Take a bow

Another weekend slips into the past, becoming a set of foggy and twisted images filed away in my weird ass brain. And now, Monday.

I can not believe this:

Who the fuck buys an Everybody Loves Raymond DVD collection? Who even watches that show? How does it exist, in the world? Perhaps it serves as a sort of blank backdrop to contrast with all the other shitty shows on TV. Maybe without Raymond and Everybody who Loves him, people would recognize that, in fact, Drew Carey is a hog-faced piece of unfunny turd. I don’t actually have a TV, so I guess it’s all academic anyway, but jesus christ. They should just start playing reruns of the old great shows I grew up with, like Hangin with Mr. Cooper, or Renegade. Why is there no Renegade DVD collection? Lorenzo Lamas was awesome.

So my new neighbors have an organ, which is sick. I’m torn between my throbbing desire to rock out to bands with weird instruments like organs, digeridoos, and Mayan pipeflutes, and my deep-seated need to not hear the god damn wedding song 46 times a day. I mean, playing the intro to In a godda da vida is one thing, but why play the fucking wedding song over and over again? Homie sits down and belts out the Iron Butterfly riff like 6 times, just enough to get it wedged in my consciousness good and tight, then starts playing the bridal shit over and over again. It’s like the musical juxtaposition from hell.

Could be they’re just trying to pay us back for playing berimbaus and drums till all hours… I hadn’t thought of that before… If that’s the case, bow down, fellas, cuz you don’t wanna step to the all night drum beating portuguese singing gourd rattling fury of this house. We bring that A game, fool.

Can I give a shout out to my folks at 3573 Johnson? My boys pour their hearts into prepping their sick house for a rager and the god damn thing fizzles out like a match in a toilet. Who’s to blame? You. Bunch of god damn ingrates. Can we talk about

“A Boones For Every Girl.”

pure genius

and the thing still barely gets off the ground. It’s like some kind of dark, twisted, National Lampoon’s sequel to Field of Dreams, except instead of having all the kickass baseball dudes show up, three husky chicks from Cuesta and 45 random sausages named Mike from the ski club roll through. If you build it, they will all lame out like bitches.

Ah, what do I care, I had hella fun. Say what you want about meeting new people, but at my kind of party I walk in and already know 90% of the fools there (TENAYA!). Secretly, I spend most of the night hoping some fuckwad will start shit with me so me and my army of folks can run up on his ass and devastate, like that toothy mutant from The Goonies. Oh, didn’t think the skinny guy with the purple shirt was friends with everybody, did ya bitch? BOOMshakalaka.

Such aggression… you see what higher education does to me?

Speaking of which, I suppose it’s time to drag my ass back to campus.

12 units of school, 8 units of capoeira, and 20 units of Warcraft is putting a serious crimp in my free time, but I’ll see if I can crank out something meaningful and character-filled in the near future.




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