YOU EITHER SLAM WITH THE BEST OR JAM WITH THE REST

Words of wisdom from Charles Barkley, accompanying me in the whip as I approach the U.S.-Mexico border. Not the actual Barkley himself, but his persona in this fantastic game. If you've got a few hours to kill, pick this sucker up and play the FUCK out of it; it's one of the best games of all time. Also, this theme is just incredibly awesome on all levels and Space Jam is the BEST MOVIE after Kung Pow when it comes to just about everything, including the whole Bugs Bunny nailing three-pointers bit and trapping Barkley inside the ball. All in all, pretty awesome.

But wait, that's not the point of this post.

I dunno, I sort of wanted to put something like this off for a while. It's hard to accept facts when they insolently stare you down, sprawled out across the folder, squarely placed in your face. So much easier to just close that manila envelope and put it back in the front glove compartment, sort of shove it in there nice and snug, hoping it jams the axles of the lid when you close it up so that it won't ever open again and you won't ever be able to pick up that nightmarish report again. Jesus christ

i cant reakky jkaf shit

i can't realy typ right naow.i mean, i stoppe and all and my hands ar e reeallyl fucking numb and im still but lookjing at this is just, just brings up the question: why? why would you take it all out? not even a sedative, not even a merciful send off before the procedure, just SLAM! onto the machine and he pulled the lever and those spindly little incisors just revved to life and I just WATCHED because my quest is far more important than some low life spic getting torn apart in an iron maiden, right? Good ol' Mike, festering on the scraps of the lowest common denominator and building up an empire of SHIT to anoint himself savior! Just watched him slosh around as those silver-beaked bastards strolled on over to him and rippe dhis body apart, just took hism uscles and poked at and picked on and pulled out and packaged up

no

Ahahahaha. Wow. I sure do freak out at the strangest times, huh? But no, that isn't a liability I can afford to indulge in at the moment. When I told you folks I couldn't really describe what I saw in there, in my last entry, I omitted a small ounce of truth in my analysis: I wouldn't. Oh, I could, I could affirm with the staunchest sentiments all the descriptions of all the atrocities I...partook in, if that's the right way of articulating my thoughts. Because I didn't do a damn thing, a damn thing besides pick up that manila folder, turn around one hundred and eighty degrees, and stride out of the room while those bird-masked gentlemen delicately detached his throbbing heart, laying the organ into a sterile plastic cover with all the reverence of priests worshiping an idol of their god, chained and shackled before them, mouth agape with the labor of his eternal existence in servitude to his people. But those aren't his people, and they aren't my people.

They're nobodies, which frightens me the most.

I probably won't be coming back from El Paso. If here is where my descent into the lair of the foulest beast begins and summarily ends, consider this post my soliloquy and the few words of text below my epitaph. And Sage, take a shot on me, and then take a shot at all these horrors quashing our spirits. Oh, yeah, epitaphs and all that.

"There ain't a microphone worth bein' checked

But the one that's sufficiently wrecked

So if my sound booth ever goes up in flames

Let it be immortalized, forever warded from rain."

Signin' off, one last time.

SNORE-DE-BLISS, THE STUPENDOUS MENACE, WIELDER OF ALL SENTIMENTS, MASTAH OF THE NICEST PENDANTS

Focus

The Get Busy Committee. How fitting.

I know what I must accomplish now. I understand everything, how all these random drops of madness coalesce into a cohesive, viscous liquid, the fashion in which the pieces clatter into place. It's finally beginning to make sense.

Mr. Sage, it's always good to know a friend willing to put his life on the line for another, and also willing to waft in the aroma and the flavor of some really potent liquors (a few potentially deadly, but hey, what's life without a smidgen of risk?). But you probably won't be hearing from me again for a while, and for that I am truly sorry. Tomorrow, the real trial begins.

Because that stupid, giant white lardo made a mistake. A small yet vital error in judgment, a miscalculation in that house where Sage just...just saved my life, and killed the one man throughout all the years I thought I could truly trust. But I'm grateful, honestly. I would not dare try and deceive my viewers into thinking I am some altruistic door mat who only lives to see the boot-heels of others stomp upon my character, my reputation and my pride. I put a good amount of stock into my relationship with Donato, but I'm not an idiot, and didn't act like one in that house that day. I am saddened to see the man who I once knew intimately and once loved closer than the skin coating my muscles pass on, but if the sacrifices required to stop this terror are not made, then I will perish. That isn't my main plan when it comes to dealing with anything - perishing. Perish implies a fluttering attempt at life, a pitiful straining for existence, followed by giving up. Followed by letting go.


This shit won't be let go of until I get down to the core, down to the grimy, dark, tangled mass of roots festering in their own evil juices and hoping to wrap me up with their outstretched tendrils.


I hope you made it home easy, Mr. Sage. Good luck with everything. Hopefully, this won't be the last time we kick ass and chew bubble gum.


Fuck sign-offs.

Pete rock And c.l. smooth...Y

Au revoir, mon ami.