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Fucking Leyendecker

I seriously can't stop whistling the vocoded line from what amounts to the bridge of that song, and it's a little bit out of control. My shuffle was on repeat today, my last day of being a Two Apartment-Having Dude, as I biked the 13 miles home. Just under 45 minutes. God damn stop lights. It ruins your momentum, yo! Oh well, it does give you time to pause and assess just how much that purple watermelon you call an ankle hurts. Play through the pain, bitches. Play through the pain.

My doctor's secretary called to confirm my appointment for Wednesday of this week, scheduled six months ago. Apparently, they haven't received the summons yet. I cancelled. She thanked me for my consideration in letting them know. You called me, dude! OOOH, IS THAT SARCASM? Well, we shall see who gets the joke, when the paperwork arrives. I sure hope that sarcasm can be sprinkled over your Newports and smoked to get you high, OTHERWISE IT WON'T BE VERY FUNNY FOR YOUR PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT, WILL IT? KEKEKE! I'm sorry, what now?

ooooooh, eeeeeeeeeeeooooooohhhh ooooooo oooh oohoo oh ohoh ohohoh ooooooooh oooooooeeeeeoooohhhh

Again, how I roll.

So, I'm rolling down Stevens Creek (ATTENTION INTARWEB STALKERS: THIS IS MY COMMUTE PATH, JOT IT DOWN AND SAVE IT IN YOUR HOME DIRECTORY, SO THAT WHEN I TURN UP DEAD, YOU TURN UP IN GUANTANAMO BAY WHILE THEY QUIZ YOU OVER WHAT'S ON UR HARD DRIVE, PWNING UR CAREERZ) past where it turns into San... Somethingorother... Carlos, maybe? Oh, if only there were a website one could use to find such things out... Well, anyway, I'm rolling into downtown San José, or, as I like to call it, San José, and what do I spy, but another fucking white dude with a Palestinian flag and a placard, standing on the corner, blathering on about oppression.

ooooooh, eeeeeeeeeeeooooooohhhh ooooooo oooh oohoo oh ohoh ohohoh ooooooooh oooooooeeeeeoooohhhh

What the fuck. You know, the main reason, besides the long-ass commute, that I don't live in the city, was that I presumed street-corner morons with self-loathing problems and a megaphone were more likely to live up north. And possibly East. SOUTH BAY, BITCH! WHATUP?

Today, I am disappointed in my fellow San Josesians (I don't know exactly how that's pronounced. I'm sorry, I just don't.). I am, however, quite pleased - dare I say - ECSTATIC, about my complex punctuation skillz. Know where I learned that shit?

College.

What does it all mean?

Who cares! My desk is unpacked, and my computer work area cabled, and those cables? They're FUCKING VELCRO'D TO THE FRAME OF THE DESK, SO THAT WHEN YOU LOOK AT THE DESK, YOU DON'T EVEN FUCKING SEE THE CABLES! It's called professionalism, people. Look it up.

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Whoa, did I mention that earlier this week, theantix and I saw "Hot Fuzz"? Nobody tell his wife, but it's totally a gay porn movie. For realz. Shhh! That's on the downlow, don't tell nobody I killed nobody.

That's a Pharcyde quote, by the way. Your Honor. Sir. I'm just a post-modern quotin' supergenius, Your Honor, sir.

You guys should totally see my hands right now. They're all withered and scarred, and I have bandaids on three of ten fingers (do thumbs count as fingers, and if so, by what standard? I mean, they're OPPOSITIONEY! That sort of biological behavior shouldn't be promoted, it should be discouraged! WE ARE NO BETTER THAN THE CHIMPS, YOU CHIMPS.

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Fucking Leyendecker. HURRY UP, END UP THE MONTH! What's this talk of this bittorrent shit, again?

Are bloggers journalists? Sure, they're retarded journalists. With no training. Or skills. Or any other redeeming qualities as human beings. ROUND. THEM. UP.

Why, given that one was in a position to enjoy the low-hanging fruit inherent in Empire, would one not do so? I love me, bitches. I. Love. Me.

And I want my free fucking oil. I recall the slogan being something along the lines that would indicate the amount of blood spilled would result in some free oil by now. Just sayin', is all.

Whoa, it's kind of like mindless, knee-jerk slogans are pretty much bitter, petty and in bad taste, all the time! Weird. I need to send some emails to some dudes.

But, anyway, what I wanted to say to you people is that I trust my fingers. I put them on the keyboard, and I send them shit, and they do my bidding. I give them tools, and they use those tools, and sometimes they end up hurting themselves, but never too bad, really. TIMEX IS WHAT THEY ARE LIKE.

I just hope the poor saps who read this whole thing heard it in my voice, with that fucking BATTLES song playing over and over, like it sounded here when I wrote it. Lates.

ooooooh, eeeeeeeeeeeooooooohhhh ooooooo oooh oohoo oh ohoh ohohoh ooooooooh oooooooeeeeeoooohhhh

Holy shit, that was supposed to be ironic.

Also, Jason Calacanis is a Douchebag. Googlejuice gets your fingers sticky.

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)

I'll bet you thought I forgot, didn't you. Well, I didn't. All part of the plan. Now, nothing to see here, move along, please. YOU, IN THE BACK, I SAID MOVE ALONG. MOVE ALONG, OR BE ADDED TO THIS LIST HERE!

I had bangers and mash for dinner, and some Smithwicks. Not the best meal I ever had, but it was across the street, so there's that. It's almost civilized.

ooooooh, eeeeeeeeeeeooooooohhhh ooooooo oooh oohoo oh ohoh ohohoh ooooooooh oooooooeeeeeoooohhhh

DUN NUH, DUN NUH, DUH NUH, DUH NUH