Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Bring It On, Polly!

This is the kind of night where IF I had an iPod and IF I knew how to program it, I'd record every damn version of "Cocaine Blues" by Johnny Cash and then just put it on shuffle mode, out of spite. I got my teabagged at work this morning in a sequence of events not too far different from the Rifleman cover, only involving a skid of paper that weighed much more than that measly little log. Work in general was, well...work. There are days where, well, no need even blogging another word on it. It rained and so I stood in my leather jacket at 127th for 30 minutes, water from my jacket dripping into my socks, no lie. The smell of the Cal Sag Channel just a few blocks south was the smell of raccoon ass rash, dead fish, decaying wood, and you could probably toss tree mold into the mix. Then I showered the smell off with the help of a giant spider, i.e., I got clean in areas I never even touch because I was hopping around making girly sounds. So I want that iPod of JC bad. And that last piece of artwork? Fuck Polly. Racked in the ball sack, soaked in soggy shit, then dancing in the shower like I was in the opening credits of FRIENDS so this gigantic brown spider from hell would leave my nipples alone, what more could Polly do?