Tuesday, January 24, 2006

What could you say as the earth gets further and further away, Planets as small as balls of clay?

Cold getting dumb at the Bottle last night. On the menu: Hopper's Paddington Bear-esque outfit. Moderate crush discussions. A Swedish disco band called Aluminum Babe. Cheese tamales laced with forbidden meat. A deal with the Wound Up crew to get mad heaps of fried chicken soon. With the wife's permission, of course. A Tundra, who were kind of a Joan Of Arc free-rock type of thing. Pretty dece. Post-photo booth topic: How many virgins do suicide bombers get exactly? What about female suicide bombers? Conclusion: Muslim feminist suicide bombers have it rough. No deep dicking for the truly righteous of Allah?!? Mad blowing up fools and no getting the gutter tore up? Damn. Truly all praises be to agnositc lifestyles.

This is Ericka kicking Mark in the tummy while Hopper makes love to the electronic game machine:

Hoppper casts a spell while Ericka looks on with shame. Note the Paddington:

Currently, we are madly pitching woo at the Chicago Reader so that we might write about 2 essential ZZ Top records being reissued with all the trimmings. We need to tell the world, set them straight, come correct, isolate and regulate on Tres Hombres and Fandango. ZZ Top are not a bearded joke for your yeasty ironic 1980's ways. ZZ Top are a premium rhythm death squad. 2200 pounds of prime cut American rock gristle. Total rosetta stone band.

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1 comment:

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