mall for some crawlage. Not at the feet of the master, FUCK that, but to find fish for a very serious science experiment. See we’re going to see if the average water speed of an unladen goldfish carrying a coconut is comparable to that of a swallow while in airborne state. It’s a vital experiment backed by the dental board of Guam for use in their studies of Chamorro tendencies to eat stinkweed.

Ok, I made that last part up. Not the whole paragraph, just the last sentence. Every other word in this whole thing is totally and completely undeniable. Except in the literal sense. You see, it’s a metaphor. For, um, karma. Yeah that’s it. If you don’t send me a jar of peanut butter, your karma’s through the floor and might be bustin’ your water heater beyatch, so call up Mr. Postman and not for your fukn letter, for my fukn scrilla punk.

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