To the "men" of Williamsburg, Brooklyn: fucking eat something, stop wearing your 13-year old sister's jeans (yes, that means the cut-off joints too), and STOP critiquing my clothes out loud as I walk out of CYN to get drug money from Mr. A.T.M. Lest you wanna get wasted in front of a sizeable crowd, with the JUSTICE being administered by a modestly sized, yet tenacious, cracked out, deeply troubled hooligan with no fear and no hope. Know Yourself.
To the women of Williamsburg, Brooklyn: take off those ridiculously large sunglasses, stop getting those gargantuan chest-piece tats (think about your menopausal years for christ's sake!), get the stick outta your ass, and stop dating/fucking/marrying the aforementioned twinks. Actually, you know what, yeah, stop breeding altogether. Your virulent gametes are tainting an already suspect gene pool.
I fucking hate you.
As you were.
epilogue: for the unlearn-ned, the parties mentioned herein, despite their protests, both verbal and non-verbal, are about as "cool"/"hip" as a hairy, elderly gay couple sunbathing in the nude in St. Tropez.
yeah that's right. it's like that! Funeral Music type shit, yeah.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Excuse the repetition. Just had to get that out. What have you done for Him lately?
A change has come over me. I don't know how to explain it. But it's like this:
If you're a really garish looking (read: cancerous tan, fake nails/tits/hair, too much make-up, etc.), high-maintenance, preferably JAPpy chick, maybe toting some gaudy, overlarge piece of mobile technology (e.g. iPhone, SideKick) and constantly driving around drunk in a car with a retractable hardtop and a leather interior, I wanna fuck you. I wanna fuck you into next year actually. I wanna knock the dust off that pussy.
This is a strange thing, if only because I've spent so many of my post-pubescent years fucking hating your god damn guts. But now I have seen the light, the guard has been lowered, and previously-held standards have been all but vanquished.
And if you're Lindsay Lohan, even better. Flat out fucken fantastic actually. Call me Linds. My door is always open babydoll.
Consider the script Oh-fficially flipped...
it's like the feeling of a big-face 50 note hardening between your fingertips as you prepare to get the party started.
is this what they meant by mortal coil? this rolled up transmitter that's as evil as it is pure?
someone suggests that all of it's so bad for you.
but if loving you is wrong, i don't wanna be right.
no one else really cared. like so much wisdom, it's fallen on deaf ears.
the Grand Education aside,
i've found that given ample time,
things tend to accrete into these whirling planetesimals of fury and lust, glory and dust.
lots of DUST!
undeniably striking, indefatigably powerful bodies of Blindsighted Light.
he walked down 11th st. and took out 300 dollars from the automatic teller that night.
for no reason at all.
steam machines and pneumatic dreams got a hold on the lot of us.
and they won't let go...
what's the use between death and glory?
you ask these questions to get me upset, don't you? you jus fucken love to put me in a bad place... you fucken twat. but i can't stay mad at you. how can i stay mad at someone with a pachinko machine for lungs?
she told me there weren't any vampires at thisss country club.
she told a fib, and i's gonna avenge that fib.
who said cyn was so original?
even lajos egri says originality is dead.
and who am i to disagree with monsignor egri?
so.
what are you doing tonight?
creating.
he made us in his own image. so i guess that means we all won't have dates to zee prom...
yah.
24 nitrous canisters liven things up a bit.
Dr. No doesn't know the meaning of the word.
but i gotta ask, who's watching the money?
certainly not me...
must be the drunken master with the "Black Card."
tiger woods ain't got shit on Wii.
turns out electric ranges are great surfaces for cutting lines of amphetamines.
go figure.
high contrast.
nigh bombast.
weapons of all sorts, unaccounted for, lost and found, then lost again.
stallion insignia and the new London, a few mistook it for Hollywood.
this is why i put drugs up my nose.
toxic amounts of whatever you wanna call it babydoll.
but there's a thing called tolerance.
maybe you've heard of it, you fucking bigot.
lucrative contracts.
20 million dollars a year, yet still quite rife with fear.
use your inside voice please.
silent libraries make the world go round.
that and underaged, hairless vagina.
yeah.
Balthazar ain't just a river in Egypt dontchaknow...
multiple pee parties on the SoHo streets keep things interesting.
to be sure.
chill retardo, south beach Gallardo...
but last i checked, this wasn't Miami.
it was Monsignor Carlo's mojito bar.
it's friday?
jesus.
might as well go out nine nights in a row.
fuck a job.
fuck a class.
fuck a familial relationship.
fuck a credit rating.
new york city cops, they ain't too tart.
we'll leave that to the COUGARS.
the San Jose Cougars that is.
five-time FABBL champs.
mending a struggling relationship (or three) is cake.
trying to keep the bloody, tattered innards of your sinus cavity from spilling all over your slim-fit Ralph Lauren sport suit...
now that's a trial.
so let it be known, that from this day forth,
all men (and a select few lasses) shall dedicate every second of every day of every week to the Fight.
the rebellion against an entire epoch of woeful stagnation.
let generativity be your goal, and shall all your psychosocial dreams come true.
now fuck off, quit botherin' me ya twat!
can't you see i'm tryin' to find meself a straw?
and should their ill-shaven boxes fester in the high noon sun.
