The experiences of a horror writer who enjoys the creak of floor boards by unseen feet, the rattling of window panes in a storm, and the groan of rusty hinges on a cellar door.
Some of you have asked me in private messaging at TheDailyColumn.com why I write stories for the Mighty Fucking TDC that describe the lowest, ugliest points of a young punk's experiences in the western world of Cali.
Indeed, that is an excellent consideration, and here is the answer.
The best stories are told with redemption at the end of an ugly path.
Hard times happen to everyone, and folks do some awful things along their path.
But we humans always hope for the best outcome. When you read a horrific story, you hope that things work out for the better for the protagonist, the one who is the focus of the story.
This is how we folks are made. We hope the best for each other, no matter what we each may have done.
When someone is just being an asshole all along, then they have broken the rules, and if they don't learn their lesson, then we hope that they get pounded by misfortune until they hopefully do Learn Their Lesson.
We hope the best for them. We engage in the story, and identify, even if we have never lived through the awful shit we engage in during such a tale, vicariously.
We read in order to experience true life through another's eyes.
Vicarious is voyeur.
Looking through the keyhole.
So, these stories are to engage you, TDC Reader, and reveal how low one can get, and then witness how the protagonist finally learns his lesson.
The best stories are the ones that reveal to you the worst conditions of a person, where you almost hate the hero because of their awful behavior, but you will still care for them, and hope that they persevere; that they will overcome their awful behavior, and win.
If they win, perhaps you will as well.
There is hope for us all, if one can construct the story correctly.
In Other Words,
No matter what happens to you, this guy has been through worse shit.
Caused by his own poor decisions.
Indeed, there is Hope for us all.
Press on the little box below, my Easter Egg for you, as always.
In these stories, there is redemption.
But you will simply have to follow me along these ruins of the boneyard of awful memories, and trust that your faithful guide will show you the way not only out of the dank caverns below, but back up into the top soil, upward into the sunshine.
Have you the guts to follow me?
I think that you do.
You Rocka.
Of course, no one will ever see the words above.
I will erase them and write another chapter for this weekend on the Mighty TDC.
It needed to be said, even if it will be lost in the ethernet.
Except, Google, which owns Blooger, will have saved it for their own, future use.
Evidently, many of you who are newbies to this story are asking if there is a way to read these chapters that I write for the Mighty TDC from the start to the latest.
Yes, there is. It involves creating a new blog, and one could start from the beginning, and then read the latest chapters as they appear on TDC, when they occur.
They would be posted on such a new "chapter blog," and at the very bottom of it, so that one would be able to find the latest chapter quite easily.
You could start from the beginning of each tale, and then follow along at your leisure, ya noob.
I will do this for you, if you like.
Each chapter gets published on thedailycolumn.com and, Richie would benefit as well, if anything happens that involves profit.
Look at me, thinking I could generate interest and profit from writing mere words...
You simply have to let me know what you think. Got a Gmail account?
Sometimes, for whatever reason, our excellent TDC Enjoyers simply do not want to read the true story episodes that I have written solely for the Mighty Fucking TDC.
Our people just want some good discussions from time to time, in our forums.
Just like Richie provides for us, after he gets off of one of his many jobs, sometimes posting at fucking four AM for we hungey bastards to endure our daily work.
And that is fine with me. I harbor no ill will towards anyone who doesn't like a long-ass post about shit that happened 25 years ago. I simply intend to fully take advantage of and enjoy this fantastic opportunity that our Mastaw Richie has afforded me in contributing to this fine site, The Daily Column.
Nothing else like it in the whole inter-web-net-Series-Of-Tubes thing.
Perhaps my true story episodes are too gory for you, or too revealing, or else, too damn long to have to scroll down through in order to get to the links.
For whatever reason, here is where you will find the link to the series chapters from here on in.
Simply that.
Enjoy the TDC Front Page every day.
That is what we three men are here for: to make you Think about stuff, Discover new links, and, perhaps, Confront each other in the forums with your own thoughts, links, and personality.
TDC.
Think. Discover. COnfront.
We are Richie everyday, The Throbbing Hottie on Thursdays, and little ole freaky me on the weekends.
Sean could not start the fucking Jeep. The other two of we four brothers were laughing their asses off in this new "realty," and they were quite distracting.
Apu walked over to the front, and peered out of the double glass doors of the 7-11.
He had the wireless phone in his hand, about to do some dialing. He looked concerned.
Ya think?
Now, mind you, "wireless phone" means the old style, really a landline, not a cell phone. No one had those things back then, except rich guys.
Good thing. We might have buzz-called folks.
And we were off in another Land.
Another Realty.
Sean found the right key, jammed it in, and turned it.
The Jeep rumbled awake, which was quite comforting to hear and feel...
...Until the radio came on. It blasted the music we had been jamming to when we arrived at this portal, this 7-11, just before the ZID kicked in.
Sean looked up at Apu, then he looked at me with wide eyes, with wide pupils.
Apu pulled the phone up to his dark face, and he began to press buttons. Then his hand hovered over the phone for a moment. It appeared that he was waiting to press the "call" button.
I shut the radio off and looked back at the other two, in the rear seats of the open-air Jeep.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU ASHOLES!"
They did. I reached over and grabbed Sean by the Fuckno, Californication Bullard High School Football Jersey with both hands and I looked him right in the eye.
This here moment would be replayed again, in other situations, and under the influence of other chemicals, but it would always connect us.
Every time. I became the "Navigator" of this new land, this new realty.
"Sean. You can do this. Look at me. LOOK at me."
His face stopped looking all panicky for a moment.
"It's me. No matter what you think is going on, I believe in you. This is all just bullshit. We can see though it, underneath it. Don't you agree?"
Sean straightened the hell up. He remembered who he was.
He was a huge young man who broke faces. He always crossed the line, and came back without serious injury, without penalty, but with victory, of a sort.
And, unintentionally, I was the cause of his further de-evolution.
You will witness this de-evloution of Sean in future chapters, do not doubt.
De-evolution has a shorter nickname.
It is DEVO. It was the 80's. Don't look at me that way.
SO,
Sean got his shit together, which was quite amazing to see.
He put that bitch in reverse, looked over his shoulder, and glared at those two assholes behind us.
"Keep Your Fucking Dick Sucking Holes Clamped Shut You Mother Fuckers."
Sean got us the hell out of there.
Yee fucking Haw.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Join me tomorrow for an explanation of how we crashed into a drainage ditch full of water. It will be quite elucidating, I promise you.
I am offorded the luxury of contributing to the Mighty TDC on the weekends. Thank you Richie, for your belief and trust.
Badass.
You may have noticed that the true stories series I have been writing for TDC always involve Cars, Car Crashes, and Punk Rock music.
It's simply this:
I have always been infatuated with the ideology of the Freedom of the U.S.A.
We have a love of the automobile. There is no where else in the whole world where you can take a spin, go where ever you like, for as long as you like, in any direction at all.
Also, I have been in many car crashes, but always somehow survive.
Car crashes: sometimes, cars were not actually involved.
But there always seemed to be a crash of some sort.
That is why these true tales seem to always involve cars, as well as crashes.
That is why the music I choose to illustrate my tales involve them.
Thank you, Richie. You've unleashed this beast. God Help You, Sir.
God Help Us All.
Hey there, you TDC enjoyer.
Press play, do what you have to do in order to get your head into the improper frame of mind, and follow me into the depths of insanity.
I'll lead you back up and out afterwards.
That's my job.
It seems to have always been...
SONG
This is for an 80's shit and giggles.
DO NOT USE. ALthough I like it. Benjamin Orr was a better singer than Ric Ocasek.
Here's another 80's song, one to use in later chapters, when I had to get the fuck out of Fuckno,CA, and my brothers, and one girl, wanted me to stay. I almost married that chick. She didn't want me to leave, but she told me to go ahead, do what I had to.
And, I had to.
I can never go back to Fuckno, ever again.
You will see why.
On another note,
Thank goodness that I married the one I have. Even if she hates this sort of 80's music, and calls it the "Gayties."
LOL!
God love her.
Here's the sort of song I will probably use. It's pretty cool. I quite like JET. Always have.
Sean could not start the fucking Jeep. The other two of we four brothers were laughing their asses off in this new "realty," and they were quite distracting.
Apu walked over to the front, and peered out of the double glass doors of the 7-11.
He had the wireless phone in his hand, about to do some dialing. He looked concerned.
Ya think?
Now, mind you, "wireless phone" means the old style, really a landline, not a cell phone. No one had those things back then, except rich guys.
Good thing. We might have buzz-called folks.
And we were off in another Land.
Another Realty.
Sean found the right key, jammed it in, and turned it.
The Jeep rumbled awake, which was quite comforting to hear and feel...
...Until the radio came on. It blasted the music we had been jamming to when we arrived at this portal, this 7-11, just before the ZID kicked in.
Sean looked up at Apu, then he looked at me with wide eyes, with wide pupils.
Apu pulled the phone up to his dark face, and he began to press buttons. Then his hand hovered over the phone for a moment. It appeared that he was waiting to press the "call" button.
I shut the radio off and looked back at the other two, in the rear seats of the open-air Jeep.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU ASHOLES!"
They did. I reached over and grabbed Sean by the Fuckno, Californication Bullard High School Football Jersey with both hands and I looked him right in the eye.
This here moment would be replayed again, in other situations, and under the influence of other chemicals, but it would always connect us.
Every time. I became the "Navigator" of this new land, this new realty.
"Sean. You can do this. Look at me. LOOK at me."
His face stopped looking all panicky for a moment.
"It's me. No matter what you think is going on, I believe in you. This is all just bullshit. We can see though it, underneath it. Don't you agree?"
Sean straightened the hell up. He remembered who he was.
He was a huge young man who broke faces. He always crossed the line, and came back without serious injury, without penalty, but with victory, of a sort.
And, unintentionally, I was the cause of his further de-evolution.
You will witness this de-evloution of Sean in future chapters, do not doubt.
De-evolution has a shorter nickname.
It is DEVO. It was the 80's. Don't look at me that way.
SO,
Sean got his shit together, which was quite amazing to see.
He put that bitch in reverse, looked over his shoulder, and glared at those two assholes behind us.
"Keep Your Fucking Dick Sucking Holes Clamped Shut You Mother Fuckers."
Sean got us the hell out of there.
Yee fucking Haw.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Join me tomorrow for an explanation of how we crashed into a drainage ditch full of water. It will be quite elucidating, I promise you.
The Mighty TDC is my mental vacation, and I advocate such a thing for you.
This is a new chapter for TDC's ZID Series in the works, for you.
I quite like the creativity and beat of Trent Reznor, his NIN, and this tune.
I'll borrow it for this next chapter of ZID, which is not nearly polished.
But I have an idea.
Anyways, check out NIN.
I could feel myself slipping away. Do Not Click on the small music box after the words "4WD Jeep" below this NIN music box.
You have been warned.
NIN is legit.
The blond Andrew Sister will fuck with your mind.
Here's NIN. Press play, babe.
Us six young bastards simply needed to sample the new "Material" before we agreed to deal with it. And we did it in Tellesco's latest 4WD Jeep.
Do you know what this means?
We didn't quite understand the full implication, realty, nor mental impact of this new Thing, which is why we chose to take a drive, before this new thing kicked in, twenty minutes before our interesting drive in Tellseco's Jeep.
ZID takes forty minutes to kick in.
DAMN.
It got quite interesting, indeed, and please allow me to elucidate you on this thing that you must never, ever
do.
And, yes, I fucking punked you.
That Andrews Sisters "6 assholes in a Jeep" song was probably cool, way back when, but I can't get my head into that shit.
Sorry. Please go up and stop it.
Trent and his NIN will rock you best.
I promise to treat you well, if you will follow along, here on in.
The intent was to show to you, Dear TDC Member, exactly that you do not ever know what ZID has in store for you.
Simply That.
This is going to get quite strange, but you knew this.
Here is the real way to start off your day, in this story, in this this latest chapter.
(You shoulda seen your face, bud. You looked all "WTF?"
LMFAO
I apologize to you. It won't happen again.
But you shoulda seen your f---)
Ahem.
OK, already.
Old School.
Press play, TDC Enjoyer.
Yes, there were actually four of us punk bastards who got our ZID game on in the vehicle that Sean used to go "figging" around in.
It was the lastest incranation of the rich kid Tellesco's Jeep.
Fat Jerry was eating somewhere, and Brian was off visiting his Grammy, God Love Those Bastards.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
SO,
Fig trees are very slow growing, therefore; their trunks are like iron. I've told you about this before, a few years ago.
It was all quite weird.
But after all had been said and done, I held one true promise to myself.
This weekend, I decided to combine the Sunday post with the Saturday one.
Why? Well for two reasons, which are these.
1. The story line gets confusing when you scroll down from Richie's Monday post to see what in thee hell that your willies has brewed up, and you land on Sunday. You might not even go check out Saturday, which is supposed to be read before Sunday's post.
But that's simply semantically irrelevant. It's my job to provide you with enjoyment.
2. I'd like to use Sunday for goofing-off madness and curious links, and robots. That's just a grab-bag of mindless fun shit.
Next Sunday will be fun.
Next Saturday will have a continuation of the Zid series.
Here are the links that I found for today, this Sunday, which won't be used on TDC. But in case you needed to see them, here they are.
This is my kind of road trip. U.S.26 traffic stop yields guns, knives, pot, machete, rum, clown mask. And one dude who wasn't wearing a seat belt. Now That's irresponsible.
"CIA experiment" sends French village mad. My kinda town.
Wonder how Google likes it? Brits retaliate with their own pics of the Google street view car. Of course Google doesn't mind. "Never Do Evil," is their motto, and I hold them to it.
Netherland site, half translated. Maybe NSFW, depending on currency, which, in this case, has nothing to do with money.
Film found in a camera bought from a pawn shop. Developed: shows a grave with fresh flowers, but no one has been buried there for years. Two mens names on the grave... the mystery unfolds... True story...
Food myths and true shit, like exploding a jawbreaker in the microwave. In glorious video.
SO those are the links I never used on the Mighty TDC, thedailycolumn.com
There are many certain things that you must never, ever, do.
If you decide to do them anyways,
...well,
either you are stupid, or crazy, or a bit of both.
There are only a couple of safe ways in which you may go about doing these bad things.
If you don't? Probably because you are quite stupid or crazy or both.
God Help You.
In that case,
there are certain things
for which
You
Simply
Must
Be
Prepared.
In this here true tale, I will show you how to stand on broken glass.
+++++++++++++++++++++
I woke up, upside down.
CHHHHK.
There is only one other sound in the world that sounds like a breaking bone.
No, not the splintery "CRRRSSHHNNAAACHSSS" of a frayed, bent ulnar.
The sound of a clean snap sounds exactly like the chop of fresh Cocai--- ...ummm, pearls from a small brick of really pure shit.
Razor blade to the mirror.
Chhhhk. Chhhk. Chhk. Chk. Chk. Chk.... Etc.
Finally, fluffy.
Swipe it into lines.
Grab a straw or a dollar bill, tightly twisted in to a straw, and inhale. You must press against the other nostril to close your nose from errant and wasteful inhalation.
If you were expert, the lower end of your straw would be cut at an angle to maximize inhalation flowage.
There is geometry involved, and there will be a test after.
But, you suck.
You suck deeply, and never, ever sneeze on the mirror.
Faux Pas. And wasted Coke.
Repeat as needed.
Dollar bills are nasty. People do some ass-wipingly bad things with them. Always get a fresh straw, and do not share.
This was what was going on in Little Joey's bedroom, where he had his decks, his vinyl, and his massive speakers.
Joey still spins, but not during this here night.
He was out here, on the kitchen table, and I was on the couch, legs up against the wall, when I regained consciousness and composure, realizing that all of these hot skanks had come through the front door, past me and Joey.
Who the fuck let them in? And, what the hell? They must have walked by quietly so as not to disturb us, nor rummage through our pockets?
Kindly skanks, from good ole Fuckno, CA. They knew what they wanted. They knew what they didn't want.
Those other fuckers had invited these Fuckno Skanks to the After Punk Fight Partay, and the door was unlocked when they arrived.
I only awoke when the loud booming from Little Joey's room woke me the hell up.
FAIL.
But,
Chhhk Chhhk Chhhk.
It was a sound that was quite alluring.
I went down the hall to see what was going on, and found them nasty skanks and my brothers, all of them chopping, snorting, gurgling on the bong, taking shots of white lightning, and fucking up Joey's vinyl on his decks.
But these fuckers were also dusting each bong hit with some powder.
This was known as "Caesar's Salad," or, "Cocoa Puffs."
It was a lurvely sight.
Indeed.
What would you have done?
Of course, you would have gone and participated, I mean, saved Joey's vinyl from becoming totally ruined, dude.
When I opened the door, this is what I saw.
These Fuckno Skanks were all situated in various places around Little Joey's room. A couple of them, dressed to fit a sexy witch Halloween Party were all over Sean.
One young skank, with torn, red fishnets and purple spray-painted combat boots (and a very short black mini, which rode up to show commando skillz), tugged at Tellesco, who was looking a bit dejected and rejected. Tellesco had his coked-out-moony eyes only on Sean.
Bryan held court with a lurvely lass, which means; he was sucking face on this tramp whose nice legs were shanked by yellow leg warmers all curdled around her ankles, and Bryan, that dog...
...well, you knew that he wanted other things around her ankles, like, her panties.
Fat Jery was fucking up Little Joey's records because of a tiny young thing who was a Madonna-Wannabe and she simply wanted to stick her sweet pink tongue into his mouth.
Fat Jerry. Huh. Must have been the copious amounts of coke. That tiny skank would have done anything he may have cared to dream up, simply because he was a bit of a legend. He had girth and weight on more places than his waist, you see.
Two other skanks had control of the mirror. It was toward these fine young damsels I waded, through Joey's mess of clothing.
Joey used the floor like you would use a hamper / drawer / walk-in-closet.
I used to go in his room and scour for change for another forty-oz from the corner store.
Each pay day, I'd artistically pummel several dollars worth of various coins back into his room to settle my bill.
Dude never even knew. But once he asked me how some quarters had become lodged in the wall opposite the door.
Go figure, Joey.
I waded through his silk smoking jackets, leather pants, dress shoes, boots, and muscle shirts to get to these skanks who held the almighty mirror.
It ended up with broken glass.
But first,
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
BEFORE THERE WERE SKANKS
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
FEVER.
We had done Triage. Or, at least, me and Fat Jerry. Simulcast to the events of this choppy night...
Joey had caught a fever, from tetanus, which can at least damage your heart valves, and at the most, kill you slowly, and in pain. The obvious answer would have been to get a precursory tetanus shot. Precursory means that you intend to get into trouble, and since you will be asking medical professionals for a tetanus shot, they will ask you why.
You must already have a wound if you require a tetanus shot, and they would like to treat this wound. If you don't show such a thing to them, or even have anything resembling such a thing,(before you go off to a Machismo Meet) they will raise their eyebrows.
"Raising Of The Eyebrows" will involve the "authorities," which here means "Popo."
If you ask for this sort of hypodermic medicine after you have been to a fight and have been sliced with a less-than-sterile razor-sharp blade, then the Popo will ask you when, where, why, how, and who.
So, you simply have to decide beforehand between possible jail, or possible grave.
Who makes this kind of insane decision before going into a gang fight?
I'm surprised that you would have to ask that question my friend, and quite frankly, I'm a bit disappointed in you now.
I kid.
Of course you know who would make this decision before the fight, don't you, TDC Member?
These sort of folks:
Six heavily-snorted-up-young-bastards, (one was a nose guard and one was an offensive giant, and four others were devious punks of varying sizes and skills) had made this decision for themselves as they lay plastic down on the kitchen table and placed all the triage supplies and liquids and powder stashes nearby.
They were, for no reason at all, confident that they would persevere and become victorious in a possible fracas, (which is French for Some Messed Up Shit).
But this Band of Punks had become victorious.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Little Lion Man Joey kept waking up in pain, for which we had some remedies. It's often been said that the best way to kill a bodily invader (germs) is through Chemo Therapy. We had on hand cocai-- I mean, some sort of magical powder, plus copious amounts of moonshine. One may be taken nasally, the other; orally. I'll leave it up to you to decide where either goes. Yes, there were chemicals aplenty, for everyone, and anyone else who might come in through the front door.
It must suck to have to lay in a single position and not move, as your body fights an eight-hour whole-body infection that, if you survive, narrows down to a single body area for a few days or week thereafter.
At least Little Joey was on the couch cushions on the kitchen table instead of directly on the hard surface of the table.
It must suck when you evacuate your bowels and your bladder, and no one can move you for a few hours after you do this because doing so would cause searing pain all over your body and your head to feel like it is about to exploooooode.
But it truly sucks to have to throw away a perfectly good kitchen table because no one wants to eat on it anymore, plastic sheeting or not, neither as well the couch cushions. Bodily fluids seem to get everywhere, no matter how well you place the poly.
That should be the name of a punk song, "Placing Polly On The Table With Duct Tape."
Joey kept pleading to be taken to the Hosstibal whenever we came out and checked on him. He was delirious.
He had known the rules of the agreement, because it was he who'd made them up beforehand.
His groans and crying were really getting to us when we came out to check on him. By which I mean, "Harshing Our High."
So we got him fucking high. Smoke, Powder, White Lightening... why, we loved him like only a scar-faced, torturous, powder-snorting, giggling Ginger drunken-step-father could.
Sean shook coke in Little Joey's little nose between the screams of agony and Fat Jerry drizzled alcohol into Joey's gullet to wash down the drain, after he would cough from the powder.
Tellesco giggled nervously, the giant sycophant who sniveled by Sean's shoulder. You knew who wore the pants in that relationship.
I was the one who blew smoke in his face. Cocoa Puffs, which are delicious with milk.
In a bowl.
On Saturday morning, in time for the cartoons.
Again, I am not and have never professed to be a medical professional.
Eventually Little Joey passed out.
From what, we could not concur. But it seemed pretty obvious.
At least he would shut the hell up for a couple of hours.
When we came back out from his bedroom, the newly christened "Skank Room," we followed the prescription again for his health.
And again.
And again.
Don't look at me that way. He survived.
Turn this one down. It gets loud after a bit. Don't want to hurt your ears.
After the party wore down, (which means we had done the last of the coke), the birds started chirping, dogs stared barking, and the world outside began to awaken. These sounds are the worst things to hear when you have been up all night, partying.
They are even worse, when you have survived a gang fight, but are wondering if one of your own might not.
Daylight sucks, in either case. I guess we had finally grew a collective conscience.
While Joey slept and fought off a serious bodily infection that could have killed him and put us in the awkward position of burying him in the orchards that following night, we bastards discussed this new consideration I'd come up with earlier.
Or later. It's all perspective.
You see, "Early" means that you are waking up. "Later" means that you are still up.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
NEW CONSIDERATION
This New Consideration involved an interesting concept, which is this:
Drugs travel in Circles. If you want Smoke, you know from whom to get it. Someone you know. Stupid to buy it from a stranger. Everyone had it, some had the good stuff.
If you want Powder, well, those higher up on the ladder don't seem to be able to deal it for all that long, and you will constantly be meeting "new friends."
Zid? Well, that's a whole 'nother realty, so to speak.
But the idea of Circles is that folks who deal in an addiction supply are only tight with those who also enjoy the same addictive material.
The higher up you go, the more in danger you are, and this risk escalates exponentially when you combine other addiction supplies into your cache, your stash.
The point here is this: If we decided to give powder a break, sad as that was at the time, we might avoid some angry Messicans for a bit, until they became incarcerated, which was inevitable.
Hell, we'd made it this far without incarceration, why risk it more?
Maybe there was something else we could partake of, and it would introduce us to a safer crowd?
This actually sounded like a good idea to us, all whacked up on smoke, powder, and white lightening.
Some of the best ideas come this way.
Or Not.
Joey had rented this apartment which he liked to call the "Pussy Palace." This apartment was now being used for post-triage healing, but it was a hell of a bachelor pad, if you were a poor Punk Rocker in the old days.
Once-orange-now-brown matted-shag carpeting with bare pathways worn in lined the whole place, which consisted of the living room, the tiny kitchen, and the hallway down to the two bedrooms off from each other, and the bathroom at the rear, where we first learned how to rock up powder.
Join us next time, same channel. This story is about to get crazy.
+++++++++++++++++++++++=
LINKS
Speaking of crazy, let's see what has been happening in the outside world, shall we?
willies' style.
After taking her eye off the toddler for two minutes, Kyra turned to discover Cohen had become one of the prizes to be won among the sweets and soft teddy bears.
Move over, Las Vegas. After two years of national doldrums, crazy cities are on the rise again. Sadly, Hartford, Conn., came out only #53. Bangor, ME. didn't even place.
Talk about crazy: thieves have been stealing 200-pound highway drainage grates that cost the Georgia DOT 300-dollars apiece to replace. For money for drugs. These are in the friggin road. How does hitting a five-foot-deep hole at 75 mph sound to you?
Charles Woodson was seen by neighbors wearing the skin of a guinea pig on his head.
Caught in the act at his local Walmart on Wednesday night, Conone admitted that for months he'd been punching children on the backs of their heads with his keys in his fist.
When 89-year-old Nancy Underwood of Chideock in Dorset, England needs to cross the street, she is forced to take a 14-mile bus ride to accomplish the task. (This is not from an Onion article.)
Obama accepted his peace prize just days after announcing he was ramping up U.S. involvement in the war in Afghanistan.
This might help with the craziness: a telepathic computer can read your mind.
Smile, you're at a strip club, Some pics are NSFW. These are by a creepy old man. Thought you'd like it, even if it is one of those annoying slideshows where you have to manually click, no auto-run. This interrupts stroking.
This one, from the same site, has the auto-run, so no interruption. But these are innocent pics taken by a serial killer of his soon-to-be victims. No stroking here.
There are many certain things that you must never, ever, do.
If you decide to do them anyways,
...well, either you are stupid, or crazy, or a bit of both.
There are only a couple of safe ways in which you may go about doing them.
If you don't? Probably because you are stupid or crazy or both.
God Help You.
In that case,
there are certain things
for which
You
Simply
Must
Be
Prepared.
In this here true tale, I will show you how to stand on broken glass.
+++++++++++++++++++++
FEVER.
Joey caught a fever. Joey had tetanus, which can at least damage your heart valves, and at the most, kill you slowly, and in pain. The obvious answer would have been to get a precursory tetanus shot. Precursory means that you intend to get into trouble, and since you will be asking medical professionals for a tetanus shot, they will ask you why.
You must already have a wound if you require a tetanus shot, and they would like to treat this wound. If you don't show it to them, or even have one, (before you go off to a Machismo Meet) they will raise their eyebrows.
Raising of eyebrows often involves the "authorities," which means "Popo."
If you ask for this sort of hypodermic medicine after you have been to a fight and have been sliced with a less-than-sterile razor-sharp blade, then the Popo will ask you when, where, why, how, and who.
So, you have to decide between possible jail, or possible grave.
Who makes this kind of insane decision before going into a gang fight?
I'm surprised that you would have to ask that question my friend, and quite frankly, I'm a bit disappointed in you now.
I kid.
Of course you know who would make this decision before the fight, don't you, TDC Member?
These sort of folks:
Six heavily-snorted-up-young-bastards, (one was a nose guard and one was an offensive giant, and four others were devious punks of varying sizes and skills) had made this decision for themselves as they lay plastic down on the kitchen table and placed all the triage supplies and liquids and powder stashes nearby.
They were, for no reason at all, confident that they would persevere and become victorious in a possible fracas, (which is French for Some Messed Up Shit).
But this Band of Punks had become victorious.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Little Lion Man Joey was waking up in pain, for which we had some remedies. It's often been said that the best way to kill a bodily invader (germs) is through Chemo Therapy. We had on hand cocai-- I mean, some sort of magical powder, plus copious amounts of moonshine. One may be taken nasally, the other; orally. I'll leave it up to you to decide where either goes. Yes, there were chemicals aplenty, for everyone, and anyone else.
It must suck to have to lay in a single position and not move, as your body fights an eight-hour whole-body infection that, if you survive, narrows down to a single body area for a few days or week thereafter.
At least Little Joey was on the couch cushions on the kitchen table instead of directly on the hard surface of the table.
It must suck when you evacuate your bowels and your bladder, and no one can move you for a few hours after you do this because doing so would cause searing pain all over your body and your head to feel like it is about to exploooooode.
But it truly sucks to have to throw away a perfectly good kitchen table because no one wants to eat on it anymore, plastic sheeting or not, neither as well the couch cushions. Bodily fluids seem to get everywhere, no matter how well you place the poly.
That should be the name of a punk song, "Placing Polly On The Table With Duct Tape."
Joey kept pleading to be taken to the Hosstibal. He was delirious. He had known the rules of the agreement, because it was he who'd made them up beforehand.
His groans and crying were really getting to us. By which I mean, "Harshing Our High."
So we got him high. Smoke, Powder, White Lightening... why, we loved him like only a scar-faced, torturous, powder-snorting, giggling Ginger drunken-step-father could.
Sean shook coke in Little Joey's little nose between the screams of agony and Fat Jerry drizzled alcohol into Joey's gullet to wash down the drain, after he would cough from the powder.
Tellesco giggled nervously, the giant sycophant who sniveled by Sean's shoulder. You knew who wore the pants in that relationship.
I was finally able to get up from my up-side-down position on the couch and come partake of the medicines, I mean; evaluate Joey's condition.
Again, I am not and have never professed to be a medical professional.
Eventually Little Joey passed out.
From what, we could not concur. But it seemed pretty obvious.
At least he had shut the hell up for a couple of hours.
When he woke up, we followed the prescription again.
And again.
Turn this one down. It gets loud after a bit. Don't want to hurt your ears.
The birds started chirping, dogs stared barking, and the world outside began to awaken. These sounds are the worst things to hear when you have been up all night, partying.
They are even worse, when you have survived a gang fight, but are wondering if one of your own might not.
Daylight sucks, in either case.
While Joey slept and fought off a serious bodily infection that could have killed him and put us in the awkward position of burying him in the orchards, we discussed this new consideration I'd come up with.
This New Consideration involved an interesting concept, which is this:
Drugs travel in Circles. If you want Smoke, you know from whom to get it. Someone you know. Stupid to buy it from a stranger. Everyone had it, some had the good stuff.
If you want Powder, well, those higher up on the ladder don't seem to be able to deal it for all that long, and you will constantly be meeting "new friends."
Zid? Well, that's a whole 'nother realty, so to speak.
But the idea of Circles is that folks who deal in an addiction supply are only tight with those who also enjoy the same addictive material.
The higher up you go, the more in danger you are, and this risk escalates exponentially when you combine other addiction supplies into your cache, your stash.
The point here is this: If we decided to give powder a break, sad as that was at the time, we might avoid some angry Messicans for a bit, until they became incarcerated, which was inevitable.
Hell, we'd made it this far without incarceration, why risk it more?
Maybe there was something else we could partake of, and it would introduce us to a safer crowd?
This actually sounded like a good idea to us, all whacked up on smoke, powder, and white lightening.
Some of the best ideas come this way.
Or Not.
Joey had rented this apartment which he liked to call the "Pussy Palace." This apartment was now being used for post-triage healing, but it was a hell of a bachelor pad, if you were a poor Punk Rocker in the old days.
Once-orange-now-brown matted-shag carpeting with bare pathways worn in lined the whole place, which consisted of the living room, the tiny kitchen, and the hallway down to the two bedrooms off from each other, and the bathroom at the rear, where we first learned how to rock up powder.
More tomorrow. It gets crazy.
+++++++++++++++++++++++=
LINKS
Speaking of crazy, let's see what has been happening in the outside world, shall we?
willies' style.
After taking her eye off the toddler for two minutes, Kyra turned to discover Cohen had become one of the prizes to be won among the sweets and soft teddy bears.
Move over, Las Vegas. After two years of national doldrums, crazy cities are on the rise again. Sadly, Hartford, Conn., came out only #53. Bangor, ME. didn't even place.
Talk about crazy: thieves have been stealing 200-pound highway drainage grates that cost the Georgia DOT 300-dollars apiece to replace. For money for drugs. These are in the friggin road. How does hitting a five-foot-deep hole at 75 mph sound to you?
Charles Woodson was seen by neighbors wearing the skin of a guinea pig on his head.
Caught in the act at his local Walmart on Wednesday night, Conone admitted that for months he'd been punching children on the backs of their heads with his keys in his fist.
When 89-year-old Nancy Underwood of Chideock in Dorset, England needs to cross the street, she is forced to take a 14-mile bus ride to accomplish the task. (This is not from an Onion article.)
Obama accepted his peace prize just days after announcing he was ramping up U.S. involvement in the war in Afghanistan.
This might help with the craziness: a telepathic computer can read your mind.
Smile, you're at a strip club, Some pics are NSFW. These are by a creepy old man. Thought you'd like it, even if it is one of those annoying slideshows where you have to manually click, no auto-run. This interrupts stroking.
This one, from the same site, has the auto-run, so no interruption. But these are innocent pics taken by a serial killer of his soon-to-be victims. No stroking here.
Working on the TDC WEAW Punk Fight Story Aftermath.
Thought I'd post a teaser for ya.
At the time, a certain manner in which to further refine the potency of Cocai--- I mean, a frivolously expensive powder, had come into play on the bleak streets of the high-desert megalopolis of Fuckno, Californication.
And with this new trade, came a strikingly fast and amazingly huge amount of economic power. Some folks had begun to choose sides, wearing bandannas of either red or blue. These folks did not come to a knife fight with a gun. No. They showed, curb side, at your home, while you were relaxing after work with a nice, dry martini, or else while you slept.
They would then proceed to remodel your siding for free, with lead. But "for free" sometimes does not mean, "at no cost to you."
It was after the Aftermath that Muy Largo and his small clan, healing in traction and casts, etc., found themselves looked upon with disdain from these new echelons of power. The only person who rose above the aftermath was the "Flora Du Mal." She saw Muy for what he was; a huge Messican with an even larger ego, but nothing to back it up.
She distanced herself from him.
Also, she never forgave Little Joey for his betrayal of her, either. In fact, she---
But I digress. I promised to tell you about the Aftermath of the Punk Fight Story today, and so I shall.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Now why don't you sit down with your favorite beverage, steaming or frosty, and/or something else you might ignite, while I put this last chapter to bed for you.
Here is a song for you to get into the proper state of mind for this ongoing True Story Series.
Now listen.
I should have been driving the Hearse. Joey's arm was bleeding, and he was in shock. The Hearse was a huge and heavy vehicle, built for hauling weight, and we had that in the back with Bryan and Fat Jerry, but it was not built for speed and maneuverability. It was built to transport Dead People.
And there were some people whom we had made quite angry. These bastards showed up for the little tea party, the "Machismo," in order to witness the glory of Muy.
And perhaps to purchase some of his wares. They were disappointed, ya think?
Sean and Tellesco zoomed past us on the right, with that Green Bitch Ford LTD with the 429 racing engine. Sean flipped us off. Fucker. He was enjoying this. Why?
Here's why, in case you have forgotten. Recall from earlier stories how I described Sean's propensity for exploring the very edge of safety versus insanity. He walked the edge. If you recall, his experiment in Crack became his downfall. He'd finally met his match.
But not tonight. Consider this: You might feel safe in the company of a young, huge man who held so much confidence in his fighting ability, and you would be correct. If he was on your side, that is.
But the other consideration is that with such physical prowess, this young man went and looked for situations to prove his ability. Not feeling quite so safe? I thought not.
He was always looking for trouble, and he always found it.
Tired from working the Bingo. But This TDC Thing is so much enjoyment.
Here's what I got so far.
The intention is to play some music that is a direct juxtaposition of the violence that ensues.
Not a hard rap song, but something soothing, to offset the bone breaking.
Like, irony. I chose a nice tune from Michael Buble, who my wife has the hots for.
I was going to go with Frankie, but this seems more at odds.
I have to decide which song is less appropriate for this end of the Punk Fight Story.
You decide.
This is for Muy Largo. Luv ya babe. It was nice to meet ya kid.
I had the last dance with Muy Largo. I took him home. With my fists. But after he was shot. No excuses. I was scared, and acting on impulse, you see. Simply that.
Muy Largo punched at me over Joey's shoulder, and he still had the knife in his hand, blade down. The razor sharp blade cut Joey's leather, on his shoulder, and the tip of the blade cut some meat, next to bone, on the shoulder. Joey would heal within a couple weeks.
Muy smacked me in my jaw with his left fist, and my jaw was made of glass that night it seems, because I fell. Joey told me later that his instinct was to jab an elbow at Muy's arm as it swung past, which made the blade fly through the air on Muy's retraction of his arm back. Joey busted Muy's elbow.
I have no recollection of this, but the fact that I am telling you this, and that Joey is still alive, is proof enough that Joey probably have saved us from being sliced in the faces.
At this same moment, three amazing things occurred simultaneously. Sean and Tellesco, who were chomping at the bit, had already gone off-sides, and were grabbing those Messican weasels closest to the front line with their huge arms, and smashing into the others near their quarter back, Muy.
The third thing was that Bryan shot his little .22 into the air, and then pumped the second bullet into Muy's right shoulder. It was simply luck that this tiny bullet did not end up in Joey. This was all very close range.
You could smell the Jerry Curl or whatever the fuck it was that these Messicans used in their hair nets.
In this close combat, you could smell adrenaline and fear, sweat, personal body grooming products, and refried beans.
This moment was a dense and tightly packed as a year, but lasted for only a split second.
And then the mayhem and screams began.
Here's a tune for you to enjoy while I describe the bones breaking.
Press play and get your free-time-intoxication going on.
OK?
GO.
There were six of them, there were six of us.
Muy Largo was their boss. He faced down Little Joey, my best friend, who had stolen a small block of coke from Muy Largo's bitch.
Their three, gleaming, pretty Chevy low-riders shined their headlights against our two, but one of ours was Fat Jerry's Mother Fucking Black Hearse. God Rest His Soul. The other was our Green Ford LTD Beast. Fuck Yeah.
There was a crowd outside of this circle. A large crowd. These were folks in the street; come to see what was going on.
Muy had his crew.
Their hard Messican eyes, all of them, stared into mine, like a freaky painting where the eyes follow you. They flitted their eyes all about each of us, looking for the false start. They wore grey flannel shirts over white T-shirts, buttoned at the neck, and then they took these flannels off and draped them over one arm. Their tattoos crawled up their veiny, muscly arms. They wore grey dress pants, and highly polished black dress shoes with thick soles. Their shoes looked like sleek, black knives.
I was about to shit my pants. Wouldn't you?
They seemed to move as if choreographed, but not in a dance-step sort of way. This was not Guys and Dolls. This was Fuck You. You Are Fucked.
They had done this many times. We hadn't.
We didn't have a boss. We were Punk Rockers. But we did not play instruments, except for the bottle, the straw, and the brass knuckle. Anarchists. No one was in charge.
Yet, we were fucking tight. We were not in disarray. Remember this. We had on our Doc Martens, (Fat Joey had chrome over his steel toes and shins on his boots, can I get an "Amen") and most of us had all sorts of metal spikes in our leathers.
Tellesco and Sean, at the rear, were Simply, Fucking, Huge. Get this: They showed up in red tank tops, loose black mesh shorts, and Gawd-damned Birkenstock sandles. Why you may ask?
Because they would kick them sandles off. They would get mean and all bone-breaking-wildly-thrashing sort of a thing.
Those Messicans had their shiny hair all slicked back. Half of them had a hair net on, but that was their thing back then. They had plans after, with their ladies, at the club. This was simply a Bravado meet.
They ended up being wrong, sadly.
They were bare-fisted, no guns, no knives, except for Muy. He held his knife with the blade down, thumb up, across his chest, arms folded.
Now, Little Joey had fucked Muy's bitch often. He had fucked her quite well, in various positions. She seemed to have enjoyed it. Muy didn't know about that fact. But Joey had also fucked her. And she did not like that sort of fucking quite so much. Muy knew about that single thing. It was the reason for this Macho conference.
Muy stepped up to Little Joey, who was wearing his leather with the big circle A on the back. This was back in 1987, a thousand years ago, and yesterday.
Joey did not back down. He stuck his chin out, and stared back, up.
Muy hissed, "Where is my Cash Money?"
The movies are wrong. Nobody wants their shit back. They want money. They don't need to get back their shit to try to sell it. Who knows what shit you cut it with, how diluted it has become?
These Messicans started to show bravado, shifting their legs, flexing their arms. You could tell that they had something stuffed in their belt, on the backside. I was on Joey's right side, just behind him. Bryan was on his left. We stood like pillars of Rock.
Punk Rock, muthafucka.
Joey said, "I got your cash money. I showed up to this fake-ass Bravado Macho gang shit with my men to tell you that you will get it. But do you think I would bring a knife to a gun fight?"
Little Joey eyed Muy's big Knife.
"Like I would do that? Think I'm El Stupido? You'll get your money. This is all we have to say to each other." Little Joey wiped his hands to show that he was done now.
This was pretty damned cool, because Little Joey was also about to shit his pants. But he could always talk shit quite well. Count on him for that. I was getting my adrenaline in check, chewing my gum rapidly, and my arms hurt from the fear, from the flex, from the intensity. I did not throw up.
The Messicans slowed down their shifting, and relaxed their tightly-stung arms.
Of course, we didn't have his cash money, being Punks and all, we'd done it all up, in one way or another. But we'd figure it out later. This was simply the first kiss of Muy, the first Meet, you see. There could be more meets until we got it all paid back.
It was done. We had survived. Except for one thing.
Now here is a song to play while I tell you what happened next.
Sean had the audacity to mention this, "Joey been enjoying that fine Messican pussy you got doing all your work for you."
Muy's eyes grew big. "What the fuck you sayin' puta?"
It was going so well?....?...?
Sean reiterated. "Joey been having some of that fine stuff."
Now, keep in mind, Sean had never lost a fight, and he did not think he would ever lose a fight, and he wasn't about start to find out this sort of thing.
WooHoo.
Muy looked at Sean, then he looked at Joey.
"This True?"
Joey, God Bless him, he stood there stoically, facing this big, angry Messican.
I stiffened up, because those Messicans were all packing heat, and we were not.
They had them heats in their back belts. I mad-dogged Muy, because I didn't know what else to do. What would you have done?
I stiffened, and then the big angry Messican turned slightly and looked at me.
I did not back down, which surprised me, when Muy asked me a simple question.
"Why you Mad-Doggin' me? This between him and me, Gatoita."
I did not know what that meant, but as I felt a massive fear from this spotlight on me, a pimply-assed half-white, half-native teen lost in the desert of Fuckno, Californication, from a huge Messican about to kill Little Joey, I felt a bit of urine seep out.
Honest to God.
I wanted to go home, game over, all done, can I get a nice hug and a warm cup of milk and go to bed?
And then I heard myself say these words, which I should have never said to anyone, at all, ever.
"Fuck You, Bitch."
This did not end well.
It kinda sucked.
You will see.
See ya tomorrow.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Links for ya.
These are pictures of goats that live on the sides of cliffs. It will give you the willies.
Or we can go deep. Like into the deepest park of the ocean, the Mariana Trench. There you will find aliens, true that. Closer than the next life-bearing planet, ya see.
Living life on the edge may be one thing, but one doesn't have to live stupidly. Like, accidentally showing off with a gun at your niece's wedding and killing the groom.
Here's an artist who uses gunpowder in a better way. Nice website name as well, ya think?
Here's a helpful guide for douchebags with their hat sticker still showing. No, I didn't mean you, pal.
In our house, Tim Burton rules. His next film next Thursday is a perfect adventure for him to guide us through. Here's a behind the scenes look. The British purist/adorers of the original stories may hate it, but the greedy bastards of the Cinema Owners in Britland and Italy may stop their public from seeing it. WTF?
Now who doesn't like a good candy bar? KitKats are very good. But I didn't know that they sell 19 different flavors of them. But only in other countries? Hah? Why not here?
On another note, I've never enjoyed putting Q-Tips in my ears, unlike some who actually groan in pleasure as they dig. What am I missing? Maybe I haven't dug deep enough and itched my brain? Anyway, FDA tells us that putting a burning candle into your ear is also not advisable. OK, thank you FDA. It's nice to know this.
Despite facing a possible death sentence, Alabama shooter Amy Bishop is still concerned about her professional life and her position at the university. "Do you know if I have a job? I assume they fired me. Did they fire me?" Naw, everything's cool, dumbass. She's not crazy, just insane.
Do you know anyone who is a bit odd, and could go off like this? Tell us about it in the TDC Forums.
Just like using killer robots in our U.S. Army. That's insane. Robots are not nearly capable yet. CSM has some interesting points to consider.
Or speaking in a dumbass way. Wesley Snipes is not immune from that. Pay your taxes like the rest of us, bitch.
Here's something that I have been working on for the Almighty TDC.
It's not pretty, but it's a True Story.
Here is how it starts, but I will have to refine it.
It must be said that I have the luxury of composing a day or two each week of this sort of blog thing for folks at TDC, and I am truly appreciative of this excellent opportunity.
RIchie does this every day, has done it every day, for the last six years, and I stll don't know how in thee hell he does it.
Hoot does his thing on Thursday, as well.
But,
when you have the opportunity to contribute at TDC, well,
You simply do your best.
Or try to.
Here's my latest attempt, which is very rough.
Talk about sitting on a Mountain of White. Just in time for the Heart of the Winter Games, huh? Well, here's the Heart of another story.
There was this other Mountain of White which you, ya TDC Enjoyer, might recollect from last weekend, which I was sitting on with my Punk Brothers, and it got us all in a shit load of trouble...
...with Men Who Were Quite Angry And Also Frightening. And, we'd been "Sipping On Some Sunshine," for free. Their Sunshine. What would you do?
I was scared, man.
No.
I was Mother Fucking Scared. Scared like about to shit and piss in my pants. Let me tell you about the Punk Fight in Vivid HD Detail.
Let's pause here for a moment while you get your weekend game on however you go about it, you TDC Enjoyer. Sip some Java, chug some Dew, smoke a butt, crack an ice cold brewskie, cough on a big-ass-bong hit, have at it.
Not a single one here at the Mighty TDC will ever point their finger at you.
Here's a song while you get yourself all situated. God Bless the Crash Kings. Buy this music, don't steal, brutha. Rock this here bitch from these crazy fuckers.
Now this True Story is not about so much blood and guts, 'cause that ain't my style. Of course, there was that, and plenty, and I'll describe all that to you, because it's what I do, and it will won't pretty.
But what's most important here is what goes on in your head and your body before such a situation occurs, and when it occurs, and, if you survive, what you do after it occurs.
This True Story ends today, if you will only read on. There will be juice boxes and snacks afterward.
It has always been said; "It's not all about what happens to you. It's what you do about it that counts."
All set?
Now hold on tight. It will get nasty, but I'll get you back home and help you into your Snuggie, bandage and wipe the blood off...
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
When I was young, I'd never been involved with gangs before in Fuckno, California, except to look straight ahead as they passed in their low riders, playing "Planet Rock" with booming bass while I nervously pedaled along on my ten-speed bicycle, and they yelled out, "Poota," at me as they crept by.
Here is Planet Rock original. Afrika Bambaataa, you Messican. True but ugly sounding. Ugggh. This is what played non stop in their low riders over and over again, all day long. This hurts my ears.
It might have sounded more like this to them.
Now, this was before I drove a car. After that, I ran into them more frequently, but not in any car accident sort of way.
Or over them, although that would have been funny.
Or not.
But when we began to ski the flaky mountains of Peru, me and my buds still never knew about them or their "codes."
We were as pale as your pimply ass when you were at teen like us, and green as your face the first time you got overly drunk.
There is an idea I got from a looooong time ago, where a blog visitor can choose which experience they will have based upon which path they choose in the opening web page.
Let's see if I can pull this off for the Sunday Sideshow, which is a friggin blast to do, even if no one ever sees it.
I got an idea about doing the "Weekend At Willies Sunday Side Show for TDC" in a new manner.
I'll have to create a new website, just for the Sunday Thing, in order for this idea to work.
You see, the color scheme of the front page of the Mighty TDC simply does not give the reader the "willies."
Here's a test.
This gunna be fun.
It’s Sunday at the Mighty TDC. This means a Sunday Sideshow for you. God Help You.
This Sunday Side Show Shed contains many things for you to explore, or else get nightmares from, or just maybe, enjoy. Sometimes fear and pain bring arousal and pleasure. Depends upon which end of the knife you are on, true? Care to descend into the madness of the caverns below the Shed? Let’s go.
I decided to write about my experience in quitting smoking. I only smoked at night, not during the day. So, quite possibly, I could have averted the cravings by going to sleep right after work. But actually, the withdrawals began to affect each waking moment.
To wit:
Welcome to the Weekend At Willies Edition of The Daily Column.
Here’s a check-off list for you.
1. Comfy seat 2. Internet is connected (whosever it is) 3. Computer is all warmed up and idling 4. Snuggie 5. Coffee/ frosty cold beverage/ other intoxicant 6. Cigarettes. Aww.... Wicked bummah chummy. Well anyways, get your shit together and we’ll go for a walk.
Ready? Turn this mutha up and let’s go.
Ahhh. Lemmy. Gobless ya. One thing about ol’ Lemmy is that he still parties on like he was 18. He still looks about the same, as well. Gnarly, hairy face with the three big Lemmy warts, his breakfast of whiskey and ciggies, and non-stop draankin till the next morning. But I ain’t no Lemmy.
One thing about cigarettes, they sure are hard to give up. I miss ‘em, even though they smell like ass and taste like shit. Nothing like that first puff…mmmmHm…. Head rush.
Well, first thing you know, everyone starts to act like a dumbass, I mean, more than usual. They drive like a dumbass, they ask dumbass questions, and they even look at you with their big moon faces, just pissing you off. Dumbasses.
So that is where I was until a friend in the forum recommended the Patch. Thanks JMiller. You probably saved a dozen dumbasses from imminent doom. Suddenly, everyone stopped trying to piss me off each moment, the sun came out, birds were landing on my shoulders like fucking Disney, and I didn’t smoke.
Saved money on ammo, too.
Got some links for ya. Ca you tell which ones I found before I put the patch on?
This is the worst video and song I’ve ever seen and heard.
This guy needs to stop showing the hell off and making the rest of us who are trying to get healthy feel bad. He climbs rock walls. He climbs them sidways, upsidedown, and with dance moves.
Just don't fall. Like, 200 feet down the wall. And survive? Dumbass. Fix your damn clothes dryer, bitch.
Don't get fooled by this guy who slipped off the ladder, now hanging from the gutter. One of ten of the worst Xmas decorations, now that you've taken yours down. You've taken them down, haven't you? Dumbass.
Got some extra cash? Why not stack it and use a laser to etch art out of it? Yeah, go fu-
Ten top cities in the world with the most beautiful women. Like this is real, right? Dumbass who wrote this.
Just be careful when you visit strange lands. In Dubai, you can get arrested for being raped. You should be married to the rapist first. Dumbasses over there.
