20% Chance of Blah
Hey my little clouds! Hope your holiday was better than mine, there's a thunderstorm in my head today. I was ready to load up the old shotgun turkey night, when Mikey Stanley gave me a ring and asked me to go boozin' with him again. I don't know why he doesn't just come over. We've been getting faced every night for the last three weeks. His wife is probably banging some guy in his band again. It started out like any other night, but since it was a holiday and all Mikey chipped in for the good stuff it had red hairs on it and it smelled like a pine tree. My circuits were fried. So I woke up face down in the snow in my backyard. The artificial skin on my face was fused to a garden hose. It's a good thing I always keep a spare face around. I was stuck to the ground for nearly 45 minutes. Have you ever tried to free your cyborg head from the frozen ground with a bic lighter? I smelled like hotdogs. Anyway I had a bit of time out there to think about junk and I wrote this little poem called "Super Christopher":
when stop to look at snow covered leaves
i can't help but to think about christopher reeves
and when he could no longer run
that would really be noooooo fun
the man of steel was really fucking cool
suddenly he became the man of drool
and then i think about how america
used to be like superman
A special RIP and big ups to the notorious P. A. T. Morita.
wax off, man.