Tag Archives: murder

I was taught in school to always cite my sources, so I plan to continue that practice here on my blog. Did I spell cite correctly? It looks kind of funny, doesn't it?

My sources are listed below.

  • Jon Stewart / The Daily Show

  • Stephen Colbert / The Colbert Report

  • Creative Loafing Atlanta

  • Jesse “The Body” Ventura

  • Dr. Slutty Poppins

The rest of the stuff comes to me in dreams
that I often believe are reality,
97.3% of the statistics I make up,

and sometimes I just lie.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under full disclosure

Hippie babysitters, Batman, Catwoman, and stretched out coke bottles. A love story.

I had a babysitter when I was a kid.
She was kind of a hippie type girl,
that really pissed me off to be honest.

However,
she had nice boobs,
long brown hair,
and a really sweet ass,

so I was able to get past the hippie thing.
She used to heat up coke bottles,
and stretch them out into
weird shapes.

I used to dream of being Batman,
and she was Cat Woman,
so I was doing her.

Which really explains everything to me.


Leave a comment

Filed under relationships

Ever feel like your life is some kind of indie film?

The kind of film that takes place in some
small town, maybe in Texas, the kind of
town that’s hundreds of miles from nowhere,
with one cheap hotel, maybe a bar or
restaurant. You and your girl had an old Cadillac,
but it broke down a few days back, so you robbed
a liquor store while she painted her toe nails
sitting at the bus stop. The robbery goes bad
and you wind up shooting the cashier at the liquor
store and for your troubles you only get seventy-eight
dollars and sixty-three cents, so on the way out you grab
two bottles of gatorade and fill your pockets with bubble gum,
but then turn around and run back to grab her a couple of
Nestle white chocolate crunch bars.
You get back to the bus stop, the clouds seem to be racing
across the sky, tumble weeds blow across the dirt highway,
as she smiles when she see you with the gatorade.
You pull the chocolate bars out of your pocket,
and she carefully claps her hands in excitement.
Neither of you mention the robbery,
and you certainly never told her about the cashier.
She eats the chocolate the and you
nervously shuffle a deck of cards until the bus
arrives. The sky catches fire on the horizon as
you look up to see Dennis Hopper is your bus driver.

Leave a comment

Filed under Strange days