seems like every sunday im procrastinating something.

last sunday i was procrastinating about a proposal i was writing, tonight im procrastinating about a photo essay of all things.

the tsar show this weekend was magical and wonderful but for some reason i dont want to write about it, which sucks cuz i have lots of great pictures.

where are my interns?

wheres my writing staff?

jimmyt doesnt want me to write about chicks so much and if i told bob hope to fuck off last week for making it to 100 what do you think i should tell jimmyt for telling me to take it easy on writing about chicks?

everything on here is symbolism, jimmy. they didnt like us writing symbolism in college, but then they had us read the most symbolic novels of all time: canteburry tales, ulysees, revelations.

dating women in hollywood is symbolism for lots of things, and never are the stories that i tell just about that one thing. the scene might be set in a boudior but the nugget of truth is discovered somewhere else. nakedness equals blank slate, vulnerabililty, trust, love, etc. never is having sex an accomplishment in the busblog, its merely a begining of a new set of problems, and how can you introduce those problems unless you describe how they got there.

most of the time its just he begining of the joke.

two midgets walk into a bar

but the way i do it, its just like, two hot chicks take off their shoes at the foot of my bed.

i say, no no no put those back on. who wants those off?

they say, fine fine. and put them back on.

who ever told van gogh enough with the flowers?

one of the girls i know. shes friends with someone i know. and because of that i know that she has a boyfriend. i dont know the boyfriend, but i know that hes an ok guy.

shes very beautiful and i dont know why she wants to cheat on him, and the devil part of my brain is on full blast saying do her do her do her and her best friend. look they put their shoes back on. they want to do whatever you say.

and shes gonna cheat on him anyway.

even the good part of my brain is pretty loud.

you have condoms, you know. lots.

but its sunday. the lords day. the day we were meant to keep holy, and this is far from holy so i tell them that i need to call them a cab.

they look sad in their matching blue sparkley wigs.

disappointed in their skirts.

so close and yet so far

so bad

buzz machine + beef jerky + bye oish

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