you shoulda been here back in the day
from: buncha trees 061225

You have a fucked up, prissy ass attitude, we'd have flamed the fur offa you in no time back in the day. There was another site; the world, or worldnet, some such shit, that served as an outreach ministry of this place. Let me tell you, that was the shit. PPX had picked up some demented fans of Michael F. Bolton, of all fucking people, who claimed her dad was a police chief or some such whacked-out crap. She even had a ready excuse that needs to be carved in granite somewhere, to serve as a memorial to what happens when - as the other Kurt, Vonnegut, put it - "the bad chemicals in their brains made them do bad things," her excuse was this; "I was ruffled in my sleep as a child." (It's been a long time, and I'm old now. I can't be expected to remember my goddamn NAME word for word, not after all that genuine Owley purple-barrel and orange sunshine I flambee'd my branes in back there somewhere.) The funniest thing of all (besides a 12-year-old who wrote PPX asking for mercy for something or other) was this: they claimed to have found PPX on something called "google!" Oh, we HOWLED. "Google?" Sounds like a WWII device for finding buried ammo dumps or some such shit. Google? Ah, that was a long time ago, before the site was taken over by a wannabe who wasn't there, who came along and glued his lips to PPX's ass until he was even more full of shit than the original. He thinks it's all about him, like all good little narcissist talent-sucking motherfuckers. The entertainment industry is populated with them, and if you ask me the only ones who really had their own talents were Ike Turner, who - besides his unfortunate talent for shutting up mouthy bitches with a nasty right-left-right jab combination and a powerful uppercut that would break ribs and shatter teeth, but wouldn't leave a mark on the face - he shoulda shut her up with his dick (it's the 'merican way!), the motherfucker actually could write songs like "Rocket 88" that weren't just another I-IV-V thing filled with 6's and had a tasty turnaround on the original version, and that little homo who also happened to be a genius for promo (a promo homo?), Brian Epstein, who traded his talent for dispensing immortality for the dubious distinction of having his tonsils rammed by John Lennon's dick, without which we'd never have heard "Sgt. Pepper's" or "The White Album," which doesn't fucking matter nary a goddamn whit to either a snarfy little dickhead like you or least of all to some overweight schizoid narcissist talentless hanger-on who specializes in the taking over great, hilarious, musical, never-know-what-to-expect, time-machine n' Reaktor-built bassline mojo manifestos and screamin' loonie engine-thrashing pickled-brain acid-loop'd mugtoe'd dumpster-jizzin' upside-down profane Farfisa-ponging Ed-rantin' Kevorkianarianistic hedonist's playground and reduce it to a whimper-fest dedicated to memorializing the useless in a failed effort to pacify the dickless talent-sucker's hopefully-incorrect assumption that Kurt's memory will return some day and he'll want some more of that. I miss it like high school pussy, but maybe it should be relegated to the "you'll never see that again, either" file. Kurt's got my email addy, and I haven't forgot jack shit. Ruffle me, big boy. You gotta be sick of being buried in obituaries by now. If you ain't, I don't wanna be here anyway. I just dropped by on Christmas because I'm remembering a REAL fambly, crazy fuckheads like me, in a smoke-filled basement poundin' out some NASTY jams without any girlfriends or talent-suckers around. Guess what I got for Christmas? A 24-inch, TRICKED-OWWWWT imac, motherfucker! Jesus I'm fucked up.
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