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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, August 01, 2003
 The combo plate of reasons why is varied and changes on a momentary basis, but shit just seems wacked right now, playboy.
There’s some apples getting juggled in the mill house and after they fall, I am being assured by the powers that be that my stack of apples will be comparable to that to which I am accustomed, possibly even more so, with potential for many more to come, but I’m still fukn wary and paranoid. Just because you’re fukn paranoid don’t mean they ain’t after your ass. I just smashed with my fist this grey little centipede looking thing that was crawling on my desk as I listened to a ringing handset and waited for a voice mail. I smashed it before I knew whut I’d done and had like grey slime on my hand & desk and wiped it off with a piece of toilet paper which I keep close by for booger emergencies. I felt neither happy nor sad at the death of a fellow organism, just disgust that I’d made the mess on myself and my environs. Arrrrggggyle. That’s arggghhh but with a fancy sock connotation. It helps you channel frustration into fashion. That’s why I’m always gucci’d out when I’m ready to flip a cholo stick. Whut the fuck is a cholo stick? just a fukn stupid ass thing to say. I miss being on fukn vacation, I’ll tell you that, sonny. This work shit is for the birds. The retarded ones. The ones that got booted outta the high nest, like the one on the lackadaisical Cliffside, and straight plummeted like 90 feet before bouncing off an awning of a pineapple stand and finishing with a hard plop on the blacktop, only to be picked up by a passing motorist with a barette in her hair and back issues regarding childhood love who will thereby beat up that egg and baby bird living therein until a hatch scenarioout of my bloody valentine, and then it’s done did it in the dumper. another teenage wasteland in waiting. Whatever the fuk that means. Orange crush and bottom of the barrel vodka is not as good of a drink combination as it may sound. Beware of gifts with fukn to-do lists attached to them. IE some form of transpo that needs to hurdle various legalistic entrapments prior to becoming cop backtalk prepared. But never look that horse in the gullet. Never, my neezies. Nunca. Cuz even if there are ishes attached, shit, it’s something for nothing, which don’t exist, and that is something that even Benjamin may not have foreseen. OK i'm gonna stop whatever it is i'm doing here. it's friday and i've got cold beers in the fridge at home, just waiting for that bell. waiting, my neezies, but not for Godot, cuz I'm gonna be there. eventually. fa sheezy. and oh. Mrs. P, the casa feels empty without you, four hungry kids and a crop in the field style. Kenny Rogers certified. ok, well, um, 2 hungry fish and an avocado tree? anyway, missing you, and yes i'm talking to the nether cuz i know you ain't reading this, but it's cool. oh & mom & dad, sorry i haven't called. I'm a-ok, back on la isla, & looking forward to your guys' visit. and you actually may be reading, so this is more of an actual message. because i'm a lazy pile & haven't even e-mailed. ok i'll try to at least do that today. pile? aye-aye cap'n. Thursday, July 31, 2003
 From the private journal of john p. Farnsworth III, duke of Kalihi and outlying junctures
All names have been changed to protect the unprotected 7/15/03 Happy B’day S & M! London – Beit Hall, Imperial College – whut a FuKen trip. Goodddamm. Paris metro to CDG & easyjet 1 hour late & hour bus from Luton + cab ride with very friendly but virtually undecipherable cab driver plus niiiice hot shower equals me laying on two beds pulled together & writing 2 you. – Mrs. P tried calling Sister A & fam but difficulties with public phone – will try again after grinding food! – So hungry – haven’t ate since breakfast. Well, we are here though – it’s like, whut, almost 7 PM? We’ve got all day Wed, Thu, & Fri, & leave on Saturday – 3 full days of jolly old fuckheadville – nah it’s Lunn-dunn-dunny – well Paris was sooooooooo dope. “goddamm the bigger the headache the bigger the pillin & when dealin with the Lench Mob you KNOW Steady Mobbin ain’t just the name of this jam but a way of life!” (jacked up cube lyrics – ed.) - Versailles (check) Sacre Cour (check) more latin quarter (check) more cafes & brewskis (check) good good times (check) paris rocks (check) au vois dinner time locs Wednesday, July 30, 2003
 From the private journal of john p. Farnsworth III, duke of Kalihi and outlying junctures
All names have been changed to protect the unprotected 7/11/03 “Seven, 7-11, 7-11, 7 even back-doored little joe…” chilling in Paris! Woo-woo! Flew in yesterday – get in @ 10 AM Paris time after about a 24 hour journey – went out to dinner with Madame C & family last night – crashed out most of the afternoon before that – so today will be our 1st official day of being “tourists” – I’ll let you know how it goes – yup, I guess the knocks are maybe not so hard, lil journal o’ mine… 7/12/03 Wuddup, shot-calla. Well our first full day in Paris was PHAAAAT! Took metro to Arc de Triomphe – hiked up the stairs to the top for the amazing view, walked all the way down the Champs Elysee to the plaza Capital – wandered the Musee d’Orsay (incredible) – Vincent Van Gogh was a fukn genius – his blue self-portrait (painted the year before he died at only, like, 35 (?)) Superdope. Got to see Notre Dame (outside only) & the outside of the Louvre – will probably go in today – people are telling me there’s some painting called the mona lisa (?) in there. Whatever. HA! So anyway Par-ee is shweeeeet – we’re getting ready to head out for more sightseeing – maybe a boat ride down the Seine & a hike up the Eiffel tower – sure, why not? Aight book chook dook – keep it muthafucking gully – hear me? Peyaice! Tuesday, July 29, 2003
I have performed many tasks today, at an exceptional level.
I have deciphered many pseudonymical codes and patterns with precision and arrogance, and thus in a more than adequate manner. I have provided a communications platform of mine own mind & body, with which to allow for minisculiquitively small levels of accidental interface. Thus my reward and yours shall be further bloggage.  Now when I wrote my dogshit sports report I didn’t realize that kobe had actually admitted to sleeping consensually with mrs. X or whatever her name shall be (I guess Miss X since she’s not married, or is she?) possibly they’ve released her name rendering my whole meandering worthless but for the sake of this discussion it doesn’t really matter, so we shall, forthwith, proceed.
Anyway, so she says that it was consensual, but when kobe tried to roll her over and go for the ulterior (posterior – some may call service) entrance to the premises, she forthwith did express much concern and disdain and sayeth “no” whereby he proceeded and did the herky-jerky down the Hershey highway. Ok a little more graphic than we normally get on a Sunday morning, or Tuesday afternoon, or whatever the case may be. But different situations by which I must stand as an intrepid reporter call for different strategies. Anyway where the fuk was I? Oh yeah. Kobe. And his 4 million dollar diamond. such a blatant affection for sale move, that like, shit kobe, wait a couple months, buy her a new benz, and don't call fukn fritz coleman and keep him posted. “uh, honey, maybe a 2 million dollar pool cue to bitch slap me with for the rest of our lives?” he’s fucked cuz I don’t think he got a pre-nup and he knows she could take him to the BANK now. Shit, admitted adultery. Fuk, and hey, don’t get me wrong, what kobe did was fucked up, but let’s not draw and quarter him in the media either. And go easy on the girl, too, you can already see the sharks (kobe’s lawyers) circling the blood on this one. Young girl with a slightly checkered past, history of histrionics, but ya know whut? Fuk, everybody gets a lil crazy it’s just some people are unlucky to have them on the books. Well actually, I guess, the more you get crazy the higher chances you’ll be on those books? Well a certain level of cognizance and smarts go with it as well, I mean, you can be a sucka, and get jonezied your first gigowatt, even in the blue special aisle at k-mart if you don’t watch your bizack. So oh yeah, the more shit I was gonna add on that is that, shit, if you’re in the nba, what are your hopes for an affair-free successful marriage. Think about it, the day you walk in the door there’s 85 hoes a nite lined up for the goods, and you say no 364 times and say fuk it once and suddenly you’re on the six o clock news. And shit you know kobe said fuk it more than once, try 132 to be precise (totally made up number) but shit, I mean, why you think so many illegitimate kids and crazy women in the nba? And don’t even throw the race card, playboy, cuz plenty of white gentlemen playing bball and whut got damn shitload o kids from all over. Look at Larry Legend I mean he had some daughter he sent money too but never even talked to or hung with until she was like 19, and she idolized the fucker, yeah thanks dad for giving me some damn sperm, thanks a lot you fuck. that’s what I would have thought if I was her. but yeah, fukn they got yugoslavian mofos in their bagging every little bizzo through the door, it's the fukn lifestyle. look at Jordan and Magic, they both got their game on off the court and it was a clap wink and a nudge 20 years later even with jordan's allegations and his wife making a show of leaving him. yeah right, she came back, the hillary special, she ain't gonna leave Jordan. It's majorly fucked, it leaves this machismo culture all around, and has to bounce down the generations, and shit, it's just reality, but just for these people, whose lives are not reality for the rest of us, not even close. we can't really know what it would be like, and neither can they, cuz they've crossed through the looking glass, they're fodder for our entertainment, and nothing more. we shall reward them handsomely, but they must continue to dance, and we to watch. and listen. and learn. and self-delude. and make way too much a case of it in a long winded authoritative treatise about it. So anyway, I’m getting way off track every shit ass thing I’m trying to delve into. Don’t read too much between the lines and don’t recognize too many goats when you’re walking in Sweden, because they get offended, not that I’ve ever even been to fukn Sweden, but still, it’s known. Ok I think that’s about it for now. I’ll be at Frankie and veronica’s house roasting a big old lamb for Kwanzaa. Not that it’s Kwanzaa and not that I’m jewish. I’m not, and I don’t know when Kwanzaa is. Not that there’s anything wrong with Kwanzaa or being jewish. I’m assuming they’re both great things, especially being jewish, I don’t really know about Kwanzaa, maybe it really sucks for a lot of people, cuz you know, sometimes holidays suck, so even if it’s really relevant in a scripture type sense, your own personal experience could still seriously blow, so I’ll leave that open for interpretation. Update: Last Story provides a quite logical and articulate analysis of this whole kobe rape scandal dillio, and it is very very good, an adjective that will have to suffice due to my lack of thesaurus-skills. did I mention logical & articulate? ok, carry on.  Why does life feel so less meaningful when you’re not on vacation? Only my second day back in the saddle and I’m already pining for a fjord. I mean I’m pining hard, my dawgs. I miss the mornings of waking up, drinking coffee, and the big question of the day was what cool ass thing or event are you going to cook up for today’s entertainment, what landmark are you going to envision and record for posterity, whut memory are you going to create, what effervescent combination of words, events, scenery, conversation, weather patterns, traffic flow, and otherwise altogether new experience are you going to dive into at that momentous conglomeration and make it your own, make it something to go even beyond the camera eye? Now it’s wake up drink coffee, and think, ok, I’m going to work, I’m gonna, um, tackle some tasks and like, make the world a better place for skunkwork equipment in the year 2005? Fuk that.
Nah not fuk that, cuz 2005 skunk work determination is whut makes 2006 tromping across some foreign continent possible, and in style, hoes. Dolla dolla bills, be they euros, swiss franks, or pounds, gotta come from somewhere okey doke, and they don’t come from spitting this kind of game, at least not for a brotha named alf-jigga. Not with this filthy trigga and this lackadaisical bigga figga. So yeah, forgive me my locs, I’m a little tad widsy in the dumps. Nah not big time, just like, coming down off a 2.5 week rollercoaster of dollops of good time boba fett stylees. Yeah that don’t mean shit, but neither would it have if it had made sense, trust me on that. It’s the kine shit that no matter how eloquently I prostrate it, if you weren’t there you can’t feel my skees, and fukn guru will back me up on this, and premo once he gets out the shitter, will have my back. It’s like, this feeling, this kine dillio, wherein, you were totally free of unfettered chains of fukn daffodils or some shit like that, and then suddenly you’re back in the zone, and it’s a good zone, and it’s comfy, but suddenly you want more, you want the three martini lunch with an option for four, you want the café sidling with a garcon named Jacque and an unlimited tap of Carlsberg, or kronenberg, or whatever shit they happen to have on draft at that exact millisecond. You want to have to scoot back your chair in the street as a little car that would barely pass for a grandma’s razzie scoots by economically chugging about 1 liter per 85 kilometers. You want that shit, and at the same time you’re stoked on the local kine Americanized shit that you know so well too. It’s a yin and yang type crapshoot except wherein everyone knows the yin outweighs the yang by about 35-40 pounds, but also wherein the yang is a scrappy fighter that regularly pulls hulk Hogan moves and shakes people out of their skull, big fukn strapping moose of men that otherwise would never look twice at stated theoretical yang and suddenly they on they back. But not this time, not necessarily, yeah it’s a lot like that. So I guess I’m still adjusting. Monday, July 28, 2003
 Warning: dogshit sports post. for those so inclined, feel free to skip this manure and go pursue a more invigorating and stimulating past time. staring contest with your guinea pig comes to mind. regular programming will resume at my leisure.
now that you have been alerted, peep my witty observations and completely retarded hypothesi as I take in this marc stein column on the winners and losers in nba free agency this summer…. ah shit, payton & mailman on the lakes? Shit dawg, now, I heard about this before I left, but now, the officiality of the whole thing, shit foohs, ya know, ya KNOW, now this means the lakers take another title this year, right? Now, um, no, the spurs can’t do shit, the nets can’t do shit, ain’t nobody can do shit, except MAYBE the clips, ok shit, I’m on crack, they can’t do shit neither, ain’t no body can do shit, ain’t nobody, one word too, na mean, one word & two word version of nobody ain’t none of them gonna be able to step in the muthafuckin stadium when this shit goes down. And wait, ok, um, looking at this picture, I see karl malone with number 32. did I miss something here? Shaq gave up # 32 when he came in in deference to magic, who if his jersey ain’t retired yet, you know it’s going up there someday, but they cough of the balls for malone? Nah, this is just a publicity shot, this shit ain’t real, they ain’t givin’ magic’s number to karl malone, ah know they din’t. Ok and this whole kobe thing, um, I haven’t really heard what’s up, just that he had an “im innocent” press conference and bought his wife like a 4 million dollar diamond. Nothing says I’m innocent like a 4 million dollar guilt infested diamond. I mean, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence, “oh, I was gonna get this diamond anyway baby, but now that I’m up on pervert charges, well ain’t it a nice little, ya know, pattern in the gigasphere, and hopefully will divert your attention from the flashing lights and probing questions of Barbara wawa and Johnny carson’s crew of bastard stepchildren." Whuuut? Horry signed with san antone? Ah fuk it, homey suddenly can’t shoot for shit during clutch time anyway. Clutch city is closed bitch, besides that was Houston fools, fifth ward, nuttios, not no san antone, don’t try to recreate the memories, robinson’s gone, Duncan is good but he ain’t no olajuwon, and um, hey, where’s Kenny Anderson? Yeah that’s what I thought. Ah shit, sprewell on the t-wolves? Yah fuk the knicks. Gilbert arenas to the wizards? Yah fuk the warriors. Speaking of the warriors, here’s what stein has to say: (sorry joe) Doesn't matter that the rules conspired against them when it came to keeping Arenas. In their long-suffering fans' eyes, the Warriors have fumbled again. And without Arenas and Earl Boykins, in the mighty West, the league's longest playoff drought is bound to be stretched to a 10th season. Ok and here’s what stein says about the clippers: The Clippers could have paid Elton Brand more than $105 million over seven seasons, so matching Miami's six-year, $82 million offer to Brand is a bargain by comparison, even for owner Donald T. Sterling, a lifelong non-spender. That's one reason why reaction to the Brand signing, which figured to be trumpeted as a momentous occasion in the annals of Clipperdom, has been so muted. Another reason: Sterling's profits for last season have been estimated as high as $40-plus million. So even after L.A. paid more than it usually does for a coach -- $10 million over four seasons to Mike Dunleavy -- this is clearly a time you expect the Clippers to spend a little more, even allowing for the Sterling factor. It'll be a major disappointment if Odom and Corey Maggette aren't retained like Brand. If only one of those two small forwards comes back, it will be remembered as yet another sad summer in spite of the Brand/Dunleavy exacta. Ok for anyone that knows the clips this is very very very very very encouraging. Mike dunleavy coaching and they held onto Brand. Ok they can go march into the sewer and lather up in goats milk now for all I care, they’ve done their duty and already gone beyond the call. Congratulations clippers, this is basically the equivalent of a championship for you. parade at 11.  From the private journal of john p. Farnsworth III, duke of Kalihi and outlying junctures
All names have been changed to protect the unprotected 6/8/03 well I’m up at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am watching Major League. I had this sudden theory while I was getting some water from the fridge that this movie was the impetus that turned the real live Indians around. I mean they were in the world series in like, whut, 95? So you MAY be asking why the hell I’m up this early… well it all started with 2 Fast 2 Furious, which by the way was an excellent movie, so anyway, suddenly (well not sooo suddenly, Id had tinglings earlier) I’ve got this semi-splitting headache – I’m like, WTF? So Dr. J is in town – his 98 year old dad just died a couple weeks ago - & we went to meet him & his younger son (who I’d never met – nice guy, tatted out, a little wacky) & my head is still pounding. I decide that maybe a drink is what I need. After a Jack & coke @ some sashimi (oh this is at Duke’s Barefoot bar – Waikiki) I’m feeling shiiitty – (Note to self – don’t drink when you’ve got a migraine) – so I order the ribs. Eat like half of it, feeling barfy – but holding on. I tell Dr. J & Mrs. P – not feeling so good – so we’re walking back to car with Dr. J (his car is at his son’s hotel – Dr. J’s staying at his Dad’s tear-down on a million dollar lot in Hawaii Kai) when I can’t hold it anymore & yuke in a flower bed outside the DFS building (tower) – embaressing! So Mrs. P gets me home @ 7:30 & I pass the fuk out after yuking some more – I feel bad for mi amor cuz I promised her a nite out dancing, but, oh the head was pouuunnding. So it was hasta la vista para la noche – sooo – I’m up at 6:30 on a Sunday. Aloha – my hand hurts… Oh & PS – yeah the lakers lost – it’s the spurs & nets tied 1-1 in the finals at this writing. Sunday, July 27, 2003
 damn jet lag is messin with my mental. Its whut, 8 am, and I been up since like midnite. Finally nodded off at 11:30 am yesterday, thinking I’d just clock like 6, 7 hours and be up for the evening, but shit, woke up and day over. So ate cereal. Went to Kailua beach and caught phaaat sunrise about 5:30-6 am, then cruised to starbucks (tried morning brew first, trying to help out small market joe, right across the street, but yall are closed, so yall lose, if you’re gonna catch starbucks, you gotta open with starbucks yall, even on Sunday, not to mention Tuesdays and Thursdays, cmon yall) and had some delish café mocha, ya see, I usually get the cheapy coffee o the day, but I went for it, fancy shit, and now I see why all yall pay the extra ducket, shit was good, don’t need no extra milk and sugar, they do it up right, just don’t ask for the whip cream, that’ll ice that shit up right up until the 80th street crew stomps on a seagull’s back if ya catch my drift.
Soooo. Office on the way back to casa, so stopped to shout at yall and check shit out. Think I’ll call up the wifey pretty quick when I get back. 12 hours ahead, bout ten after 8 PM. They eat late out that way, so call around 9:39 while they’re lounging at with they after dinner café, and then see whuts up. I know the did up Geneva after dropping me off early (but not bright yet) at the airepurto. Number one de cinco for my long ass adventurous day during which… Oh shit yeah locs, I saw the guy that lives at the charles de gaull airport in paris. Hellz yeah. You gotta check this documentary called “waiting for degaull” or some shit like that, ya know, a play on words from the becket play “waiting for godot” am I spelling it out too hard? Don’t wanna jack the contingent, either way, southwest northeast all yall are bringing it so nuff respect. So anyway, this dude just straight lives at the airport. Bottom floor of terminal one. If you’re out the mcdonalds walk right out the door and go straight down the connecting hallway. He’s at one of the little lounge areas facing the windows that face the circular area with the glass enclosed escalators going up and up and up to the different levels, people arriving, people leaving, people going to baggage claim, people coming in through immigration, which may I mention is a breeze and a half out of Switzerland, as was into Switzerland from London, maybe Suisse has agreements like, lay off on the searches of our peeps, or like, it’s all mellow, I mean, you gotta show your passport, that’s about it. at the swiss airport there’s even like a france zone, whereby after you walk through this security area, you are techinically in france, like politically, even though technically you’re still in Switzerland, and this time by technically, I mean geographically. I am sorry but for this express circumstance you must accept two diverging definitions of the word technically strictly for argument’s sake. So yeah I wanted to talk to this guy, everyone was clueless about him, noboday paying attention, he’s got like this 8 x 4 foot area all peripherated, if ya catch, and like with fed ex boxes, and like cardboard screens, and little food tables, and shit, he’s just kicking it, straight living at the airport. Something with his political kine shit, like, he’s a man without a country. Arrived at CDG and realized he’d left his passport behind, and couldn’t go forward or backward, straight in limbo, facing nothingness and complete dedication to an ideal straight in the face. Can’t enter paris, they’ll shake ya grill, can’t go back to libya or whatever country (correction: iran) your from for whatever reason. Plus you’re just a little crazy. So I chickened out and went up to my gate and tried to fukn face the fact that I’d missed discussing serious issues with one of the coolest people at least theoretically in a fringe society type application since fukn I don’t know, I don’t want to invite propogantory discussions that may annihilate my thesis, but I’m thinking kerouac and fukn that ginsberg and um, a dash of ollie north, na mean? Laddatt. More to come. |
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