¡Bush!Whacked!

Spring—it is almost here and it makes me itchy in my hoo-hoo dilly. Not a bad itch, or a literal one, because an itchy hoo-hoo dilly is kind of like a crabby hoo-hoo dilly...not an itchy bungaranamus which can be fun if properly tickled, but that's a story for another day...

Point being:  I don't have anything to write about.  Well, I do... but it's shit for another mood.  Public and social enlightenment, sexual epiphanies, bitchy friends, meth labs, good times... I may share some of these thoughts, but then again, I may just hoard them and tell you to take a flying fuck off of a fuckin' board fashizzle my izzle.

Naw, I was suckin' on some log and inbetwixt my piña colada (no, I don't like being caught in the rain. But making love in the ruins of your tape, yes, I can get into that) and my next tanning session I caught site of some strange, Missouri-like wilderness on the old Boob-Toob.

See, I grew up in the wild southern reaches of Iowa. Its kind a a no-man's land between the civilization to the North and the wild, untamed Hillbilly incest sexuality of the State Of Misery.

Nighttime in our neighborhood was always something magical for us. The fags would come out of the gay bars, the prostitutes would be on every corner, my half-brother Spackle would be undulating on the front porch to try to earn some pesos, and every kid on our block would congregate to tell sex stories, or to kick the shit out of some honor student until it was time to go home.

I'm not sure what made me think of all this. I think it was the change in my pocket last night that I pulled out and locked in my lock box to keep it away from that thief Kratz.

Oops. Almost forgot.
Jeff is an evil, vile, disgusting piece of crap.