If my dick played for the Boston Celtics, no one would call Paul Pierce The Truth ever again.
What time is it?
Oh yeah, it's P.Boyd bottom-of-the-mosquito-net wetter-than-a-babbling-brook time, o'clock.
aaand scene.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
(flip, flip) FLIPADELPHIA
"It was just a rabbit, and his name was Squigley, ok? Why is that so hard for you to accept? For twenty minutes you have been talking to me about this shit and i really don't think anything is gonna change. At least not for the time being. That boulder is right where it should be. Did I want Squigley to die in there? Of course not. Did it need to happen for the cave to stay intact long enough for us to escape? Maybe. We won't know the answer to that for at least another cold week. Listen, can you start building the pile though? Both my arms are numb."
Michael shoved the end of the canister into his smallest backpack pocket and tried to smoke a cigarette, but it was too windy up on the mountain. It was like that time in Philly after all the Chinese places went out of business and the photographers started rebelling against sepia for all the movie posters. But I couldn't smell the mountain grass like I'd hoped. All we had was a dead rabbit and lots and lots of rocks. And lots and lots of lots too, but hey that's just the urban developer in me talking.
I wondered how he'd been able to flic his bic, but I realized he had been using matches, and when you learn how to work those babies, well, let's juste say that numbness is nothing like hard gravel beneath bicycle tires. Maybe not nothing like, but at least marginally different. Of course they both relate to ABBA songs and should be kept far away from one's itsy-bitsy-toesy-woesies, but that's only two weak steps in the logic ladder. Jacobian patterns.
Frisky fracas-fleeing flitoris. Or maybe flitori, I can't remember.
Michael shoved the end of the canister into his smallest backpack pocket and tried to smoke a cigarette, but it was too windy up on the mountain. It was like that time in Philly after all the Chinese places went out of business and the photographers started rebelling against sepia for all the movie posters. But I couldn't smell the mountain grass like I'd hoped. All we had was a dead rabbit and lots and lots of rocks. And lots and lots of lots too, but hey that's just the urban developer in me talking.
I wondered how he'd been able to flic his bic, but I realized he had been using matches, and when you learn how to work those babies, well, let's juste say that numbness is nothing like hard gravel beneath bicycle tires. Maybe not nothing like, but at least marginally different. Of course they both relate to ABBA songs and should be kept far away from one's itsy-bitsy-toesy-woesies, but that's only two weak steps in the logic ladder. Jacobian patterns.
Frisky fracas-fleeing flitoris. Or maybe flitori, I can't remember.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Fervent Herbert Sells Earthen Sherbet!
If my business is pleasure, whatever.
But you ask me whether I’ll mix them together?
Pleasure is now, why not pleasure forever?
Business will boom when I pull the pleasure lever.
The Pope steady rockin while those draws steady droppin.
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