SPRING BROKE (One Tequila, Two Tequila, Tila Tequila, Whore)

Let’s get this shit started!!!!!!!!! Cabo Wabo!!!!! Show us your tits!!!!!!!

Holy shit! Party men supreme Justin and Dustin are here! Man, that cat Dustin sure knows how to lay the smackdown on some parties. Look at him: He’s uther uckin out of control!!!!!!!

Come on, Roger, wake up! WAKE UP!!!!! Oh my god he’s not waking up!!!!

Fuggit. Let’s dance!!!!!!

Uh! Uh-uh! Umf! Uh-duh-guh-buh! How do you like them moves? I just blasted you off the dance floor, look at you:

Know why we’re getting lit to shit this week? Why we’re getting party-rageous? Why there’s four on the floor and more in store? (some kid in high school told me that’s how many kegs you should have at your party. he’s in jail, probably.) It’s not because we like it. And it’s not because we are American educators, shaping the minds of the next generation. It’s because we’re afraid of the demon otter. And if you don’t party continuously, I mean all through the week, the demon otter will posess your soul. Shit, get down here he comes!

Quick, Justin, get on the water slide so that you look like you’re partying.  You do NOT want to get posessed.

Damnit……too late.

 

 

R.I.P. Dustin Partydude AKA Sarah Dope

Johnny Hates Jazz: Final Countdown

Everybody hates Jazz, given. But the worst thing about jazzies is that they don’t even wear suits anymore. They come down on the wrong side of everything, style-wise, and now they don’t even dress respectable! Natch.

Then:

Now:

Let’s UCKING GET HIM!!!!!

Natch. Punk is dead. End program.

WHOA!!

I got the rudest awakening this morning!

But once my balls and stomach had peeled off I could return to my daily routine, which includes drinking broskis, watching headbangers ball and occasionally writing a dissertation on Paul Auster.

When suddenly I was visited by an angel, a fucking awesome beautiful angel who had a message for me:

No, not that, tell me something I don’t know!

No, that’s not it. I don’t usually shop there. What the fuck did that Angel say that filled me with God’s Good News and made me all bright and shiny like an audience member on Oprah?

I can’t remember. I was TOTALLY tweaking on Angel Dust. (Irony.) I was FREAKING OUT!

But rest assured, John Pauls, I will figure out today, or maybe like early tomorrow. This week I will definitely figure out what that fucking angel said to me, and then it’s your ass, Charlton, you hear me?

 

In the meantime, the danse macabre continues….

The circle of life.

EVERYTHING’S BACK TO NORMAL

Things got weird there for a little while.

But proper steps were taken.

Now everybody’s happy, everybody’s good time.

RELAX gentles…..

Everything is back to normal. Stand down. Return to work. All quiet on the western front.

Goodnight.

TODAY A LONG TIME AGO: STEP INTO THE LIGHT, SPECIALS

I can’t believe it was eleven years ago, specials. Eleven years ago to this day, twenty-nine of our brothers and sisters put kool-aid in their poison because a spaceship was hiding behind a comet and they wanted to hang out with them.

I know, we all wish we had gone with them, or that we had the snazzy nike jumpsuits that they did, or that we had cut off our balls like they did (probably.) But I do not regret the things I’ve done, but what I did not do. HAYYYYYOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

 Aliens: Why did all of our friends kill themselves? I mean, we’re aliens, but we can’t talk to the dead! Those guys are idiots. This sucks, change it.

Marshall Applewhite: AW WHO GIVES A FUCK!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

But they all poisoned themselves like Duros. There are better ways to go, Call of Duty. There are better ways to go.

WHITES: My review of Bret Easton Homeboy’s novel, American Psycho

Subtitled White boy kills, White boys die, but does White boy ever truly live?

Answer: Yes. Because white boy is rich, and you will never be rich, white boy. And other boys. And girls, of any color.

 

Who cares if he is unhappy to the point of killing folks (and who cares if they’re unhappy to be killed? Many of them are NOT RICH AND/OR WHITE. FACT.)? He still has a looooooooooooooooooot of Monet, if you know what I’m saying. So, in the end, isn’t Mark Bibbins trying to tell us that we should all lay prostrate in front of the rich whites and be grateful when and if they decide to use us as a toilet or axe sharpener? I mean, after all, they live in Midtown. HELLO!!!!!

Whites: we accentuate the best and worst qualities of humanity on a daily basis:

Often we live our lives in the middle ground between the two, Batemans.

ALSO: Speaking of murders, this is the anniversary of Jesus Homeboy Chirstie being murdered (case still unsolved.) Somebody give Jerry Orbach his eyes back so he can save the day!!!!!! COLD CASE FILE COLD CASE FILE COLD CASE FILE

Dancing styles (and links that don’t work)

Then and now, Duros. Then and now.

Then:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cylqo8Hh_7g

Now:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=CJE2GpF9Ohc

I need to tell you all something about my past.

I have had ex-girlfriends, apparently. And, at one time, I was funky.

TODAY A LONG TIME AGO: St. Patrick’s Day Edition

Good luck, nobles! Erin go Blog!

One tequila two tequila three tequila–oh, no.

Anyways, as you all know, today was the day that creeptacular Richard Ramirez, the “Night Stalker,” joined AC/DC. Oh, no wait, it’s when his sociopathic booty started shooting chicks!!! Erin Go Serial Killer!!!

He later went on to write Bittersweet Symphony for the Verve. What a douche. Not only did he kill people, but he claimed to be down with Satan which, let me tell you, never came up in any of Satan and I’s meetings. Seriously though, this guy raped and killed people and then walked around their house listening to metal and eating from their fridge. Waste of humanity. The only way you could be worse is if you were this guy:

uck you, uther ucker. BOO!

DIALOGUE:

‘March 1st Kasheestees staff meeting:

Derrick “Escobar” Fingers: Alright, gentles, let’s begin with a reading of the last meetings minutes, then we’ll move on to new business.

Board Member number One: LIAAARRRRR! You’re secretly running this company into the ground!

DF: This isn’t a company-

BM1: LIARRRRRRRRR!!!!!! You haven’t written a new post in twenty-one weeks! J’Accuse!

DF: Oi, piss off mate? Haha I sound English when I say that-

BM1: I accuse you, Derrick Fingers!!! What the fuck, money? Have you lost your love for the blogsiverse? It’s okay if you don’t believe in the bloggod, he believes in you.

DF: I am the god of trucks. Tonka trucks!!!

BM1: You’re the devil! Fuck you! I hate YOUUUUUUUUUU!U!!!!!!U!U!U!U!U!U!U!U!Uu!U!U!U!U! (dies)

DF: Operatives, move in.

ME: I’m the man.