Wednesday, March 12, 2008


I've been due for a sizable update for too damn long.

First, let me just clear the air on something. There's been some discussion for quite some time and I'm going to set the record straight right here, right now. It is not appropriate to put up plastic molds of animals in your front yard in either an urban or rural environment. In fact, it is never appropriate to decorate your lawn (front or back) with anything other than live plants or thriving grass. I have to now play the unfortunate roll of "lawn police" in my neighborhood. If it ain't the cat down the road that has chosen to decorate his lawn with a Lumina mini-van (white trash), it's the vet across the street that puts, amongst the silk flowers, a herd of deer. Check it:
I want to confront him, but I don't really no how to. I just know that one must really suffer from some sort of mental illness to put these out in the lawn. Does someone look out into their lawn and say, "Ah, there's Wilber and the gang. Such pretty deer!" I should tell him that it's already hard enough to sell a house with some Nascar fan parking their party van in their lawn and, now, homeboy here putting fake animals in his yard. This is also the cat that picks up leaves as they fall from the tree. Like, f'real, he sweeps leaves into a little dust pan every morning. You'd think that for a dude that takes such meticulous care of his lawn that it would make sense to not put fake animals up. I'm thinking of just starting a battle and putting one of these bad boys in the lawn.

Take that, homegrown. Time to lose the deer and start dating. But I can tell you from experience, you can't have both. Wow, a little confession there. Dude, is it just me or is that bull hung like crazy? That must be a special model.

My lovely wife started skiing this last weekend as I turned 31 years old. Big ass gas face though to the chumps at the local ski rental place (initials for "compact disc") that screwed up her bindings and caused her to miss a morning of lessons. Word up, CD Sports. Thanks for giving my lovely wife hell too when she brought 'em back. You'sa bunch of chumps. My lovely wife managed to make some pretty good runs on the mountain before quitting while she was ahead. I'll be back to Taos with the homies on our Wolf Creek trek in a, dayum, just a week now.

Saw Kris of On My Mind fame in the office today. Dude should start dreading that goatee. Homie, we're rooting for you, f'reals. Glad you didn't do the zombie walk in Dallas. Some redneck would've beat you down for sure. And I heard some lady in Kansas sat on a toilet for two years and her skin grew around the seat and it was attached to her. Her boyfriend just kept bringing her food and water, saying, "She just wouldn't come out." Dude, two years. You gotta get out of that state. Come to Tejas where everything's normal.

Got the new album from this cat Grip Grand from Oakland. It's hot as hell. The title of the record is Brokeland. Angry Tim apparently knows him, but I'm not as familiar. Either way, it's worth a listen for sure. Also, that Erykah record is still banging. New Del just dropped. Still working my way through it. As long as I've been waiting, you'd think I'd just be bumping it every hour of every day, but I'm still waiting for the perfect time to just sit down and listen to it. It can't be a passive listen. Otherwise, I'm enjoying the hell outta 1990 on Da Pocket Prophet. That thing is carrying it's weight right now. I mean, just push play and let it flow. 1990 was a killer year.

Yankees are killin' it right now. Billy Crystal's coming off the bench on one of their minor league teams while Joe G. is busy beefing with the Devil Rays. Apparently, the benches emptied today after a "hard slide." Someone might want to tell the Yankees that everyone hates them. Of course, I'm starting to enjoy the "hated" attachment as a sturdy supporter of the Red Sox. It fits well.

Jackson's working to pass his tests and approval to do official therapy work. A few things we need to work on is not licking his ass and also not running from a pair of crutches. I think I'm fit with keeping Tucker as a trick dog. It's like Jackson's the 10-speed and Tux is the BMX. Jackson is a Caprice Classic and Tucker's a Ferrari. We're trying to teach Tucker to jump through a hula hoop. He'd rather destroy pairs of New Balances and my lovely wife's prized childhood possessions. Check out this creepy picture. Dude, my dogs are cold-blooded killahs.

He did take particular interest in the Westminister Dog Show. I told him that competition is reserved for dogs who can resist their own feces. He hinted that he was fine with never participating so long as he could still eat his own fecals. You know the make a tablet that you can crush into a dog's food so that it'll make their fecal matter taste bad so they won't eat it. Something tells me that if your dog is eating their own shit, ain't nothing gonna make it taste so bad they'll stop. They're already eating their own shit.

He can still dream, I suppose. Go buy that Erykah record and jam it like crazy. Next time I won't disappear for so long. I'm sorry. I've been really bad to you. All I can offer is a geniune apology and a hug.

1 comment:

K-Fleet said...

It was good seeing you, homie, and finally meeting the infamous Angry Tim. We'll see this week how the interviews went, then I might have to decide if Texas cube life is where it's at. If not, no love lost to my homies and The Root.