Monday, December 15, 2008


I hate where I live.

It's in the far north of Las Vegas. FAR.

I'm talking U Fucking Taw.

To give you an idea of how far, I have to change into a white guy when I cross Martin Luther King blvd.

Culturally speaking, I have been hanging out at the local 99c store to look at the crazy Lithuanian checkout ladies afro hive. It is bizarre! It's a standard beehive, yet, it's somehow coarse and stiff like one of those animal bushes at Disneyland. It hasn't moved since she left Lithuania City or wherever the hell those people are from.


To top it off, I live about two blocks from, I swear 'fo God, a pig farm!

Yeah I know, ashes to ashes. Eventually I would return to my ancestors.


Now don't get me wrong. Bitch loves a pig.



In that delish sweet and sour sauce from Chinese delis in L.A..

Hell, I love Noelle Sugabaker from Designing Women and I was quite fond of Arnold the Pig from Greenacres. I don't really care for Rosie O'Donnell though.

Do I have to like her? I mean she's fat. I'm fat. She's loud. I am loud in a quiet, "I'm wearing Prada panties under my Levis" sort of way. She's gay. I have been known to take down a zipper in my time.

I just don't like her. No. Not at all.

I bet she stinks.

The pig farm STINKS!

I'm constantly checking my self to see if possibly I've had a "moment".

Oh please, everyone has had one of those farts that wasn't. Don't go all Jaqueline Bouvier on me.

Anyway, the worse thing about living here is that there is no weed! No 420! No trees to burn! No "guy"! No buddage!

I didn't really care until I was on Shoutcast and was jumping around the internets radio stations and found a category called DUBSTEP.

Ok, imagine you just got the best stickybud ever and your mom is gone to the Indian Casino for the weekend. After the first 6 or 7 bongloads and three packs of Twinkies (Bitch, if you're in Vegas you have to go Mermaids on Freemont St and get the Fried Twinkies! Trust!) everything gets real slow. You know that feeling when you're in a dream and no matter how fast you run you just can't get past Molasses?

That's Dubstep!

It's stickybud on the dancefloor! Music for Trustafarians. You wanna dance , but, fuck it. The beats are sent through the lounge of the coolest hotel you've never been to and end up in the stoner disco that you can't get into.

You can't.

And neither can I!

I live in fucking Dronehenge! North! El Rancho De La Puerco Muerte!

Where's my "guy"? My stickybud? My trees to burn? Will it ever be 4:20 again?

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