My ol’ lady’s outa town so I’m building a fort in the kitchen out of pillows ‘n shit… not ’shit’ shit, I mean ’stuff’. newspapers and blankets and stuff.
That’d be a fairly impenetrable fortress though…
There’s been a lot of noise recently about the economy and how much it sucks gorilla balls. Frankly, I haven’t noticed. I was broke in 1999 and I’m still broke now. Nice and fuzzy and broke. Come and warm your hands against my abject poverty. Mmm-mm. So good.
I’ll be attempting to swim to New Jersey on acid again next week, if anyones interested. I’ve been training a whole bunch and this time- I think I’ll make it. You remember last year I got chased by a pelican with a chocolate saxophone? Well, this year I’m doing it blind folded.
You see all this? This is what I write and then delete before I post. It’s my warm up. It’s like Diamond Dave doing squats back stage at MSG in 1980. It’s almost exactly like that except no one wants to wring the sweat out of my sequined leotard and make a Cosmopolitan with it. Oh god, Cosmos. I could really go a Cosmo right now, or a Manhattan. Now there’s a drink, a man’s drink! Don’t be fooled by the cherry, thats a red ribbon for a lightening bolt! Those things fuck you up- and how.
Alright cats, I gotta chase a dollar bill across the desert… Wait! Check out this record if you get a chance. It’s one of our all-time favs.
Johnny Marr is all over it. Worth checking out.
Here’s the second single from the album-
Bye!
Read the rest of this entryNot a great deal of time today, to post something. It’s Wednesday, the hump, the humpty, I like my beats funky,
I’m spunky. I like my oatmeal lumpy…. Yo ladies, oh how I like to hump thee….
This is worth reading. We like this guy but he needs to back off the ‘Fuck’ words a notch, they lose their impact if you sprinkle them too liberally. I guess that’s his thing though.
Ah, what else? I’m in Berlin at the moment, which is nice. The Germans are lovely people, nothing like what you see in the movies.
Okay, that’s it for today. WAIT! It’s ‘Foxy But Dead‘ day, isn’t it? It is! I’ll make it easy- Va-Va-Voom!
Just quickly: Yesterday I was on the receiving end of one of the harshest, most injurious insults of all time- “Dirty little Pig Fart.”
I pride myself on stringing together wonderfully crude and explosive remarks, but that took the cake. And I wont say what I did to deserve such a slur but I will say I deserved it. I always have. Pretty harsh though, no?
See ya!
The crossroads is a mystical place. Where guitar player meets devil. Where man meets woman’s clothing. Where nut meets bush. I came across this album title (not literally) a little over two weeks ago.
It’s been floating in the starry sky of my Mac’s desktop. BTW, I checked on the lyrics, not a fun song. Seems there’s no whiskey in Nutbush. And if you get drunk, there’s no bail. What the hail?
The guitar sounds like Hendrix watering the lawn through a psychedelic hose. Ever seen a trippy hose?
Howdy partners! Just spotted this on the ol’ internets today. It’s pretty cool! Great way to see what the mag looks like
(we publish a mag. remember?). If the screen below says, “Sorry, come back later” just refresh the page. Vimeo, pfff.
Anyway, check it out, listen to what nice things the man says about us, then buy ten issues, you beautiful sluts.
Lineout: Linefeed Reading List, June 2009 from Michael Bojkowski on Vimeo.
Last friday in NYC we had a weird late afternoon storm and when it was over the sky looked like this! It was amazing.
Thanks to Simon for sending these to us.
In other amazing news: There’s a movie about Woodstock coming out and I’m pleased to announce that Liev Schreiber is playing a tranny once again.
Here he is in Mixed Nutts. Not the greatest comedy of all time, but Liev was hilarious.
He’s a brilliant actor isn’t he? Did you catch Wolverine? That movie would have sucked a bunch more without him…
Not that it totally sucked, but… I think it could have been a little darker? Who am I? Roger Eggbert? Jeez.
If I had a dollar for every time I read over my blog posts and found a glaringly obvious punctuation disaster, I would have enough money to buy some pretty cool stuff.
See that comma I just did? I’m not so sure I put that in the right place. I’m wondering if I could have written that whole opening sentence without any punctuation at all. Why can’t I tell?
What happened to me?
I went to school. I did pretty good in English. B+ Average… Can anyone recommend a book? Fuck-wit’s Guide to Punctuation perhaps?
I suppose I could be a lot worse…
Today is monday and the birds outside my window are chirping merrily in the late morning haze. I am sitting at the messiest desk on the Southeastern Seaboard, pondering my lunch and churning out poorly punctuated dross.
For a while now I’ve been thinking about writing/posting an insanely self-indulgent account of my romantic history.
Perfectly obnoxious, I know, but… HOLY SHIT! BERNIE MADOFF JUST GOT 150 YEARS! His lawyers thought he should only get 12! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!
Where was I? Oh yeah, the girlfriend chronicles. So I thought since we get site visits in the high four figures each day- Some of those visits have got to be ex-girlfriends. Right? Am I kidding myself? No. They Google me for sure.
So anyway, I thought I’d use this platform to clarify a few things and also HONOR those wonderful ladies who, like human turnstiles, ushered me through the various chapters of my life thus far.
I’ll start with my earliest memory of a girlfriend- Joanne Crocker.
Joanne came to my primary (elementary) school when I was 7. She and her family had moved halfway around the world to escape the inconceivable horrors of war-torn 80’s Belfast. She had dreamy blue eyes, a band of freckles across her nose, and an accent.
As she stood at the front of the class and nervously introduced herself the other children giggled, but for me it was love at first sight. She was so profoundly different, so strange, so foreign…
I made friends with her immediately and she told me nightmarish tales of kneecappings and bombs blowing up cars on her street.
Of course I didn’t believe her, how could something as horrible as the IRA exist? She was just trying to impress me. Years later I realized she was telling the truth- She had seen a teenage boy have his kneecaps shot out.
We ‘went out’ on and off for most of primary school. She’d invite me over to her house and we’d just sit in her room and talk for hours about… I can’t remember… Then we sort of had a vague relationship during the first or second year of high school, but a weird thing happened one night at the movies- I felt her up. I’d never kissed a girl and had no idea what I was meant to do, so, with my arm around shoulders, I massaged her right breast for about 90 minutes. I didn’t know! I thought she was into it! I thought it would lead to making-out, but it didn’t! Horrible, horrible memory. I still feel gross about it.
The following day at school her friends told me she didn’t want to speak to me ever again. I was crushed and deeply shamed. I felt like a predator.
So, Joanne, if you’re reading this, and I know you are, I just want to say sorry for what happened at The Karate Kid Part II.
Next week: German exchange student Jennifer Sanders!
I’ve heard so much MJ over the last three days. In restaurants, bars, stores, out the windows of passing cars, ring tones, my girlfriend singing to herself while she potters about the pad in her knickers…
I’m wondering if there’s anyway we can bring him back from the dead so I can strangle him. Enough is already enough.
Having said that, on Friday I experienced what I can only describe as an inexplicably significant sense of loss. A lot of people did, and it was weird.
I felt little or nothing for Kurt Cobain’s passing, even though I was a fan at the time. So when I noticed the vague outline of a void left by MJ’s death on thursday I was a little stumped to say the least. I was making jokes about him as recently as May! Why did I suddenly care? Then I remembered the glove. I had my grandma bedazzle a cut-off woman’s silk glove for me when I was nine.
Sha’mon.
One person sure to be grieving mightily over the pop star’s passing is DA Tom Sneddon. Christ, he must must be in a hand-wringing, white-knuckle, sour-breathed panic! Ol’ Tom better hope the LAPD find something damning in the video player, otherwise he’ll have to plant it just to save face. 15 years is a long time to point a finger. Maybe the discovery of some child pornography would put an end to this relentless wake. Let us hope.
What am I talking about on this sunny Sunday in my underpants with a turtle’s head and the siren song of the percolator calling to me from the kitchen? I don’t know. I do know, however, that it must totally suck to be the ghost of Farrah Fawcett.
Now the phone is buzzing at my elbow. It’s a photographer. We have to shoot stuff today for a malt liquor advertorial. I’m printing off model releases and deciding on a t shirt. I’d rather be beneath a palm in the Pitcairn Islands, sipping Montauk Storms and smoking uncontaminated bush weed with a healthy bank statement in my back pocket and a pile of Robert Sabuda books in my lap, looking out over the South Pacific planning my next swim.
But, I’m not. I’m here. And this is how the day will play out: Gulp down coffee that doesn’t have nearly enough milk in it because I’ve ran out. Catch a train out to Wiliamsburg Bklyn. Meet photog. Drink rum-Not beer. Shoot story. Ride the bike I left behind on friday over the bridge and up 1st Ave. Eat. Sleep.
We got a great package in the mail yesterday from a graphic designer named Zack Nathanson. He sent us his portfolio which kinda doubles as a zine. Very cool. He also gave us a balloon to fight over. Check his stuff out at www.downwiththe.biz
Goooooood times down at the Saturday Skateboards rifle range. Check out the sketchy ex-con on the couch.
You know how we’ve been doing the weekly ‘Foxy Octogenarian’? Well, my girlfriend was starting to get jealous of those fossils, so from now on it’s ‘Foxy but Dead’
And this weeks ‘Foxy but Dead’ is Ava Gardener…
You really only need to see the first 30 seconds of each of the videos below to appreciate how much times have changed.
I know we’re not delivering a big ol’ news-flash here, but it’s pretty funny. Imagine showing the more recent sex-ed movie to an audience in the 50’s…
That’s it for today, too much work to do.
Hey, I don’t know what I was thinking yesterday with that whole ‘Attack on Nth Sentinel Isle’ bullshit. I just woke up, started writing, and that’s what you got.
The truth is- I’m bored. I wish my life were a little more like what I described in yesterday’s post, but it’s not. Heres what really happened last Thursday.
Last Thursday I was at home watching the new season of Weeds when the phone rang. It was a friend calling to see what I was up to.
“Oh, not much, man” I said, “Just sitting around scratching my ass.”
“Well, listen.” said my nameless friend, “I think I know where the wreck of the Las Cinque Chagas lies.”
A thimble-load of hot piss involuntarily shot out the eye of my cock, “Las Cinque Chagas?” I stammered, “The Las Cinque Changas?”
“Yes.” replied my friend, who’s name begins with a K.
“Your talking about the Portuguese carrack that sank in the Azores in 1594 with treasure valued at over 1 billion dollars?”
“The same.”
“Where? How?” I was on my feet now, drawing all the blinds in my apartment.
“You know Greg Stemm?” asked K.
“The Black Swan Project guy, of course.”
“I robbed him last night.”
My nose began to prickle and my knees buckled. I sat down.
“Jesus. Well, there’s only one thing for it now. Fuel up the Altura 840. I’ll be over in 15 minutes.”
“Can you pick up some Swiffers on your way over?” Asked Kiefer.
“You got it.” I replied, and…
Fuck. I’m doing it again.
Sorry about the lack of posts over the last few days. I was in the Bay of Bengal trying to sneak onto North Sentinel Island again.
Kiefer and I had been tentatively planning an incursion since he got back from the hospital in Geneva, and when I say tentatively I mean I didn’t think it’d get any further than meeting at his pad every now and then to drink homebrew and watch grainy footage of previous expeditions to the island.
“What are they doing out there, man?” He’d plead. “What’s happening on that island?”.
“How should I know?” I’d reply, “That’s why we need to fly out to LA, get in your boat, and check in on those primitive fuckers before it’s too late.”
Finally, last Thursday night, after the slurred conversation had drifted below the 25th parallel for the thousandth time, Keifer stood up and announced that we were leaving for the Andaman Islands immediately. “YESSS!” I cheered, and suddenly we were zinging out across the North Pacific on his Altura 840, our hair in the wind and Hawkwind on the stereo.
At the stroke of midnight we arrived 5 km off the southernmost coast of North Sentinel Island. After thoughtfully selecting the many guns and knives we would need to shoot and stab our way in, we dropped our canoe in the water and began noislessly paddling over. 30 feet from the island we paused. The bay waves gently slapped at our sides and a big dinner-plate moon shone down, spilling silver between us and the bone-white beach in the distance.
“We should turn around.” Whispered Kiefer.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Sutherland?” I hissed, “We’re here!”
“I know, I know.” He whimpered, “I’m just a bit scared. Remember what happened to Bob Newhart when he came out here?”
Indeed, Newhart had attempted an invasion back in 1987 but failed miserably beneath a hail of spears.
“Newhart’s a hack.” I said, “Everyone knows that. And besides, he had Lisa Kudrow with him. He didn’t stand a chance.”
Kiefer stared back at me, then looked toward the dark, low lying bulk of the island.
“You’re right.” He said. “Let’s do this.”
To be continued… but probably not.
There’s no two ways about it, funerals are a stone-bummer. And not only that- they’re boring.
The way I see it, you can’t have ‘Funeral’ without ‘Fun’, and the remaining ‘eral’ is an anagram of the word ‘Real’.
Ipso facto: Funeral=Really fun.
So now, at the risk of appearing deeply morbid and not a little self-absorbed, here’s how I want my interment played out.
MY FUNERAL!
Firstly, upon entering the church, everyone will be furnished with a garland of garlic and a sack of quaters. These will be distributed at the door by two drunken Hawaiian girls who should be equally surly as they are topless. Next, the confused attendees will be ushered to their seats (coin operated kiddie-rides) by a horde of whip-brandishing, leather-clad ogres.
Once seated, guests will be instructed to feed quarters into their rides for the duration of the ceremony. Anyone caught sitting astride a stationary pew will receive a taste of the lash. Finally, when the room is merrily lurching and whirring with the groan of timeworn hydraulics, my casket lid will creak open to reveal that I have been made up like Dracula: The cape, the fangs, the whole nine yards. This will elicit a great gasp of horror, and The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion (stage right) will take that as their cue to begin chugging out a low, slow-mounting, doom-blues.
Verne Troyer will emerge from the carcass of a 4000 lb great white shark (stage left) and begin reading a long, pre-prepared litany of complaints regarding everyone present. This screed will be so utterly contemptuous, so awesomely hateful that it will give rise to nausea, and many attendees will begin projectile vomiting while others look on in bewildered horror. This part of the ceremony will spool out forever and slumberous attendees will be kept awake by way of the lash.
Eight hours later Verne will come to the end of my list of grievances and silently moon-walk back into the shark’s guts. Now, and only now, will the nominated pallbearers be allowed to dismount and wearily approach my coffin. The Blues Explosion will have worked themselves up to a demonic sweat-drenched frenzy by this stage, and as the pallbearers reach for the carved ivory handles of my sarcophagus- the theremin will zap to life with an evil yowl and my corpse will begin to rise out like a charmed snake. This will all be done with invisible high-tensile wiring and will look very cool. High over the congregation my mortal remains will drift and slowly make their way toward the double doors of the church, which will, in turn, begin opening to let me out. Once outside I’ll slide up the front wall of the cathedral until I’m pinned against the cross at it’s highest steeple, and then I’ll explode.
Today is our very good friend John Freeman’s birthday. He is 33. Suffer.
I‘ve known John since he was… 16! Jesus, that’s a long time… I feel a bit sick.
When I first met him he was a gangly, turtle-esque character with Mr’ Bean’s eyebrows, a loping gait, and a backpack containing the bare necessities. He said he was a ‘run-away’ but I later discovered that he was actually a ‘please go-away’ which is a little less distinguished to say the least. An inevitable blow-up with his father (a feisty redhead) deposited him on the street with a size 8 boot print in his arse and not much else. He crashed with me and my folks for a few weeks before moving to the city to pursue his dream of doing what ever the fuck he wanted without having to worry about his Pearl Jam tapes being confiscated by the stout, melanin deficient brute that had reared him (his dad… the Cheeto).
A few weeks later I too relocated to the big smoke, and began my own strenuous time-wasting campaign that involved a great deal of ‘carousing’. I still like to carouse, and I maintain that it’s a noble undertaking. Back off.
After a short stint in a house full of people that gave me shits I moved in with John and, like Larry and Balki before us, we began to chronicle a sometimes rocky, but always action-packed coexistence, that came to an abrupt halt when we were evicted… because we didn’t pay the rent… because there were far too many bongs in the world that needed to be smoked.
Times have changed, however, and John is an upstanding member of the community, who gets along really well with his parents and, thankfully, no longer practices the glorious art of carousing.
Happy Birthday, maaate!
Everyone has a story about some learning impaired person they knew growing up.
My friend Mike knew a special kid that everyone called ‘360 Steve’ who would take three steps and then have to stop and make one full rotation. Another buddy, Dave, went to school with a lad that would burst into chants of “Friday! Friday! Swimming Day! Friday!” regardless of what day it actually was, and apparently when Friday did roll around it was all too much for him and he would weep inconsolably.
In my neighborhood there was a guy called Brad who could accurately recall the news headlines, sporting results and weather report from any given day of any given year dating back to when he was five. However, if his shoes became untied- he was screwed.
Yes, we all remember a certain special someone from our childhood who wasn’t playing with a full deck. And what joy they brought us by being a couple of sandwiches short of the picnic! If only there was something you could give them to show your appreciation, some small token that says: “Hey fruitcake. Thanks for the laughs”
Wait! What about this cap with a pocket at the front! Perfect! I might get one for me too… Cap-Sac. It’s ‘A fannypack for your head!’
(Seriously, I’m getting one of these. They’re awesome.)
We’ve mentioned a few times now how much we utterly despise that dull white blob of plastic called ‘The Kindle’.
What a dreadful invention.
Imagine how happy we were this morning when we saw our friends at PSFK angrily jumping up and down on one, thereby validating our absolute contempt for the ruthless little fuckers. Don’t let the man fool you into thinking it’s easier to keep all the books you ever read on a portable electronic tablet. Big mistake.
Who gives a rats-ass if newspapers disappear without a trace? Not us. It seems criminal to waste paper on them at this stage.
But leave books out of it, you filthy bastards.
Got some good quaility, A-grade HATE burbling away today. I plan to use it… on the weather.
How about some fucking sunshine? What is this? Seattle? Then why aren’t I dressed like Mark Arm? God I miss Grunge.
Seriously the weather is beyond a joke now. Nearly half way through June and the it’s miserable. But enough about that.
Let’s watch a video.
Classic scene from The Year Punk Broke.
Almost forgot your weekly ‘Foxy Almost a Centenarian‘!!
Ginger Rogers. Phoar!
Hey. Sorry about yesterday. You didn’t need to know about that that nightmare.
The worst thing about these conspiracies is the fact that very few people put any stock in them, it’s easier that way, and then you end up having arguments that leave you feeling like a child for even entertaining the idea that the government is in line with Satan.
Check it out! Our good buddy Todd Lamb has made a TV Show!
We’re hard at it right now sorting out a pretty epic project. Very exciting. Can’t say too much, just know that… actually I can’t even say that. I’ll tell you this though: I’m gonna get some more interns. Turbo is getting nervous.
You know what dawned on me recently? I don’t need to remember things anymore- It’s all on the internet anyway, and I carry the internet around in my pocket wherever I go! It’s like an external hippocampus! Now I can relax and let my real hippocampus shrivel like a dead sea horse.
The situation is not good. Maybe this is all part of a conspiracy to take information away from the people! Maybe in 20-30 years we’ll all be so completely reliant on the internet for basic information that if it’s taken away we’ll become zombies! A zombie army used for experiments deep beneath the Pentagon! Jesus H. Macy! I already feel my grey matter turning a bilious green! What’s that smell? FOR CHRISTSAKE -WHAT IS THAT SMELL?! Oh… I’ve shit myself.
SEE?! It’s happening!
Christ. It happened again. I couldn’t get out of bed before 9 am and now here I am desperately trying to churn out something that’ll make you come back again tomorrow and the day after and so on.
Here goes.
Sure, I’m depressed, but what about the people of North Sentinel Island? How do they feel about it all? Y’know? I mean, do they really sacrifice children at Bohemian Grove?… And what about the plant from that 2005 press conference? Is he Johnny Gosch?
I got stuck in a conspiracy wormhole yesterday, it was dreadful. If you want to retrace my steady decent into bug-eyed paranoia start with the Franklin Coverup or just Google ‘hunter thompson at bohemian grove‘
Jesus, what a head-fuck. This shit will turn you inside out if you’re not careful. Moloch, money, murder, madness…
Anyway, I’m dropping it. Today is a new day, a sunny day, and I intend to be blissful and productive.
Holy shit! look at this!
Today, you will shred the innernet.
The wise? I Would Rather Be Alone In The Wilderness Than March With A Parade Of Fools
The where? Fractured Seconds.
The what? 80s skate kult
DIG! Cab mute grab Delmar
Morning, shit, Good afternoon…
So, remember last week when I was going on about Updike’s Rabbit, Run? Can anyone tell me what the fuck is wrong with the protagonist, Rabbit Angstrom? He’s a total dick! I don’t like him at all, and I cant see myself reading the other four books in the series. Please write and explain. Be sure to use the noun ‘Ennui’.
Now, on to issues of greater import.
I woke up really late today, and now I have zero time to put up anything interesting here. So here’s what I’m a do…
Tell you about the time I went to jail!
Actually, that’s pretty boring. All I did was piss in an alley on my way home from a bar and they threw me in with a car theif overnight. Pretty uneventful.
However, the second time I went to jail is a little more interesting… but still not really worth talking about.
But I want to waste some of your time, so here goes-
The second time I got locked up was so stupid. I got nailed by undercover cops while buying weed off a hippy. Stupid fucking hippy. I’m sure he was in on it. Godamn sting operation to catch me buying a twenty bag of Alaskan Thunder Fuck. Ridiculous.
And everyone was acting all ” Jump St”. Christ, it was embarrassing. It was like I’d been dragged into a really shitty PSA commercial where I was forced to play the the main character-
Jason the contrite ‘drug-addict’.
“You’re going down,Crombie, unless you tell us where you got the stuff.”
“I told you already, I bought it off the hippy.”
“Don’t get wise with us, Crombie. We see punks like you everyday. You’ll talk, even if we have to make you talk.”
“What? I am talking! The hippy! I bought the weed off the hippy! Him! The guy I’m pointing at!”
“Tough guy, huh? Well tough guy, maybe you’ll start singing us a song when we get tough, yeah?”
I thought once we’d got down to the precinct it’d all be over and I could stop vomiting into my mouth, but even the cell they threw me in was a cringe-worthy cliche fest! Some guy playing a harmonica through the bars, another dude repeating “I’m going crazy in here Johnny! Crazy I tells ya!” and some big fat guy leisurely running a finger up and down my cheek, telling me I sure was pretty.
Eventually I realized my best defense would be to go along with the whole thing and let myself be traded for cigarettes and gum. I was only in for three hours but I just thought I’d better contribute.
Here’s that hilarious scene from Midnight Express!
Does anyone know code for wordpress? We need to put the little by-line back in the top right corner of the posts.
9:53 am and I’m at the bottom of my first cup of coffee for the day, there’s three more to go, listening to Morrissey’s Vauxhall and I, probably his best record, certainly my favorite.
I’ve decided to put on some pants today, and they feel alien and constrictive. I’d be much more comfortable naked but there’s the neighbors to think about, they’ve seen enough and told me so via a typed note under the door. This doesn’t mean I have to wear something up top. No one said anything about covering my chest so I beat it like Kong in the front window overlooking Park Ave, which is where I live now, because the recession has been good to me in ways you can never imagine.
What am I talking about? I don’t know. I just feel like there should be some more text here to justify the link-slag that will predictably succeed it.
So I’ll tell you a story.
Once upon a time my hair started to fall out and I developed hemorrhoids. Then my back set about aching when I awoke each morning and the once faint lines on my face deepened to craggy furrows. I was getting old. I decided my best defense against aging would be to rule out all my ’self-destructive’ indulgences… which amounted to just one indulgence really- Alcohol. So I stopped drinking. After nearly one week of not drinking I discovered that I really, really liked drinking, and the thought of tipping a glass of Marqu’es de Riscal Gran Reserva 2002 into my face made me salivate. Thats not even a joke, my mouth waters when I think of having a drink.
There was one other ‘vice’ I abolished, and that was masturbation and sex based on my theory that, like trees, the more often we go to seed the closer we get to not bearing fruit. When you let semen collect, your body naturally wants to get it out in the world impregnating people. Thats why you get horny, it’s natures way of ensuring you procreate (no news flash there). So, if you abstain and let it build up, resisting all sexual urges, you’re body will give up on you and look to others for assistance by making subtle, alluring physiological changes to itself. Your muscles will begin to bulge and refine, your hair will grow, your skin will glow and your once dull, jellied eyes will twinkle. You’ll also notice a significant change in your personality. Where you were once remote, miserable and creepy you will now be outward, ebullient and charming. In short- if you’re jerking-off all the time the message you’re sending your body is “Hey! We’re having a lot of sex! Don’t worry about my physical appearance. It’s all under control.” If your not jerking-off at all your body will panic and think “Fuck. We gotta make this guy better looking or we’re doomed.” Do you follow me?
This is why bald men are bald- they’ve gone to seed. Think about the horniest men in history- Hugh Hefner-bald, Casanova-bald, Wilt Chamberlain-bald. They all emptied their nuts at least once a day and now they have no hair. Now look at Morrissey, he’s a model of forbearance. Asexual for as long as anyone can remember, Morrissey is only getting better looking with age. How many artists in their fifties pull such a young fan base? Not many. And it’s all thanks to abstinence. If he’d not let his balls swell to the size of ripe mangos I wouldn’t be listening to him right now.
Think about it, man, that’s all I’m saying.
Messed up but hilarious.
Struggling today, nasty bummers all round.
Here’s this weeks ‘Practically An Octogenarian’ Anne Margaret.
A friend of ours, who should know about Weird Al’s flick ‘UHF’, hasn’t seen Weird Al’s movie ‘UHF’! We couldn’t believe it! It’s only the funniest thing that ever happened in the history of cinema! I feel like we must’ve waffled on about this before, it’s hilarious, timelessly hilarious.
Here’s one of our favorite skits.
