we could do with some more poison.

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?

white lines.

god bless amurrrica! sort of.

courtesy of Economist.com

"The street price of cocaine varies hugely across the world. No surprise that it is cheapest in Colombia, the world's biggest producer of coca: at $2, a gram costs less than a Big Mac. Geography is an obvious price factor. The farther away a country from the main producers in South and Central America, and the more isolated it is, the higher the cost to traffick there. In far-flung New Zealand, a gram costs a wallet-busting $714.30. But there are some pricing anomalies. Although the street price in Japan is several times higher than in Israel, Germany and Britain, the wholesale price in the countries is similar, around $46.40. In Canada the wholesale price is 50% more than in America, but Canadians pay 40% less on the street. It could be that policing is more zealous in some countries, or that there is less competition among suppliers."

you're lovely, but you've got LOTS of problems.

just what i fucking get for trying to bond with a cube.

late 2005, driving under the influence, scaring the shit out of one of my cube friends as i pull signature curb-darts, late-brakes, and leadFOOTs...
Kasai: (slurred) yo are you into Death From Above 1979 at all?
Kasai's Cube Friend: (stammering) no dude, never heard of them. any good?
Kasai: oh shit man! they fucken rock cock! they met in prison man! (near miss on the rear end accident tip) they have this song called "Dead Womb," and the chorus goes, "we're looking for wives so tired of sluts comin to us in the clubs with their cocaine" (smiling, awaiting approval of this epic lyric).

splintering silence. don't worry, the cig run was vehicular manslaughter-free.

oh my gosh, cocaine?! that totally flies in the face of my virginal, sheltered, exurbian sensibilities. oh, well i never. what an offensive song?! my gosh! and that name!? DEATH-FROM-A-BOVE?!? my heavens!

fucking nerds. can't live with 'em, can't round them up and place 'em in internment camps.

i don't remember exactly when it was, but the first time i heard Death From Above 1979, it was kinda like the Second Great Awakening (with the first being that starstruck night in the basement, blowing my first thrill through a modified pencap, fretting over pulling a Len Bias. look it up).

yes! an awakening so thorough that it drove me to buy a bass and distortion pedal on xmas eve '05 (i didn't do xmas shopping that year for anyone). so thorough was the need to get in on this racket. i even bought the pink, rubber graphic tee off the website. fucking 30 bucks with shipping. but it was fresh to def who gives a fuck? at least it was up until i got motor oil all over it in a wal-mart parking lot during a late night oil re-up. only jerks buy expensive t-shirts.

i totally bought into what these cats were sellin. the "how they met" gimmicks (jail, gay bar, pirate ship, hot air balloon race, etc., etc.). the James Murphy, "if we had the resources we'd fly a plane into his head" band-name-lawsuit drama. the copious remixes of romantic rights (possibly the best song of the 21st century). the love-songs-on-bad-meth-vibe of their lyrics.

it seemed like every week i heard or read something about these beasts that made me sweat them ans their music even harder. and the combination of hearing the aforementioned "Dead Womb's" heartfelt chorus and seeing them on Conan (with Max Weinberg on drums at the end) really pushed things over the edge.

so of course i was tres heartbroken when they announced the surprisingly inevitable breakup. but it's ok. with their frenetic, massive sound and feel, they awakened a musical spirit in me that should've been rousted about years ago. fucking hated sports in high school. such a waste of time.

come on girls i know you know what you want!