the official search engine of tonypierce.com + busblog

did you know that if you click here you can search within the entire tonypierce.com site, and the busblog?

it’s true.

thank you google, happy little colorful silent partner of the world.

dethroner of the mighty yahoo.

defender of the faith.

finder of lost friends.

cacher of forgotten web pages.

buyer of blogger.

kickasser of the backwards search.

why dont you say a few nice things to your favorite search engine,

or even give some tips for what improvements youd like to see.

me, i would like to see Google buy Technorati or intergrate that technology.

or buy the cubs.

and im am hopelessly in lust with her.

i dont care that she doesnt know the difference between tuna and chicken.

id kiss her on the nose and say, baby you know what tuna smells like.

and shed say, i do?

id say, it smells like every girl except you.

i dont care that she doesnt want to go camping, id say lets just set up a tent in our huge foyer.

i dont care that she doesnt like to clean. shit, i dont like to clean either. who really likes to clean?

i know one person who likes to clean, her boyband husband who tries to pretend that hes not gay.

theres nothing wrong with gay boyband singers. they just shouldnt marry prissy spoiled jealous britney wannabes and then get all uptight when they act like the little princesses that they are, and will always be.

nick says he has a five-year plan for ridding his bride from her spoiledness forgetting that she has been on a 21 year plan of her own which has peaked with her bringing her louis vuitton bag to yosemite.

personally i think thats cute.

as hell.

and my gucci condoms agree.

i think its great that nick likes to tidy and wears ironed shirts and likes to tear limbs off trees and turn that into firewood. but i dont think its great that he married a perfectly good blonde girl and wants to turn her into something that she isnt.

she loves him for some reason and gets omg jealous when he has a flock of hootchie mamas grinding all over him. guess what, some girls get jealous, and guess what, a few girls get super psycho jealous and ms. simpson is one of the latter.

so what nick needs to do is tell her repeatedly that shes hot, and shes the only girl for him. and that her ass looks great and that her fake titties look awesome and how all hes doing is making money for her perfumed hotness, and all those skank hos are doing is getting him riled up for her.

but he doesnt do that, as far as we can tell on mtv. all he does is look at them and stand up all stiff and let them get dirrty on him. what good is that? why would you want to make a jealous girl more jealous? what sort of f’ed up game is that? go in your backyard and put the red ants on the black ants but dont make your dearly beloved get so crazed that she accidentally gets two pairs of bras and panties for $900.

and when she calls you and tells you that she made a boo boo, you tell her its ok, that you can sell them on ebay and make double. tell her she did exactly the right thing. and you tell her to put those dirty things on and meet you at the Sly Fox on Crenshaw to play Business Man and Escort. room 17, next to the Fanta machine.

and then you use all the gay little moves that the fat men taught you, and you do them horizontally. pretty boy.

only thing worse than a boybander is one who doesnt know how to take care of his lady.

and im sick of taking her calls.

almost.

madpony + makeout city + listen missy

at a state prison a males state prison on death row where people dont give a fuck about threatening her told me that she would love for me to move into her 5 bdr 5 bath house and marry her and her cute little 5 yr old.

and i told her that im no better than a french mountain goat in a zoo trying to get some corn out of a dispenser except the goat is smarter. and she said why. and i said cuz the goat can shit where he wants to, he doesnt have to wear pants and eventually some asshole will put a euro in the machine and give him his damn dry corn.

bullets greeted me this morning at the xbi and i pitied the fool before i shot him in the eye.

to save the world i had written in cursive on a post-it last night and stuck to my computer monitor and i had forgotten and there it was with a little blood on it and it’s good to remind you why you do the things you do and why you wake up in the morning and why you put your tights on one footsie at a time.

more bullets in the break room when i was digging around my back pocket for exact change because the juice machine hates me spun around didnt hit the ground because ive been to the edge and there i stood and looked down and i will not go down with a dollar in the juice machine and a quarter in my hand and shot that motherfucker in the nose and blood squirted everywhere and it was sick. the nose is gross as hell with a silver dollar sized hole in it and i suddenly didnt want the bear claw. but i did find the dime and hit the bloody button and out came the oj. hi.

thought about shooting his dead body but, so tired.

every morning ive been waking up more tired than the next. no good reason other than age and broken dreams. theres a little park behind the office where the nannys take the little white kids and swing em on the little swings and how could that be, something zipped past my ear. and then another and it clinked on the see saw.

thank god i didnt shoot that dead guy again cuz now i only had a few more bullets and i didnt know where the– zing. SHIT. where was he. behind that car? no. ting. behind that palm tree. no.

plink.

ah there he is, under the mercedes.

i looked to the right of him like i didnt see him, i aimed about twenty feet away and then swiveled quick and unloaded everything under that car. a woman screamed down the street. i just sat there and watched the blood stream down the gutter.

and counted the hours until regis would come on.

waterslide + metrosexual + trinity xxx

i love riding the damn bus.

today i saw a cute girl sitting on the lap of a guy in a wheelchair on the bus riding down wilshire.

they looked to be in love.

then on the subway i saw an attractive young woman squoosh inbetween two men so as to sit with them. they must all be good friends i thought.

and they tried to look at me like everything was super normal, but nothing was any more super normal than that painting of the two guys having a picnic with that one naked woman.

two hipsters got off before me. they didnt know where they were going. they were walking reaaaal slow. fuck them. she had buttons on her purse strap, his shorts were falling down fashionably revealing his paisley boxers.

he had a trucker hat in his hand. she was probably in a band. i just needed to get around them.

finally did. elevator full of women. then a man comes in and puts his finger on the up button and holds it there. i was insulted but then i remembered that there are idiots in every elevator, why not mine too.

made it to the house. got on the phone.

talked for hours with the girl who told me that we werent boyfriend/girlfriend for two weeks, but for three days.

talked to my true love

and asked my drunken chimp to write a couple entries for me.

ate a half bag of laura scudders baked cheese puffs

read an email from ashley

and passed out with the cubs still in first place.

liferants + katie + alecia

that a guy couldnt write a column every day.

it wasnt a belief that was challenged outside of the sports page, but despite all our great writers, i dont remember anyone who thought that they could honestly write thirty to fourty inches of opinon daily that would be as good or better than the stuff we normallyd put in there.

also the opinion page was the most-read page and why let one voice dominate a quarter of it.

still that didnt stop weirdos like me from getting on average of two bylines an issue throughout the paper, and we were daily. and thats one of the many reasons why i think blogs are so important.

yes the quality will go down with increased quantity, but quality will go up with increased practice. so production will not only improve your quality, but you’ll make more of it with time.

in the college of creative studies they made us read a novel a week in our lit classes, thereabouts. they never talked about the theories of the college but the students had their own theories.

some of us figured that if you gave a classroom 10 books to read, they’d probably read 6-7. if you gave a different classroom 20 books to read, theyd probably read 10-12. and if you tell those kids there will be no tests or no grades because theyre so damn cool they might read 13-14 because theres no stress and you dont have to underline a bunch of crap preparing for some ridiculous midterm. you could simply read.

no grades did increase the amount that i read, so whatever they were doing worked.

if i taught a short story writing class there i would make the kids write a story a day. a long one. why not. maybe theyd get 4 written and one would be good. thats better than writing one a week and it not being any good. i wrote one good short story in college, but it was for hemingway class. it was a paper. i was mad at the teacher so… it was a good story. sadly neither the hemingway teacher liked it, nor the short story teacher.

the kids, however, loved it.

my favorite class at school was the diaries writing class. we all kept a diary. mine turned into more of a story about me and aj and how i chased her and how she said no. mostly. we’d make copies and pass them around and the teacher would read our “anonymous” entries outloud.

even then i was fascinated by other peoples lives and their takes on the world, and isla vista.

once this girl, one of my favorite diaryists said that she loved my tale that day so much that she wanted to quit writing because mine blew hers away. and i told her that if she quit writing then i would be very sad because i loved her diaries and she said you dont even know which one is mine and i said of course i do, you know which one is mine dont you and she said yes.

and i said, i write twice a day for the paper. i write every day for this class. i write a poem a day for poetry class. and a short story a week for short stories class. and then theres the papers for the lit classes. and all the damn books i have to read. and on top of that i read bukowski and the bible for fun. i better be a good writer after all of that.

i never saw her again.

i was listening to a lot of sonic youth this weekend. i dont think the kids are listening to any sonic youth any more. you can tell when you listen to good charlotte. kids wear nirvana tshirts and you need one cup of sonic youth, maybe two, to get nirvana, dummyheads.

the path is straight and narrow.

that seattle distortion comes from nyc

and if you dont hear dave grohl in goo then poor you.

you are so much better off when you write and write and write

especially when you really dont want to.

smythes world + howard owens + aint no bad dude