Nobody won last night's Mega-Millions lottery drawing. Tuesday's jackpot will be worth $125 million!!

SC just called you fat, bro. You gonna' take that?

From him? Yes. Middleweights have no chance against heavyweights.

Super-heavyweight.

I was gonna say "welterweight" but it didn't sound as funny.

COMING SOON

Fluent Form? That guy sucks. And I hear there are video tapes circulating of him pissing on a 61 year old. I mean, it's not illegal, but that's just fucking disgusting.

He smells like reproductive fluids too.

Apparently when I make jokes in real life, I stick my tongue out like a raging douchebag, so:

Actually, whatever is on your myspace right now is sounding sick as shit. You don't make your own samples do you?

Thanks man, Not on that particular track. Actually, the track that's on the page at the moment, is probably the weakest in terms of production quality. But, it is an ode to the mid nineties, when compositions weren't so complex, layered and chopped.

Hey man, I've never been in a band that didn't have a punk-rock approach to recording and music in general, so it sounds fucking crystal clear to me.

HAHA

You got it wrong dude, the guy was 81 and he begged me to defecate around his head region. The poor guy has leprosy. I had to oblige him.

Yeah, what I meant was that the beat is very simple compared to the rest of the album.

Chapters Of Substance should be out in a bout 3 weeks if my label does it job properly. They're an Indie label, But they can have the tendencies to treat their artists like a Major.

Hey, LLC, I'm actually doing a track with this Thrash Metal Band called [BadWord]... haha.

The song is called "Blunt Force Intercourse"

Seriously though, what the fuck is up with that smiley? You have to be a real creeper to stick your tongue out after you pull a shitty one-liner.

I use it sometimes, because some of the fucking people here will just assume you're being stone-serious unless you shit little cartoon faces all over your post, but it looks ridiculous. No one actually makes that face in real life, except for pedophiles and flamboyantly gay 24 year olds.

I like to lick the microphone after the opening acts finish their sets.

Ha! Right up my alley. Although, I'm sure Iceman would prefer the Eagles, or some other generic piece-of-shit band.

EDIT: How sophisticated is this site's censor that it knows to censor K.UNTBLAST?

How the hell did you know what I typed??

I try my best!

By the way when I first got on MySpace a couple years ago I bumped into a band called SLUNT and thought the name was so great they were one of my first adds.


Which one?

When I quoted it, it showed up.


The one you just used.

FUCK, it's contagious.

So my wife worked 18.5 hours today....bunch of incident reports she had to write. She wasn't done when she left but she had been there so long...

People falling and gashing their arms open to where you could see bone, people coming back from the hospital during dinner, and a bunch of other things.

So I saw her for like an hour before she went to bed. I hadn't seen her in the last 24. I worked, she worked, etc.

The kids only broke up on Friday and already they are moping around the house complaining of being bored!

6 weeks and a day of this to go?

What are you planning to do after 6 weeks - swap the kids with your neighbor's?

"This running thing is out of control," he said. "Every rich liberal in the Western world is into it. They run ten miles a day. It's a goddamn religion."

"Do you run?" I asked.

He laughed. "Hell yes, I run. But never with empty hands. We're criminals. Doc. We're not like these people and I think we're too old to learn."

"But we are professionals," I said. "And we're here to cover the race."

"Fuck the race," he said. "We'll cover it from Wilbur's front yard—get drunk and gamble heavily on the football games."

John Wilbur, a pulling guard on the Washington Redskins team that went to the Super Bowl in 1973, was another old friend from the white-knuckle days of yesteryear, who had finally settled down enough to pass for a respectable businessman in Honolulu. His house on Kahala Drive in the high-rent section was situated right on the course for this race, about two miles from the finish line. It would be a perfect headquarters for our coverage, Skinner explained. We would catch the start downtown, then rush out to Wilbur's to watch the games and abuse the runners as they came by the house, then rush back downtown in time to cover the finish.

"Good planning," I said. "This looks like my kind of story."

"Not really," he said. "You've never seen anything as dull as one of these silly marathons but it's a good excuse to get crazy."

"That's what I mean," I said. "I'm entered in this goddamn race." He shook his head. "Forget it," he said. "Wilbur tried to pull a Rosie Ruiz a few years ago, when he was still in top shape—he jumped into the race about a half mile ahead of everybody at the twenty-four-mile mark, and took off like a bastard for the finish line, running at what he figured was his normal 880 speed ." He laughed. "It was horrible," he continued. "Nineteen people passed him in two miles. He went blind from vomiting and had to crawl the last hundred yards." He laughed again. "These people are fast, man. They ran right over him."

"Well," I said, "so much for that. I didn't want to enter this goddamn thing anyway. It was Wilbur's idea."
"That figures," he said. "You want to be careful out here. Even your best friends will lie to you. They can't help themselves."

We found Ralph slumped at the bar in the Ho-Ho Lounge, cursing the rain and the surf and the heat and everything else in Honolulu. He had waded out from the beach for a bit of the fine snorkeling that Wilbur had told us about—but before he could even get his head in the water a wave lifted him up and slammed him savagely into a coral head, ripping a hole in his back and crushing a disc in his spine. Skinner tried to cheer him up with a few local horror stories, but Ralph would have none of it. His mood was ugly, and it became even uglier when Skinner demanded cocaine.

“What are you talking about?" Ralph screamed.

"The Dumb Dust, man," Skinner said. "The lash, the crank, the white death ... I don't know, what you limeys call it."

"You mean drugs?" Ralph said finally.

“OF COURSE I MEAN DRUGS!" Skinner screamed. "You think I came here to talk about art?" That finished that. Ralph limped away in a funk, and even the bartender got weird.




Excerpt from "The Curse of Lono" by Hunter S. Thompson

So...I just noticed that most of my little fat roll that I've always had is gone. It's usually like an inch tall across the bottom of my stomach, I was feeling my stomach and it felt different. WHERE'D IT GO?

In the sewers.

My neighbour has evil twins,so thats a non starter.

They can just go back to school!

Well, after being off for a month I go back to work on Wednesday. I'm so bummed!!!

I don't wanna work. I was born to retire. I mean..the lifestyle is... it's so me!!! I wanna go to the movies any time I feel like it; I wanna stay up and watch the late shows; I wanna post on the BB throughtout the day. I wanna stay in my pajamas all day if I feel like it. I wanna snack when I feel like it. I wanna do whatever the hell I feel like doing.......that's what I want. Is that asking to freekin' much????

Then my alarm will go off and it's back to work for me.

TIS

THE SERVER SUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wrong thread

Sorry, hamster boy.

Never had a Habitrail

I have a rash in an, er, embarrassing spot.

I'm not kidding (for a change). Should I, like, take a bath in some type of special formula?