Tales from the Wordpress Crypt #2

Ushering in a New Era of Capitalized Nouns

Hello Again,

My finger is Itchy today.
Does this smell familiar to you? If it does you get no money down!

I HAVE ALOT OF THINGS TO SAY TODAY (i hope)

First, a shoutout to being absent. I got 714 hits last I checked and only 14 of those of from people. ACTUAL PEOPLE. My guess is now that the bots have discovered the authors’ self-inflicted dearth in attendance, they’ve decided to harass some other poor schlep and his untidy rants. Good thing too, I was about to step in here and unleash a storm of emailed protests to our most gracious host: the internet god. Hey, if you’re listening big guy, I didn’t mean it. Everything is fine and dandy on this side, pops.

Now here is where we get abnormal. Moving on the first of July to an unnamed location with people whose identities shall remain unknown. Although they sometimes feature prominently in this blog o’ mine. Still, I can’t have you weirdos looking me up and popping over. That would be bad for my image. In fact, stop reading this all together if you think you know how to get past Dateline’s Chris Hansen. He’s a dirty little fuck, and he’ll nail your ass to the wall so hard, you’ll switch sexual orientations. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Rock concert next month. Well, I guess you can call anything rock nowadays. We play rock music; it’s more like grass music. We’re grassers, Alistair and I. THAT’S RIGHT!! We’re in cahoots and you never figured it could happen to you, did ya? I’m standing right behind you too cause I am everywhere at once. Alistair my trusty partner, and worthy friend. I hope you’ve got better things going for you at the moment than reading this paltry reflection about the value of my existence. We are going to Pillage the stage and leave in a blaze of stereophonic glory! Pederasts Beware!

Mary-Jane has been deflowered. Or is it flowered? LEMME SEE THOSE HANDS MISTER! Downed some excellently priced merchandise the other day. Para-troopers were descending from the blood-soaked skies with crimson afterburners igniting the way. They arrived and had heart-to-hearts with the local color: daffodils, flower children, boozers, and black cats. It was momentous. We toured the mountain, and found the other side to be just as splendid, so we returned home satiated, our kindred spirits roaming freely to bedposts and broomsticks. If love is a drug, than luck is with us. Maybe we can settle all accounts after all. Cause in the end, Nabiru will need the receipts, never wavering from its tragic path that is data compilation. When the man comes around, he’ll be taking names they say. CAN ANYONE MAKE SENSE OF THIS? I need a glass of water, some chewing gum, and a cigarette or two.

or three or four.

OutieFiveThousand!