You Don't See, What I See,
everyday as Warren D, I take a look over my shoulda' as I get olda', gettin' tired of muthafuckas sayin'...D I told ya
well, I didn't axe.
so stop frontin'.
I'm starting to think that the new friends who've been leaving me comments don't really like my blog. In fact, when I tried to pursue a relationship they turned real snotty. I told them how much I enjoyed their blog on personal finances and how much it had impacted my life, like, immediately. I asked them to meet me for lunch to discuss my retirement, and, to like, talk about how we could be better friends and can I come to their house for a bbq? Do you have a pool? Above ground or sunken? Do you have Surround Sound? Do you have an island stove in your kitchen? Do you have your own bowling shoes? I do. Mine have sparkles. Are you spiritual? Do you believe in reincarnation? If you came back as a fly, whose wall would you hang out on? If you came back as a horse, who would you want to ride you?
Here's a funny thing:
If you are in a cover band, (like specific like '50's pop hits cover band, not some lame half and half modern crap rock band trying to build an "audience," then they slip in their cookie-cutter originals when no ones listening in between covers of Stabbing Westward and Filter and) do you really need your own shirts? I mean, wouldn't ya just buy some Beatles, Who, Stones, etc., shirts to sell at your show? If you were wearing one of these shirts around, and someone asked you, "Hey Jack, who's 'Dickhead and the Nards?' What do they sound like?", would you reply with, "Well, they sound like some old-timers doing their best imitation of The Beatles songs--embarrassing themselves as well as disgracing a heroic bands legacy with their overbearing idiocy--Oh, and they dress up like tools to give it an 'authentic' feel--Oh, and they think they are cool because they are massive tools?" Indeed. Check and Mate.
With Spouse.
Invent child.
Name him Wilbur.
After the rat at Gigglebees.
Where the child was conceived.
In the ball pit.
Smelly, smelly ball pit.
Take your shoes off before you go in the smelly ball pit.
I have to poo.
Hmm...
Where else better then this cozy ball pit?
I mean,
I already peed. It's warm.
well, I didn't axe.
so stop frontin'.
I'm starting to think that the new friends who've been leaving me comments don't really like my blog. In fact, when I tried to pursue a relationship they turned real snotty. I told them how much I enjoyed their blog on personal finances and how much it had impacted my life, like, immediately. I asked them to meet me for lunch to discuss my retirement, and, to like, talk about how we could be better friends and can I come to their house for a bbq? Do you have a pool? Above ground or sunken? Do you have Surround Sound? Do you have an island stove in your kitchen? Do you have your own bowling shoes? I do. Mine have sparkles. Are you spiritual? Do you believe in reincarnation? If you came back as a fly, whose wall would you hang out on? If you came back as a horse, who would you want to ride you?
Here's a funny thing:
If you are in a cover band, (like specific like '50's pop hits cover band, not some lame half and half modern crap rock band trying to build an "audience," then they slip in their cookie-cutter originals when no ones listening in between covers of Stabbing Westward and Filter and) do you really need your own shirts? I mean, wouldn't ya just buy some Beatles, Who, Stones, etc., shirts to sell at your show? If you were wearing one of these shirts around, and someone asked you, "Hey Jack, who's 'Dickhead and the Nards?' What do they sound like?", would you reply with, "Well, they sound like some old-timers doing their best imitation of The Beatles songs--embarrassing themselves as well as disgracing a heroic bands legacy with their overbearing idiocy--Oh, and they dress up like tools to give it an 'authentic' feel--Oh, and they think they are cool because they are massive tools?" Indeed. Check and Mate.
With Spouse.
Invent child.
Name him Wilbur.
After the rat at Gigglebees.
Where the child was conceived.
In the ball pit.
Smelly, smelly ball pit.
Take your shoes off before you go in the smelly ball pit.
I have to poo.
Hmm...
Where else better then this cozy ball pit?
I mean,
I already peed. It's warm.
posted by sleepeater at 12:40 AM
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