Where's my bullhorn?
I returneth, may my holy ball sweat bless you with its salty goodness.
Hello my droogs, I am finally able to move my sore body enough to get across the room and write the blathering that I love so. Sore you say? What, was our dear Chairman Mao playing with himself so much he blew out his wrist? Did he jump off a building only to discover that his wiry frame bounces? No, my children, he was busy hamming it up on a field, swinging a sword above his head while his sword hung out in see through pants. Festival, a crazy get up of pagans, pseudo-heathens, fluffy bunnies, and the just plain wierd. This innane show of religion has accomplished dressing up your dear friend and comrad like a bad Peterpan knockoff. The bonus, I have learned how to swing a sword, at least in a stage show kind of way, and me and the thunder god, went nutballs and were wailing on each other during our mock combat. Apparently it turned out great with only one injury, which amazingly wasn't to my small frail form. Course it could have turned out worse, had the lightning been the way it was originally. Having had to fight in the dark for show, it made it very hard to see my large friends bastard sword coming for my temple. This is enough to make any small man shit himself with last night's shepard pie. Mmmmm...sheeepaaarrd'sss piiiieee... But of course the amazing rejuvinating power of my ball sweat kept me safe and healthy. Now, you may think your beloved narrator has just lost a few bricks off the back of the truck, but when I claim my ball's sweat has magical power I stand steadfast in that opinion. First off, the magical ability to make people laugh every time I yell BAALLL SSWEAT!! into a bullhorn. Second, the hornification properties of this salty delight, causing most who sat beneath the dripping boxers hung on the line to dry, to wander off and find a tent and get busy. And the great word of ball sweat and its progenitor, the great and mighty Hemephetep (may his great penis clear the path before you), spread through the camps like a fart in a car. Unfortunately the great knowledge of Hemephetep was not enough to show some of these fluffy bunnies how not to piss me off. Two words, Altoid Tins. Every year, someone collects a bunch of these lovely little things, and passes them out so that these bastards can put their cigarette butts somewhere besides the ground. Now, I generally think this is a good idea, since I personally field strip all cigarettes, even when I am not at festival. I don't like tossing my dirty filter on the ground. Its nasty and dirties things up. What really pulls my ball sac, is the fact that most of these hippie earth lovin' wierdos will use the tins at festival, but as soon as they leave they will start tossing them on the ground again. What kind of earth lover are you? Getting the place dirty when other pagans aren't looking? It seems to me this just becomes another part of religion that is only 'revered' when at church. 'Well as long as I am here, where everyone can see me, I might as well not be tarded for a few days and actually care about this great mystical earth goddess biatch that I claim to worship.' This logic is faulty, and generally the type of thought process that got me pissed at Christianity. Is it just me, or do these people need to be pulled onto someone's foot like a sock? Bah. Anyway. Coming home I found myself too sore to move, mostly laying around scratching the holiness that was my ball sac. In my internment the little woman made me get up and go to the bar. While I whined a bit, for that is the way of the bitch hermit, a beer still sounded good. Getting there, we sit down, order a pizza and start drinking. But after the pizza was split up I found my stomach still needed more. More food for the tum tum. The little woman hands me some money and my adventure through ybor began. I began my journey at the little deli that serves some of the best slaughtered sheep your savory tongue could ever taste, sliced and broiled and wrapped in a large pita roll. But the deli was closed, to my dismay. So I wandered, looking around for anyplace that was open with food cheaper than the fistful I held. A flashy sign caught my eye like the sun on the horizan, Pizza! New York New York! Wings! I looked at that fistful of dollars, and then back at those words. Wings! I gritted my teeth and stepped in, my shoes clicking on the tile floor, a silent nameless creature hungering. Chewing on the end of my cigarello, I gave the woman behind the bar a gritty stare. She smiled, 'What can I get for you?' My simple reply. Wings! She scuttled off, obviously afraid of all five foot eight of my masculinity. I turned and stepped outside to light up my smoke, two latino natives sitting nearby. I asked for a light, the slender one with glasses obliged, then in the tradition of the area began trying to sell me whatever ware he happened to have. In this case art, not bad art, but what does a wandering man know about art. I sat down, gave the man a dollar and a smoke and told him to keep his art. His silent muscular companion stared at me, silently, his silent eyes glinting with a silenced toned, silented under the silent moon. Now that we realize this other hombre just didn't talk, the slender latin began telling me his story. A wandering street artist, having moved most of his way acorss the country. The man obviously has had trouble, his eye was blackened and the blood vessels in it were burst. A fight. He obviously didn't win that one. As long as we are discussing obviouseness, it would be pertinent to mention I was scratching my nuts at this time, and my mode of speech had completely changed, dropping into a formulation of street slang and grunts that was accepted by the locals. They seemed pleased. He told me of the great streets of Boston, and living in china town. Trying to sell his trade there, amidst the other street peoples. He mentioned his love for the chinese woman, and I wholey expected a story of a love affari with one, but his mind kept wandering back to how he missed the tall buildings. The woman from behind the counter came, gave me my wings with a silly grin and a wiggly of her chest. Thanking her I rose and gave the latin man the tradional farewell of the street, a strange amalgomation of hand gestures normally involving you and your companion's fists bumping together and randomized patterns. I began my trip back to the hovel of a bar I claimed as home, to drown my sore muscles in alcohol and the little woman. A tall dark man came up to me, mumbled a request in the night. I looked at him for a moment, and immediatly assumed he wasnted a smoke. No, he said, he only wanted a bite to eat. So I moved and sat upon the curve of a small sewage bank, set my box of Wings! down and opened them. I invited him to share my meal and a smoke. He gratiously sat, apologizing profusely about having to ask. After assuring him that he needn't apologize, I started to get his story. JR, a man that had traveled from about a thousand miles north of where we were presently. He had only been in this dusty town for eight days, not sure why he was here, save that he had wanted to see it. He told me his tale above the munching of our jaws as we devoured our Wings! We finished, I tossed the trash, and once again commenced with the street farewell gestures. All the while my street slang, and gruff grunts continuing. We turned and walked away in our seperate ways. I finally arrived to my own hole, to drown the rest of the night away. A short adventure, but it only goes to show, how much one dollar, two cigarettes, and six chicken wings can get you. With that, I scratched myself and went home.
P.S. Our Editing department went out to lunch approximately three years ago. Proper spelling will re-commence when they return. Unfortunately that occurence is not looking to good. If you happen to see any of them, approach with caution, they are more than likely feral by now. Your best option is to keep a supply of coffee and elephant tranqs on you at all times.
Hello my droogs, I am finally able to move my sore body enough to get across the room and write the blathering that I love so. Sore you say? What, was our dear Chairman Mao playing with himself so much he blew out his wrist? Did he jump off a building only to discover that his wiry frame bounces? No, my children, he was busy hamming it up on a field, swinging a sword above his head while his sword hung out in see through pants. Festival, a crazy get up of pagans, pseudo-heathens, fluffy bunnies, and the just plain wierd. This innane show of religion has accomplished dressing up your dear friend and comrad like a bad Peterpan knockoff. The bonus, I have learned how to swing a sword, at least in a stage show kind of way, and me and the thunder god, went nutballs and were wailing on each other during our mock combat. Apparently it turned out great with only one injury, which amazingly wasn't to my small frail form. Course it could have turned out worse, had the lightning been the way it was originally. Having had to fight in the dark for show, it made it very hard to see my large friends bastard sword coming for my temple. This is enough to make any small man shit himself with last night's shepard pie. Mmmmm...sheeepaaarrd'sss piiiieee... But of course the amazing rejuvinating power of my ball sweat kept me safe and healthy. Now, you may think your beloved narrator has just lost a few bricks off the back of the truck, but when I claim my ball's sweat has magical power I stand steadfast in that opinion. First off, the magical ability to make people laugh every time I yell BAALLL SSWEAT!! into a bullhorn. Second, the hornification properties of this salty delight, causing most who sat beneath the dripping boxers hung on the line to dry, to wander off and find a tent and get busy. And the great word of ball sweat and its progenitor, the great and mighty Hemephetep (may his great penis clear the path before you), spread through the camps like a fart in a car. Unfortunately the great knowledge of Hemephetep was not enough to show some of these fluffy bunnies how not to piss me off. Two words, Altoid Tins. Every year, someone collects a bunch of these lovely little things, and passes them out so that these bastards can put their cigarette butts somewhere besides the ground. Now, I generally think this is a good idea, since I personally field strip all cigarettes, even when I am not at festival. I don't like tossing my dirty filter on the ground. Its nasty and dirties things up. What really pulls my ball sac, is the fact that most of these hippie earth lovin' wierdos will use the tins at festival, but as soon as they leave they will start tossing them on the ground again. What kind of earth lover are you? Getting the place dirty when other pagans aren't looking? It seems to me this just becomes another part of religion that is only 'revered' when at church. 'Well as long as I am here, where everyone can see me, I might as well not be tarded for a few days and actually care about this great mystical earth goddess biatch that I claim to worship.' This logic is faulty, and generally the type of thought process that got me pissed at Christianity. Is it just me, or do these people need to be pulled onto someone's foot like a sock? Bah. Anyway. Coming home I found myself too sore to move, mostly laying around scratching the holiness that was my ball sac. In my internment the little woman made me get up and go to the bar. While I whined a bit, for that is the way of the bitch hermit, a beer still sounded good. Getting there, we sit down, order a pizza and start drinking. But after the pizza was split up I found my stomach still needed more. More food for the tum tum. The little woman hands me some money and my adventure through ybor began. I began my journey at the little deli that serves some of the best slaughtered sheep your savory tongue could ever taste, sliced and broiled and wrapped in a large pita roll. But the deli was closed, to my dismay. So I wandered, looking around for anyplace that was open with food cheaper than the fistful I held. A flashy sign caught my eye like the sun on the horizan, Pizza! New York New York! Wings! I looked at that fistful of dollars, and then back at those words. Wings! I gritted my teeth and stepped in, my shoes clicking on the tile floor, a silent nameless creature hungering. Chewing on the end of my cigarello, I gave the woman behind the bar a gritty stare. She smiled, 'What can I get for you?' My simple reply. Wings! She scuttled off, obviously afraid of all five foot eight of my masculinity. I turned and stepped outside to light up my smoke, two latino natives sitting nearby. I asked for a light, the slender one with glasses obliged, then in the tradition of the area began trying to sell me whatever ware he happened to have. In this case art, not bad art, but what does a wandering man know about art. I sat down, gave the man a dollar and a smoke and told him to keep his art. His silent muscular companion stared at me, silently, his silent eyes glinting with a silenced toned, silented under the silent moon. Now that we realize this other hombre just didn't talk, the slender latin began telling me his story. A wandering street artist, having moved most of his way acorss the country. The man obviously has had trouble, his eye was blackened and the blood vessels in it were burst. A fight. He obviously didn't win that one. As long as we are discussing obviouseness, it would be pertinent to mention I was scratching my nuts at this time, and my mode of speech had completely changed, dropping into a formulation of street slang and grunts that was accepted by the locals. They seemed pleased. He told me of the great streets of Boston, and living in china town. Trying to sell his trade there, amidst the other street peoples. He mentioned his love for the chinese woman, and I wholey expected a story of a love affari with one, but his mind kept wandering back to how he missed the tall buildings. The woman from behind the counter came, gave me my wings with a silly grin and a wiggly of her chest. Thanking her I rose and gave the latin man the tradional farewell of the street, a strange amalgomation of hand gestures normally involving you and your companion's fists bumping together and randomized patterns. I began my trip back to the hovel of a bar I claimed as home, to drown my sore muscles in alcohol and the little woman. A tall dark man came up to me, mumbled a request in the night. I looked at him for a moment, and immediatly assumed he wasnted a smoke. No, he said, he only wanted a bite to eat. So I moved and sat upon the curve of a small sewage bank, set my box of Wings! down and opened them. I invited him to share my meal and a smoke. He gratiously sat, apologizing profusely about having to ask. After assuring him that he needn't apologize, I started to get his story. JR, a man that had traveled from about a thousand miles north of where we were presently. He had only been in this dusty town for eight days, not sure why he was here, save that he had wanted to see it. He told me his tale above the munching of our jaws as we devoured our Wings! We finished, I tossed the trash, and once again commenced with the street farewell gestures. All the while my street slang, and gruff grunts continuing. We turned and walked away in our seperate ways. I finally arrived to my own hole, to drown the rest of the night away. A short adventure, but it only goes to show, how much one dollar, two cigarettes, and six chicken wings can get you. With that, I scratched myself and went home.
P.S. Our Editing department went out to lunch approximately three years ago. Proper spelling will re-commence when they return. Unfortunately that occurence is not looking to good. If you happen to see any of them, approach with caution, they are more than likely feral by now. Your best option is to keep a supply of coffee and elephant tranqs on you at all times.