Thursday, February 21

special guest blogger: frizzant skint...deuce!

so i'm not really sure why this lunatic from the future insists i keep talking into this weird, flattened, eggy disc thingie, but for some reason he thinks it is important that i do. i guess this is the version of a blog in his time. full of all sorts of personal revelations, deep insight, brilliant prose, immaculate grammer (hey... it got my joke, not fucking bad at all), and not-in-any-way-no-sir-no-ma'am-not-at-all-even-the-slightest-hinty-inkle-donkle-dink-iling of self-indulgence, narcissism, or vanity.

nope. not an iota.

although, if he gave me this disc thingie, it means that i invented it. so i must have, or will at some point, write it down. but how could i be using it if i haven't created it yet. this is the problem with physics and math and whatever time travel bullshit paradoxicology... there's only one solution.


and the solution for booze, is spajjy, who is quickly becoming my first friend, though he is drinking me dry, bastard. so we came up with a solution. the other day the janitor decided to go for a walk, so me and spajjy went down to some local bar and, while i engaged the bartender in brilliant chatter, spajjy slooshed his way to the bottles by the mirror, inserted himself into one like some octopus finding a new home in a beer bottle, then jumped from bottle to bottle, dancing fountain style, sucking up all sort of liquor.

then i went to a booth, and ol' spajjy squeezed out cocktails for me under the table. yea, maybe i looked a little weird constantly looking down there and talking to, apparently, the coasters keeping the damn thing level, but you know what? fuck you. that's what.

janitor was still out when we got back, so i had spajjy get under the neighbors door and reconnoiter us some more gin. this time, though, it was terrible: some nonsense artisan shit from brooklyn.

note for stories: in my future, there will be no brooklyn.

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