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4 out of 7 scientists prefer Chewbacca's crossbow
meanwhile, behind the facade of this innocent looking doghouse...
copyright 2002-2011 ultrablognetic |
Friday, January 24, 2003
ok ONE more bloggage before I depart for the weekend and root on the RAIDERS while they stomp Tampa Bay ass in the super bowl. aahhh shite the bbq was off tha hook na mean? dangety dang. Steak, ribs, mac salad, plenny beers. damn if i don't have kind of a phat buzz on at this moment in tizime. and all of a sudden the DJ quik song with snoop up in that shit comes on. It's like, preordained? is that the appropriate term? Why is it on drunken friday afternoons that I suddenly turn into fukn writer joe and feel like bumpin out random thoughts for all yall? anybody with a pack of chewing gum and a lef nut knows that this time, especially out here in the isands, is the time where nobody but nobody is on the goldam internet and even less in bloggerville. especially on super bowl weekend. is i on crack? hellz nah. just trippin and bidin my time until i'm outties like kirk goudies. ok that's a goldarn blog entry. go RAIDERS. y'all know that this shit is locked and sewn so don't be talkin' smizack!!!!
Jeezo peezo the internet is running slower than a herniated turtle. It’s enough to almost make me want to flip the script and wang on a chung. The CD player just made that smooth transition from Iron Maiden to DJ Quik, which always brings about a t-bone style spine snappa.
Hopefully all y’all will forgive me for my spasmastic bitch session from this morning. And if you don’t forgive me, well, don’t be offended if I don’t give a flying fuck. Deal with it homey. Damn the steaks on the grill are grilling up and looking smackaliciously wackable, meaning damn good for mi estomago. Therefore I shall retract my aforementioned bitch session, not in its entirety mind you, only the section involving the debate over the bbq. Cuz it’s smelling and looking good. This morning I was thinking about, um, wait a minute. Aaaah shit. Graham just brought in a taster sample of the steak and damm diggedy dogg if that shit ain’t percolatin’! hotdiggetydogg squad I am about to grind harder than an orange rind. With that I must leave you with Iron Maiden’s interpretation of some old skool Coleridge (?) action. If you haven’t heard this song, run don’t walk to your nearest cd shop & cop PowerSlave. Otay? Yesh. I have spoken, you must comprende. Si. Ho brah. Sampleage continues. Ribs up in the heezy. And there’s noodles and rice and greens. Uh oh Sergio it’s getting heezy in this sheezy, time to be gleezy. Like my uncle freezy. Werd? GO RAIDERS. Iron Maiden Powerslave (1984) Rime of the Ancient Mariner Hear the rime of the ancient mariner See his eye as he stops one of three Mesmerises one of the wedding guests Stay here and listen to the nightmares of the sea. And the music plays on, as the bride passes by Caught by his spell and the mariner tells his tale. Driven south to the land of the snow and ice To a place where nobody's been Through the snow fog flies on the albatross Hailed in God's name, hoping good luck it brings. And the ship sails on, back to the North Through the fog and ice and the albatross follows on.  The mariner kills the bird of good omen
His shipmates cry against what he's done But when the fog clears, they justify him And make themselves a part of the crime. Sailing on and on and north across the sea Sailing on and on and north 'til all is calm. The albatross begins with its vengeance A terrible curse a thirst has begun His shipmates blame bad luck on the mariner About his neck, the dead bird is hung. And the curse goes on and on at sea And the curse goes on and on for them and me. 'Day after day, day after day, we stuck nor breath nor motion as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink Water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink.' There calls the mariner There comes a ship over the line But how can she sail with no wind in her sails and no tide. See...onward she comes Onward she nears out of the sun See, she has no crew She has no life, wait but there's two. Death and she Life in Death, They throw their dice for the crew She wins the mariner and he belongs to her now. Then...crew one by one they drop down dead, two hundred men She...she, Life in Death. She lets him live, her chosen one. 'One after one by the star dogged moon,  too quick for groan or sigh
each turned his face with a ghastly pang and cursed me with his eye four times fifty living men (and I heard nor sigh nor groan) with heavy thump, a lifeless lump, they dropped down one by one.' The curse it lives on in their eyes The mariner he wished he'd die Along with the sea creatures But they lived on, so did he. and by the light of the moon He prays for their beauty not doom With heart he blesses them God's creatures all of them too. Then the spell starts to break The albatross falls from his neck Sinks down like lead into the sea Then down in falls comes the rain. Hear the groans of the long dead seamen See them stir and they start to rise Bodies lifted by good spirits None of them speak and they're lifeless in their eyes And revenge is still sought, penance starts again Cast into a trance and the nightmare carries on. Now the curse is finally lifted And the mariner sights his home spirits go from the long dead bodies Form their own light and the mariner's left alone. And then a boat came sailing towards him It was a joy he could not believe The pilot's boat, his son and the hermit, Penance of life will fall onto him. And the ship it sinks like lead into the sea And the hermit shrieves the mariner of his sins. The mariner's bound to tell of his story To tell his tale wherever he goes To teach God's word by his own example That we must love all things that God made. And the wedding guest's a sad and wiser man And the tale goes on and on and on.
This day might as well be called jerk-off day. Everything has been a big fukn jerk-off waste of energy on bullshit ass crap in the meantime getting in the way of getting any real fukn work done that puts moolah in my pocket.
Cases in point: the goddamm mothafuckin copy machine, which my boss doesn’t want to shell out cash for a goddamm mothafuckin person to come fix the mothafucka again is fucked up again as usual. A couple months ago it was fucked up and I fucked around with the toner and then it worked. I am not a goddamm fukn copier technician but I fucked around with it and then it worked. So my boss is fukn around with it and is like “whoever put in this goddamm toner is a fukn idiot!” and I’m like well fuck you then, you fix it. So he proceeds to tear it apart and get fukn toner shit all over the fukn place and make a big fukn mess and the fukn thing works worse than it did before and we all have to freak out & I’m calling the fukn copier company to make sure we have the right toner cartridge which of course we do so it was a total fukn waste of time donkey shit escapade. Case # 2: this goddamm fukn guy who is an affiliate of ours who we send information to seems to be smoking goddamm fukn crack or something lately becuz you cannot send one goddamm piece of fukn information to this guy without him comin back with the stupidest goddamm fukn questions. You could send this guy a piece of paper that said “the sky is blue” and he would call back and be like “um, well, I got your fax, and um, so does this mean that the sky is blue?” Yes you fukn moron! FUCK! I caught up on all the info I owed this guy and then I have to spend half my fukn day explaining to him why the fukn earth is round. God mothafuckin dammit! Case #3: It’s fukn windy as fukn hell here right now, so shit is fukn blowin all over the fukn place, the neighbor’s carport tent or whatever the fuck it is blew over and hit the side of our Quonset hut and practically gave me a fukn heart attack. The people down the way they’ve got fukn lumber flying all over and hittin trucks and shit and fukn there is a weird fukn vibe in the air today all around. Case #4: Fukn we have to argue about what the fuck if we’re having a fuckn barbecue today or not. Fukn nobody tells me till the last fukn minute and nobody knows except these two deuscholes that decided to suddenly plan a fukn cookout for new years even though it’s almost fukn February. Well I shouldn’t complain cuz I’ll be stoked when I’m eating bbq but I feel like bitching right now and there was a well, ahem, discussion about lack of communication in the office this morning which was another waste of fukn time. Case #5: This old dude that is like the chairman emeritus or old-timer joe has to go to the doctor at 11 AM, so I’m like OK we’ll get you a ride over there. He’s like “well I shouldn’t be too long, so you can hang out and eat at the cafeteria here while I’m there and then give me a ride back,” and well, the aforementioned mysterious not-so-official barbeque in effect precludes me wanting to eat strained peas and cabbage in some fukn hospital so I have to go through the whole fukn story. It is not good enough to tell this old fart that I will make sure he gets a ride back from the fukn hospital which is 10 fukn minutes away from our office. No, he has to plan my fukn day and set my fukn schedule and force-feed me fukn animal crackers and ensure diet drink. I feel like I should be wearing “oops I crapped my pants” diapers. So bear with me because my coochie hurts. Thursday, January 23, 2003
 Brock sat on the roof of the gymnasium, calmly smoking a kool and loading his father’s glock. The menthol flavored carbon-monoxide laced fumes filled his lungs, both warming and freezing his dead heart. They were gonna pay. Not just Darren and his crew. No. Everybody. They were all gonna kick up the flow in duckets of blizud.
Ah, fuck that. Going out in a blaze of bullets on school property was so clichéd. Stick to the original plan Sampson. He stood up, took dead aim at the window to the principal’s office across the courtyard, and fired. Glass shattered. Hmm, no alarm? Cheap fukn bureaucrats. Oh well, that little diversion was done. Time to go grab some Wienerschnitzel. He climbed down the ladder on the side of the building, jumped down from the veranda over the lobby entrance, grabbed his bike from the bushes, and was on his way. The wind felt good in his face. The glock was in his belt, aimed right at his D. For about five seconds this seemed vaguely cool, and then not quite so. He stopped, moved the glock to his back, thought better, and put it in his backpack, making sure the safety was on. Fukn guns. What in the fuck was he doing out here anyway? What had shooting in Bowman’s window accomplished? It wasn’t like anyone knew about it or would know about it. It was one of those things not quite hardcore enough that people would think you were too much of a psycho, but just quite core enough to make people wonder & potentially call in Johnny Law. Aah fuck it. He had a weiner-dude attitude going on and the night was young. Brush away thoughts of contemplative dramaville, young rasta, and get to steppin’ where they’ve gots chili & dogs and where the broads ain’t hogs. Or something like that. Sidenotes for all y’all: 40 years ago this month, a young Al Davis made an iffy career move & jumped ship from the San Diego Chargers to become general manager & head coach of a clusterfuck failure of a team known as the Oakland Raiders. 30 years ago this Saturday, a certain ultrablogneticator known as the rhesus monkey trainer, and now also as Methuselah, was born in Santa Monica, CA. 20 years ago today was the debut of the muthafuckin A-Team. And I remember that shit, it was one of those after the super bowl debuts. Yesirrebobskee. 10 years ago today something had to fukken happen but I don’t know what the hell it was. You try figuring that shit out with a frikken goat trying to chomp on your fingernails. Wednesday, January 22, 2003
 You know, today everyone’s talking about the Raiders and the Bucs in the Super Bowl. It’s the easiest thing to find on line, in your paper, on the tv, and in your chemically treated advertising-laced (but you don’t know it) venti drip you picked up from Starbucks this morning. It’s in your face and I don’t want to be like that. You know my position on this matter, this matter being the total & complete dominance of Raider Nation. You know it, I know it, Grandmama knows it, and I’m pretty damn fukn sure that Bo knows it. I think I made it abundantly clear yesterday and really from the first day of the season, and actually before that, and if you’ve known me for the last few years or beyond, well I was talking shit then too. So I’m gonna shut up about it for today at least.
But damn those Raiders are gonna do a spankdown in SD. Ok, that’s it, now I’m done. I don’t want to bore you with the details of how fukn cool it is to actually have your team in the mix during superbowl week. I’m sure you’ve heard it ALL before especially what with that whole Encyclopedia Brown thing that went down 8 years ago. Repetetiveness is not in my nature nature. Nature. Naturally, I would never do something to bore you or drive you away or, you know. I want to be popular, and it’s common knowledge that sports talk and stream of consciousness (I learned this at Sarah’s site yesterday) are just so out of vogue and frowned upon right now, and well, I just have to be the coolest. The new renaissance is to keep it real by busting out metaphorical backbreakers like the following: There once was a little boy that knew that the oaktown raiders were the ultron cyborganetic champs of all time, and then… Goddammit, I didn’t mean that, I mean, I meant it, but that isn’t what I meant to write. Ok. Oaktown and Raiders are not going to be mentioned in the following paragraph. That’s on long beach. Ready? Ok. Once there was a little rascally fella that lived in Greely Colorado. He was a farmer and liked to go hang out with the horses in the stable and read stories of wrestling and getting fired up about TKE. His name was Bartley. He knew that some day there would be a dark silver and black menace that would coat the land and bring home the ring of power back to Oak, um, ville, and then he would have to run and hide and not e-mail his friends becuz he knew the Denver donkeys were the poondoggers of the league, um, I mean, land. One day he caught a cab out of Greeley and went to Hawaii. It was a magic taxi that could ride on waves. He learned how to surf and then his name was Hiawatha. And Hiawatha, in his heart & soul, was really a good dude, just deluded by the bronconess and ignorant of the ways of oakstein acres. Jay, the bandwagon is open, Raider Nation is ready to take you in from the storm & reeducate you through our special program. Ok really, I’m not talking shit, becuz this ain’t about the broncos it’s about the punk ass Bucs. What the fuck is a Buc? Some kind of flaming pirate? Get a real pirate, dawg, get one with an eyepatch and a leather football helmet with swords crossing up in that bitch, get RAIDER on it. DAMMIT I was not supposed to say Raiders. Ok you caught me dammit this is all aobut the raiders, fukn deal with it. The end. See, that’s the kind of shit that is just burning up bloggerville right now. I got that hot shit for the streets. If you want to be down with it, you gots to follow my lead and bust these kinds of rhymes. Tuesday, January 21, 2003
That's right, bitches. What the fuck did I tell you people? Did you think just cuz I talk senseless yang about every other aspect of the human condition and el mundo in general that my tongue was flapping senselessly when I tried to inform you that the Oaktown Raiders would be playing in the Super Bowl this year? Did you think I was fronting? Did you think that the okeydoke was spittin’ smoke? Did you think that 19 years away from the big game had rusted out the rivets for the left-coasted transplantable but still cali-keepin-it-real team with the permanent non-revokable-ghetto pass? Hellz naw. Raider Nation is no place for wankstas, it’s a way of existence, known and unknown by tens of millions of caterpillar loving escapade gangsters. It’s a mindset that people like Bartley could never achieve, and that’s no dis on one of my main homeys, it’s just the truth. When you’ve been brainwashed to not feel a gag reflex at the site of the bitch ass hoe stanfurdite that is john elway and his horsecock sandwich eating broncos, then you are inherently blinded to the ultimate ways that are the silver and black. All I know is that the Titans went down like Vanessa del Rio at a Motley Crue concert. Without Air McNair it would’ve been like Fred Flintstone takin a two-by-four to Dino after the poor mutt got hit by a car. That purple doggie would try to get in some licks, and ya know, do some damage, but at the end of the day it would whimpering in the doghouse while fred was sparkin a phattie. The long beach essence of that is indisputable so don’t try.  Rich Gannon’s MVP-ness was on display for the unwashed masses to scrub down their vestibules and reminisce on with a gallon of boone’s spiked chardonnay. The Oakland D-Line was something akin to Indiana Jones shooting down that guy that throws his whip all over the place. Eddie George might as well have gone and run into the walls of Graceland all day long rather than try to get by that mammoth non-alley having immovable object.
Jerry Porter had his official coming out party after a season of pimpin hoes. It was like Too Short delivering his final serenade and then admitting he just can’t stay away. This dude is the real dillio and as a third receiver behind Jerry Rice and the OG Raider Tim Brown I mean it’s like butter on toast. It’s like jelly, no fuck that it’s like honey on jam on I can’t believe that shit ain’t butter – it’s the extra extra that you didn’t even read about, you just knew it.  And the ultimate Raider foe lined up in the cross hairs, Gruden’s bucs. Bring it the fuck on ho-slicks. That’s right I said it. Ho-slicks. This is a storyline that is a sportswriter’s wet dream if not for the sheer fact that it’s so goddamm obvious that I am wiping my hands of it and will let you check out the official media for hype & speculation. It’s gonna be a game, but the Raiders will come out on top, and Gruden will have still accomplished something huge for getting a sad ass organization that rivals the clippers in terms of ineptitude this far, but in the end it’s all about Raider Nation. Raider goddamm mothafuckin Nation, unstoppable and totally dominant. A new era has dawned. Recognize.
PS: this shit is hilarious. Fred durst on his dillio with Britney Spears. Read the last three entries in his “diary.” I can say with serious lack of sincerity that he is the corest of the hardcore. What a fukn joker. I’ll try to remember to link this again in two months after one dumps the other and he’s talking all kinds of shit and backpedaling to look like the tough guy again. Dude go sing a duet with Aaron Carter and shut the phuk up. 
ICE-T Rhyme Pays Sire - 1987 "6'n The Mornin'" 6'n the morning' police at my door Fresh adidas squeak across the bathroom floor Out the back window I make a escape Don't even get a chance to grab my old school tape Mad with no music but happy 'cause I'm free And the streets to a player is the place to be Gotta knot in my pocket weighin' at least a grand Gold on my neck my pistols close at hand I'm a self-made monster of the city streets Remotely controlled by hard hip hop beats But just livin' in the city is a serious task Didn't know what the cops wanted Didn't have the time to ask Word Seen my homeboys coolin' way out told 'em bout my mornin', cold bugged' em out shot a little dice until my knees got sore Kicked around some stories bout the night before Possed to the corner where the fly girls chill Threw action at some freaks until one bitch got ill She started actin' stupid simply would not quit Called us all punk pussies said we all weren't shit As we walked over to here hoe continued to speak So we beat the bitch down in the god damn street But just livin' in the city a serious task Bitch didn't know what hit her didn't have time to ask Word Continued clockin' freaks with immense posterior Rollin' in a blazer with a louie interior Solid gold the ride was raw Bust a left turn was on Crenshaw Sean-e-sean was the driver Known to give freaks hell Had a beeper goin' off like a high school bell Looked in the mirror what did we see ? Fuckin' blue lights L.A.P.D. Pigs searched our car, their day was made Found a uzi, 44 and a hand grenade Threw us in the county high power block No freaks to see no beats to rock Didn't want trouble but the shit must fly Squabbled this sucker shanked' em in the eye But livin' in the county is a serious task Niga didn't know what happend Didn't have time to ask Back on the streets after five and a deuce Seven years later but still had the juice My homeboy Ken Gee put me up the track Told me E's rollin' Villain - BJ's got the sack Bruce is a giant - Nat C's clockin' Dough Be Bop's a pimp. My old freaks a hoe The batter rams rollin' rocks are the thing Life has no meaning and money is king Then he looked at me slowly and Hen had to grin He said Man you out early we thought you got ten Opened his safe kicked me down with cold cash Knew I would get busy He didn't waste time to ask Word I bought a Benz with the money the rest went to clothes Went to the strip started pimpin' the hoes My hair had grew long on my seven year stay And when I got it done on my shoulders it lay Hard from the joint but fly to my heart I didn't want no trouble but the shit had to start Out with my crew some punks got loud Shot gun blasts echoed through the crowd Six punks hit two punks died All casualties applied to their side Human lives had to pass just for talking much trash We didn't know who they were No one had the time to ask Word {Part Two} Swat team leader yelled hit the floor Reached in my pocket pulled my 44 Dove across the room peeped out the window Twenty cops jumped behind a Pinto Out the back door like some damn track stars Broke down an alley jumped into a car Suckers didn't even see us They musta been Blind Black wire touched red the car was mine We hadn't done nothin' but some suckers got shot Hit the first turn - god damn road block Broke through the block and we did it fast Cops woulda shot us on sight They wouldn't a took time to ask Word The rollers gave chase at a serious speed One more conviction was all I need This shit was for real, this was no La-Di-Da-Di Cause the boys had to pin the shit on somebody And me and my crew we were known to get ill We carried heat for protection but not to kill We bust a corner doin 60 one police car spun And all I was thinkin was murder one Bust a move into an alley and did it right And me and my crew we're gone into the night Broke to my old lady's who drew me a bath She didn't even know what happened Didn't care Didn't ask Word We made love like crazy on top of the sheets This girlie was my whirlie a natural freak She ran her tongue over each and every part of me Then she rocked my amadeus as I watched TV A technician with a mission that's what she was If there had been a crowd she would have got an applause This girl did everything on earth to me that could be done Then she backed off and teased me so I couldn't come Then she cold got stupid pushed me on the floor Had me beggin' to stop as I was screamin' for more After she waxed by body she let me crash She knew her lovin' was def She didn't waste time to ask Word Up the next mornin' feelin good as hell Sleepin' with a girlie sure beats a cell Hit the boulevard in my A.M.G. Hoe's catchin' whiplash tryin' to glimpse the T Ring on my mobile yes cellular Got to have a phone when I'm in my car Was my homeboy Red - some say he's insane Broke his bitch jaw for smokin' came Told me to meet him at the airport Said he's jumpin' bail said he just left court Caught the first thing smokin' in a serious dash Didn't know where we were going Didn't care Didn't ask Word Fell asleep on the plane and so did he Woke up chillin' in N.Y.C. Called up my posse when I got there Hit the Latin quarter Union Square Rooftop Devil's nest the rest we passed Back doored the Palladium just for class About 4 am we crashed the deuce We never catch static 'cause my boys got juice Deuced it to the Bronx to rest our heads Where a shoot out jumped off nine people lay dead It sounded like it happend with a mac 10 blast But it was 6'in the mornin' We didn't wake up to ask..... Word |
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