So I'm totally kicking ass at this blog, huh? Writing it weekly, sometimes even bi-weekly (LIKE A WEEK THAT DIGS BOTH GIRL WEEKS AND GUY WEEKS), always supplying my avid (rabid?) fan base with top of the line information and insight about art, culture, and the art of culture. Yeah, I do aaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllll that. Get the schtick I'm going for? It's funny, because it's not true. I don't do these things. I keep forgetting about this fucking blog. I don't really forget about, it's just I keep finding myself at a loss for what to talk about that isn't just me wanking off in cyber space about what Michael Shannon movie you should be watching. The answer is any, but the more helpful answer is Take Shelter (2011) because oh my god it is so good it makes me just want to take my dick out, right here in this cyber space, and just start jerkin' it. Get it all over the keyboard. I don't give a fuck. It's my blog.
This here is a picture of Snoop Dogg on The Price is Right.
I think it is awesome. "Nah my nizzle Drew Cizzle, this gangsta ain't interested in this bogus-ass Showcase. Me and my homies ain't swimmin' in no above ground pool do ya hizzle? I'ma bid on a dune buggy mothafucker! Now get me my pimp glass while I smoke a blunt and have my bitches roll this big-ass bling wheel, ya jizzle with me?"
See? This is some good blog STUFF, amiright?
Boba Fett with titties. You're welcome.
I've been on a wine kick the last few days. I find it the most romantic way to get drunk (which is ironic, considering how much I drink it by myself. BUT WHO SAID ROMANCE IS DEAD? WHO'S TO SAY I CAN'T TURN ON SOME LUTHER VANDROSS, LIGHT A FEW CANDLES, SUCKLE ON A BOTTLE OF WINE AND MAKE MYSELF FEEL JUUUUUUUUUST RIGHT), and I find myself happier and lighter than when I'm whiskey-bombed. But the best part is I can still get as trashed as I would on whiskey, but not be as out of control. Oh, I kind of forgot to mention that this is in relation to my writing. I'm obviously one of those writers (i.e. alcoholic), but I just prefer to do my work with a glass or bottle right there beside me. Psh, that's probably the reason I decided to start writing in the first place, because it's the most socially acceptable job to hold and still be constantly sauced (except for, of course, Airline Pilot and Birthday Party Clown. God, I miss clowning).
But getting back on the subject (haha, like there's one of those), red wine has been a great companion for my writing endeavors. I feel more amarous to the page as I write, the red wine helping me to relax and not overthink things. Don't get me wrong, whiskey DEFINITELY helps me to not overthink (or think at all for that matter. PEOPLE LIKE IT WHEN YOU CLOSE TALK THEIR FACES RIGHT??? RIGHT?!?!), but I can only drink so much whiskey before I'm just a wreck. Structure is lost, sentences aren'tfinished, meaning is blurred, and I start using far too much slang from the fifties (I gotta try to cool it Big Daddy, I get all cranked because my bag really razzes my berries, but I'm not made in the shade just yet, I still got some gringles in my jingles).
So to summarize, whiskey good. Red wine, also good.
This is just...this just is. I love this kid. I want to invite him over and make nachos. I also want that really uncomfortable girl to come, and sit with her back just angled to us the whole time while she makes that nervous face.
Finally, and on a serious note, there is one more thing I need to bring to the attention of the Blogosphere (Blogosphere is also the name of a new Space-Themed Cereal I'm creating and marketing. "Blast Off With a Mouthful of Blogospheres, the Only Cereal That Tastes As Good Going In As It Does Coming Out!" Or I'm maybe thinking, "Blogospheres! FUCKING EAT 'EM!"). I bring this to your attention so that you fully realize the dangers I am putting myself, and my body in. It's bad. It's real bad. Ohhhhh, but it's good.
Justin Bostian and Nicholas Mallorie Kaminsky.
OOOHHHH SHIT. For those of you who know me (and for that, I am truly, deeply remorseful), you know I have a slight tattoo obsession. But not in a groovy, fully committed way that involves beautiful artistic pieces that consume generous portions of skin. I get tons of little, ridiuclous cartoonish tattoos in discreet (i.e. invisible unless nacked) places all over what I guess I call a body. I have countless tattoos (unless, that is, you learned how to count) around my legs, back, torso, shoulders, and I always want more. And more, and more, and more. And now I have a fucking tattoo gun? Jeeeeeeeeesus, my poor skin is fucked. I've already designated my right thigh as my "practice thigh." Once I get good enough (which is a relative, moot, non-term) I will venture out to other parts of my body, and Justin's body (that is what he said), and hopefully, if any of you are confident enough, ON YOU!
Free tattoos motherfuckers! Get 'em while they're hot! And by hot, I mean still relatively clean, because we are not buying new needles once we use up the ones they give us. Ha! A joke about unsanitary tattoo procedure performed by non-professionals. I think I broke new grounds of humor here tonight folks. I want to thank you as much as you want to thank me. This was a step towards something beautiful. Now who's ready to take the new convertible out for a spin? Maybe get some chimichangas and make fun of homeless people? Of course, boo, you can operate the fryalator...what else are boos for?