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------------------------------------ There was a large painting of Evel Knievel shaking hands with Richard Nixon. It hung in the Mayors office. Late one evening after everyone went home. I took it down to the lab. I zoomed in on Evel’s left eye a 100x and enhanced it. It was an address. I went to the address. It was a modest, 1970’s style, split level ranch home in the suburbs.
----------------------------------- Inside I found a dead parrot lying on a waterbed. I revived the parrot with some saltines and adrenaline. We became good friends. The parrots name was Randy. One night a few years later while Randy and me played Gin Rummy, he sang me a song about a fire. The title of this blog was never mentioned but I sensed it, and Randy confirmed it by giving me ‘THE LOOK’.
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My personal tribute to Larry Hagman. Rest in peace my dear angel/devil!
I dressed up as JR Ewing for Halloween when I was 8 yrs old. I wore a suit, a cowboy hat, threatened everyone that I would destroy them, and drank a lot of scotch… not much has changed.
JR changed my life, showing me evil could be fun. How did he change yours?
Hey, its my 3 year tumblr anniversary! Here’s an old classic. A honest to goodness Choose Your Own Adventure I wrote for Tumblr. Thanks for all the follows, likes, reblorgs, love, and sassparila. Its been fun. - Jade
You are the cocaine fueled lead singer of the now defunct band “Shy Glove”. It has been 6 years since your last hit single, “Mustache Fuss” and it has been a sharp jagged fall from the top. Your latest solo record “Mumbletop Mountain” opened on Billboards top 200 at #114, only to fall off the face of the earth and to never be heard from again. Your big tour was immediately cancelled and the only gigs you can get now are opening for Creed at state & county fairs across the mid-west.
You owe money to many powerful and evil people all over the world; Drug dealers, bookies, ex-spouses, club managers, gangsters, & even a dictator of some eastern block country, whose kids birthday party you failed to show up at. It is becoming obvious, that your only hope of even staying alive at this point is by getting the band back together for a new album and a reunion tour. The only problem with this plan is your old lead guitarist, Frank, has gone missing.
Linda, Franks wife, says that Frank started acting erratically in the past few months. He grew a mustache and started disappearing for days and then weeks at a time. Linda says she hasn’t seen Frank in weeks but he appears at the house from time to time. She needs your help. She also says that Frank has a coke dealer in El Segundo who is looking for him. She is worried that it might already be to late and that Frank could be gone forever.
Do you in Santa Monica to see Linda
or
Do you go over to
:
Salesman of the year - Jesse Hassler
Please give a follow to my new blog. It will feature wonderful people.
(Source: )
Did you know that Hookers or Cake began life as a pornographic blog? Perhaps that helps explain the name. I would post softcore, amatuer porn and write terrible poetry inspired by the pictures. Here is an example (for scientific use only! NSFW)
I’ve since learned that all forms of pornography are wrong. Interestingly its only men who have pointed this out to me. They love and care about women so much that they feel it thier duty to eradicate pornography from the face of the earth. I am with them. I love women too and I do not want them hurt by this dirty filth we know as pornography.
Tis a shame because I really liked looking at boobies. Actually its the face and the boobs in unison. Really it was the whole naked ladieness of giggling, jiggling radiance that I enjoyed. But its wrong, so no more.
The problem is that since I’ve given up porn I’ve noticed myself looking at even modestly clothed ladies, lustily. Yesterday I saw a newspaper ad with a woman wearing a brassiere and almost bit a hole in my favorite cardigan. National Geographic is off limits, so are museums. Those Spanish speaking TV channels are full of porn. Bouncing, laughing, full blown, temptresses - saying God only knows, to leering little fat men. Women’s tennis is out of the question with all the grunting and lunging. The WNBA is fine. Bjork? Nope, can’t listen to it for two seconds. There is a fruit stand on 4th street that I’ve learned to avoid. Full ripe melons glistening in the sun…
I’ve also become suspicious of nature. The way the sun warms me and makes me feel. The gentle fragrant breeze caressing my face. Have you ever pondered just what exactly a tree is doing to the sky? I’ve stopped going to the bathroom too as I found the process fundamental dirty, wrong, and suspiciously stimulating.
I’ve had to give up drawing. First it was curved lines, but now even using only straight lines, the way some of them would intersect… why it would make even Prince Rodgers Nelson blush. Piet Mondrain is a whore-monger!
I don’t know what shall become of me, but I love and respect women too much to view any aspect of them as sexually exciting or pleasurable. My sole interest in them is now purely analytic. We are friends and co-workers and business associate’s, except for the ones that dress like whores. Like my boss, Nicole who insists on wearing short sleeves. She shall be cast in a lake of fire for all eternity. She’d probably like that though. She’d probably find that one great big turn on.
Perhaps I was hallucinating but I coulda swore I heard Pat Sajak say he wished he had a bigger dog… something about no longer being blamed for all the massive bowel movements littering the back yard.
“Here we go!” The new Bud-light commercials are absolutely hilarious.
