Thursday, November 30, 2006
And Now: A Heartwarming Christmas Message!! (or is it "heartworming"?)
Disc Lame Her: This video is NOT for the haint of fart. No, reel-ee. If you stuffher from mightnares, don't Boliva. I'm not Joe King.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
What We’ve Got Here, Is the Goddamn NASCAR!!
Bone Machine and I have commented on this before, I am commenting on it again, and it will undoubtedly come up again.
The roads in this town? They’re the goddamn NASCAR. You pretty much take your life into your own hands on occasion. Oh, it’s not as dangerous as Evansville, IN *shudders*, but holy fuck.
Today’s reason for mentioning this? Pappaw in the white four door Buick Something-or-Other. PUNCHES it out into the traffic, into my lane of course, and then BRAKES. I have to swerve to go ‘round to avoid and guess what…yep…pulls right into the lane. Of course I have a horn, and I am not afraid to use that motherfucker like a fucking stone-cold iron fist up someone’s ass, invited or not. One BLAST and gramps moves back over.
I watch in my rearview (what? It’s the goddamn NASCAR and I can drive without looking if I fuckin’ wanna!) and you know what he does next? Yep. Pulls back into “my lane” (no longer “mine” since I have used and moved on) and BRAKES. This time he STOPS breaks. Yeah. Next, the blinker comes on. The jackass is in a lane BESIDE a turning lane, just blinkity-blinking away. You know, so he can, turn.
People pile up behind him waiting for him to MOVE while someone across the opposite lanes of traffic whips into the turning lane…and yes…that’s when he decides to move into the turning lane, right in front of them.
There’s another ding on the hood, another bug in the grill, pop the cork on another root beer, this bitch is in the Winner’s Circle!!
The roads in this town? They’re the goddamn NASCAR. You pretty much take your life into your own hands on occasion. Oh, it’s not as dangerous as Evansville, IN *shudders*, but holy fuck.
Today’s reason for mentioning this? Pappaw in the white four door Buick Something-or-Other. PUNCHES it out into the traffic, into my lane of course, and then BRAKES. I have to swerve to go ‘round to avoid and guess what…yep…pulls right into the lane. Of course I have a horn, and I am not afraid to use that motherfucker like a fucking stone-cold iron fist up someone’s ass, invited or not. One BLAST and gramps moves back over.
I watch in my rearview (what? It’s the goddamn NASCAR and I can drive without looking if I fuckin’ wanna!) and you know what he does next? Yep. Pulls back into “my lane” (no longer “mine” since I have used and moved on) and BRAKES. This time he STOPS breaks. Yeah. Next, the blinker comes on. The jackass is in a lane BESIDE a turning lane, just blinkity-blinking away. You know, so he can, turn.
People pile up behind him waiting for him to MOVE while someone across the opposite lanes of traffic whips into the turning lane…and yes…that’s when he decides to move into the turning lane, right in front of them.
There’s another ding on the hood, another bug in the grill, pop the cork on another root beer, this bitch is in the Winner’s Circle!!
[Hey Bone. We should start rating our posts with food in mind. This one is "mild" or perhaps "golden brown". Just a thought. In fact, let's not. But if we do, can I use "moldy" first? We can make people think we're using them fancy schmancy "tags" but...get this...we're not!!]
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Like a fecal boomerang, the shit is back.
I thought I'd made it perfectly clear last year, but apparently a refresher course may be in order before too much of this undesirable shit gets on the shoes.
Minding my own business, I wandered into my office for nothing less than official (sarcasm? Nooooooo!) and noticed something hanging in the air that was completely unpleasant. Something was wrecking the previously-wrecked harmony in the office cosmos. To Star Wars aficionados, there was a disturbance in the Force. To everyone else, there was some music playing that sounded incredibly gay and in this case, there is indeed something wrong with it.
As I sat in my office, my inner-sanctum, my fortress of solitude, I heard some muffled chatter that immediately clued me in that something was up. Whispered voices said "Turn it up, so that he can hear it..." Ah, conspiracy! Two of the office workers thought it would be highly amusing to torment me yet again with Christmas music performed by Kenny G. My theory is that the G stands for "Gay" or "Gonorrhea," which totally explains the crap that comes out of the man's horn.
There are few things in this world more annoying (although Toby Keith and Creed instantly come to mind) than the sound of Kenny G's horn. If it is possible to castrate a musical instrument, Kenny has definitely done it. While sucking and blowing on his saxophone, he has sucked the soul right out of the music and blown it far, far away.
So as the secretary turned up the musical bullshit, I realized that the war was on. When they bring out Kenny G's Gay Christmas, I'll bring out the MP3 disc with the first eight Black Sabbath albums lovingly burned on it. If the Black Sabbath doesn't work, I'll call up some Motorhead. If the Motorhead doesn't do it, I've got some Slayer. Slayer should do it, but if not, I'll bring out the big gun. The musical equivalent of the BFG 900...Yes, Tiny Tim's Christmas Album.
I hate to get brutal like that, but when push comes to shove, I can be one stone cold, heartless bastard. If I have to suffer through Kenny G and Clay Aiken, then I'm taking the wheel and slamming the entire crew of our good ship Lollipop right into the iceberg. You can damn well bet that Celine Dion won't be providing the soundtrack this time. No, no. Not this time.
Until the smoke clears, I will be regularly checking Lushy's countdown to the holidays' end and I will have angry, belligerent music at the ready should spontaneous holiday cheer break out. You happy fuckers took down the Grinch (the real one and not that Jim Carrey bastardized shit), but you won't take me alive.
It's war, baby.
Minding my own business, I wandered into my office for nothing less than official (sarcasm? Nooooooo!) and noticed something hanging in the air that was completely unpleasant. Something was wrecking the previously-wrecked harmony in the office cosmos. To Star Wars aficionados, there was a disturbance in the Force. To everyone else, there was some music playing that sounded incredibly gay and in this case, there is indeed something wrong with it.
As I sat in my office, my inner-sanctum, my fortress of solitude, I heard some muffled chatter that immediately clued me in that something was up. Whispered voices said "Turn it up, so that he can hear it..." Ah, conspiracy! Two of the office workers thought it would be highly amusing to torment me yet again with Christmas music performed by Kenny G. My theory is that the G stands for "Gay" or "Gonorrhea," which totally explains the crap that comes out of the man's horn.
There are few things in this world more annoying (although Toby Keith and Creed instantly come to mind) than the sound of Kenny G's horn. If it is possible to castrate a musical instrument, Kenny has definitely done it. While sucking and blowing on his saxophone, he has sucked the soul right out of the music and blown it far, far away.
So as the secretary turned up the musical bullshit, I realized that the war was on. When they bring out Kenny G's Gay Christmas, I'll bring out the MP3 disc with the first eight Black Sabbath albums lovingly burned on it. If the Black Sabbath doesn't work, I'll call up some Motorhead. If the Motorhead doesn't do it, I've got some Slayer. Slayer should do it, but if not, I'll bring out the big gun. The musical equivalent of the BFG 900...Yes, Tiny Tim's Christmas Album.
I hate to get brutal like that, but when push comes to shove, I can be one stone cold, heartless bastard. If I have to suffer through Kenny G and Clay Aiken, then I'm taking the wheel and slamming the entire crew of our good ship Lollipop right into the iceberg. You can damn well bet that Celine Dion won't be providing the soundtrack this time. No, no. Not this time.
Until the smoke clears, I will be regularly checking Lushy's countdown to the holidays' end and I will have angry, belligerent music at the ready should spontaneous holiday cheer break out. You happy fuckers took down the Grinch (the real one and not that Jim Carrey bastardized shit), but you won't take me alive.
It's war, baby.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
no funky ass photos, no wiseass attitude.
Just 100% sincerity. So you're asking yourself "Well, what the hell good is that?" I can't say that I know. I wanted to take a few moments to say that I'm very thankful for your continued patronage at the YPS!! campground. May your holiday be absolutely nifty, incredibly safe, and delightfully happy. To those that do not live in the United States, may your Thursday be the very same things and you won't risk getting the bird flu from the turkey.
Thank you all for all you do to make YPS!! what it is today. And no, I have no clue what it is, but I like it. I like it a lot.
Thank you all for all you do to make YPS!! what it is today. And no, I have no clue what it is, but I like it. I like it a lot.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
To the Voice of R&D Communications’ Time and Temperature:
To the Voice of R&D Communications’ Time and Temperature:
[Please read the following with the great sense of humor that I am quite sure you possess. Try to imagine Andy Rooney whispering this into your ear as you read it. Thank you, in advance.]
I’ve considered writing this letter many times since R&D Communications became the “sponsor” of the Time and Temperature phone service. While I feel it should be said, I always struggled with HOW to say it. Please know that my intention is not to be rude. My objective is to give you honest input from someone on the sidelines. I am in no way connected to you or your organization in any way other than my infrequent calling of Time and Temp service as I’ve done since the days of “Central Bank and Trust Time…”
Yes, for years, I’ve picked up the phone and dialed (270) 685-6111 and eagerly awaited to find out A) what time it is, B) what the temperature is – you know, so I can laugh at all my co-workers that wear a coat on a jacket day and C) try and guess which random advertisement I would hear for the day. Sure, some days were easier to get through than others. You might call up and get through the first time. But some days will fool you. You might call, let it ring 3 times and be forced to hang up only to find out that on the second call you wouldn’t get an answer until the 4th ring. Oh, the tricky and fickle ways of Time and Temp have provided me with years and years of entertainment. (Ok, maybe just “years” I’m not THAT old you know.)
Again, please understand, I’m just giving you my honest opinion here.
Sir, your speaking voice does not reflect well on the organization, R&D Communications. There, I said it. Whew!
I really hate to say that, but it’s how I feel. When I hear the word “communications” in the name of R&D Communications, I think of someone who can communicate well. Someone who can speak in a clear and concise manner and can convey a message in a way all who are listening can understand.
Unfortunately, this, with all due respect, is not you.
It very well could be that it’s in the way you’re currently recording your message.
Perhaps a little calisthenics before each recording session, in addition to a little caffeine, would make for a strong start. Maybe slamming down some sugar-laced candies might be the way to go. (I have several suggestions here, but candy is such a personal selection, I dare not sway your taste buds with my selections, only to throw you off when the microphone is on.) Possibly envisioning a favorite actor, such as John “The Duke” Wayne, during each recording might bolster you with a more bold and daring vocal prowess that would capture your audience’s heart, imagination…and pocket book.
After all, each morning when you greet the town of Owensboro, Kentucky with the time, temperature and rotating advertisement (i.e., mocking the competition) you speak for R&D Communications and why in the world would anyone want to do business with a communications company that can’t…communicate?
So buck up Mister! Sally forth! CHARGE into that recording studio and COME ALIVE with your message!! As I’ve said for many years, and you can quote me: “Think more Tigger and less Eeyore!”
Or, get some lively sex kitten to take your place.
I thank you for your time (and temp),
Mr. Bloggerific Himself
[Please read the following with the great sense of humor that I am quite sure you possess. Try to imagine Andy Rooney whispering this into your ear as you read it. Thank you, in advance.]
I’ve considered writing this letter many times since R&D Communications became the “sponsor” of the Time and Temperature phone service. While I feel it should be said, I always struggled with HOW to say it. Please know that my intention is not to be rude. My objective is to give you honest input from someone on the sidelines. I am in no way connected to you or your organization in any way other than my infrequent calling of Time and Temp service as I’ve done since the days of “Central Bank and Trust Time…”
Yes, for years, I’ve picked up the phone and dialed (270) 685-6111 and eagerly awaited to find out A) what time it is, B) what the temperature is – you know, so I can laugh at all my co-workers that wear a coat on a jacket day and C) try and guess which random advertisement I would hear for the day. Sure, some days were easier to get through than others. You might call up and get through the first time. But some days will fool you. You might call, let it ring 3 times and be forced to hang up only to find out that on the second call you wouldn’t get an answer until the 4th ring. Oh, the tricky and fickle ways of Time and Temp have provided me with years and years of entertainment. (Ok, maybe just “years” I’m not THAT old you know.)
Again, please understand, I’m just giving you my honest opinion here.
Sir, your speaking voice does not reflect well on the organization, R&D Communications. There, I said it. Whew!
I really hate to say that, but it’s how I feel. When I hear the word “communications” in the name of R&D Communications, I think of someone who can communicate well. Someone who can speak in a clear and concise manner and can convey a message in a way all who are listening can understand.
Unfortunately, this, with all due respect, is not you.
It very well could be that it’s in the way you’re currently recording your message.
Perhaps a little calisthenics before each recording session, in addition to a little caffeine, would make for a strong start. Maybe slamming down some sugar-laced candies might be the way to go. (I have several suggestions here, but candy is such a personal selection, I dare not sway your taste buds with my selections, only to throw you off when the microphone is on.) Possibly envisioning a favorite actor, such as John “The Duke” Wayne, during each recording might bolster you with a more bold and daring vocal prowess that would capture your audience’s heart, imagination…and pocket book.
After all, each morning when you greet the town of Owensboro, Kentucky with the time, temperature and rotating advertisement (i.e., mocking the competition) you speak for R&D Communications and why in the world would anyone want to do business with a communications company that can’t…communicate?
So buck up Mister! Sally forth! CHARGE into that recording studio and COME ALIVE with your message!! As I’ve said for many years, and you can quote me: “Think more Tigger and less Eeyore!”
Or, get some lively sex kitten to take your place.
I thank you for your time (and temp),
Mr. Bloggerific Himself
Monday, November 20, 2006
Schhwwwaaaaaaaaaa!!
So, like, how many of you saw the man screwing the sheep in that last video that was posted?
Also, any comments on Studio 60?
Happy Birthday, Tommy Womack!!
Even though it's also the anniversary of the Mexican Revolution, this is the last fucking time the YPS!! staff orders a personalized birthday cake for one of our favorite artists from Paco's Cut-Rate Bakery & Flight School. Regardless of this combination decoration (we said Skittles, dammit!) and spelling faux pas, the YPS!! staff would like to wish Tommy the happiest of birthdays.
Paco's fate will be swift and painful.
Friday, November 17, 2006
silvery snail tracks on the welcome mat in the vestibule
There are silvery snail tracks on the welcome mat in the vestibule. While he is nowhere to be seen, and must have decided to exit rather than enter, it seems there was an unspecified amount of time where he was on the fence. The pattern he left behind made strong inroads in the beginning but, just before reaching the far side, he became uncertain and turned back. Mid-rug he had a change of heart and sought out the warmth within. Perhaps he saw the sign that read “Men” on a nearby door. Maybe the mood created by the lamp in the corner caught his heart and eye. But just then he circled back. He didn’t make a direct route to the door. No, he arced his way toward the cold as his curiosity tapered. If it weren’t for the dirt-brown rubber-edged mat, I might not have been aware of his appearance at all, for he left no indication on the tile. The tile, it conceals.
Farewell, little snail, I bid you well to slither on and set sail and to hoist your flag and leave your mark upon this world. Let the clarion call be heard to announce your presence when next you approach so that I may make this place anew and build, for you, a barrier of salt as to rot the shit out of your nasty little slime-leaving guts as you melt and burn and seep into the soil.
{What? It started out for the ladies and then I thought Bone Machine might appreciate a turn of events at the end.}
Farewell, little snail, I bid you well to slither on and set sail and to hoist your flag and leave your mark upon this world. Let the clarion call be heard to announce your presence when next you approach so that I may make this place anew and build, for you, a barrier of salt as to rot the shit out of your nasty little slime-leaving guts as you melt and burn and seep into the soil.
{What? It started out for the ladies and then I thought Bone Machine might appreciate a turn of events at the end.}
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Friday, November 10, 2006
Hit The Road, Jack!!
And don't you come back, you city slicker!!
<<<<<<<================SHORT Gcast post will explain it all.
<<<<<<<================SHORT Gcast post will explain it all.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Crapapalooza '06.
Here it is whatever day it is and even the time is a bit unclear. Although I'm relatively sure that the daylight beaming down means that it's not even close to the time when I'm allowed to go home. I arrived at 7:45am and will leave at 8:15pm or when my carcass is carted out on a stretcher...whichever happens first. I have sixteen loving ounce of Diet Mountain Dew surging through my system like bulls with angry hooves doing a Mexican hat dance in a china shop.
Apparently the sauce is working, because the student said I entered the room like a bat out of Hell. It seemed sort of fitting, but I do not want any affiliation with Meat Loaf--the man or the entree. I regard both with equal amounts of hatred. I would do anything for love, but I won't listen to that shit. Sorry, Meat. Tough luck, pal.
The mental outlook is a bit better than yesterday for reasons that I shan't go into here. While I'm still a pulsating storm cloud, I'm not quite ready to drop the angry shitstorm on the parade below...yet. Peel back my cumulonimbus exterior and I'm a fuckin' sunbeam shining like those fucked up gold teeth that the rappers wear these days for reasons unknown to me. Considering they also wear those pants that perpetually hang at half mast, I am very fearful for the future. The only upside is that someday their spawn will find photos of the pre-Snoop Daddy Dadd phase and laugh their asses off, because the shit's even more hideous than those fuckin' bellbottoms from the peace, love, and mellow shit days. I'm not sure what dumb shit brought back the shit and shoved it up the fashion world's bottom in a non-loving fashion, but it is not appreciated by this gent.
Since it's a sunny and warm November day in Kentucky, I killed some time with the pre-historic office camera. On with the show...
Here's some of the religious propaganda that I've accumulated in my office. I figure stealing the religious booklets moved me one step forward then two steps back on the karma scale.
Postcard from a kind soul.
This is a trash can. In the event of hail, it can become protective head gear. If shower caps can be acceptable fashion attire, so can a trash can. Don't let anyone tell you any different.
Photographic evidence that I don't always wear black clothing and occasionally stoop so low as wearing lesser colors, so put that in your skin pipe and smoke it, Mr. Pink Polo. Modesty and the desire to retain a G-rating prevents an official crotch shot. (I can't use profanity and maintain a G? Well, fuck me running! Who knew?!?!)
Untitled photo with the following advice--"Always use the stall."
One of the ladies down the hall has the magnetic words and some fargin' sneaky bastage made art with the shit.
Lesser artsy shit.
This photo was taken too far away due to my fear of being mauled by the goose posse. Until we talk money and contracts are signed, I have no desire to be in a future installment of When Geese Attack.
Please do not remove chairs.
Kickin' glass and takin' names.
Fungus.
The place where I put down angry footsteps.
And as a stunning conclusion, I bring you some dying plants.
Apparently the sauce is working, because the student said I entered the room like a bat out of Hell. It seemed sort of fitting, but I do not want any affiliation with Meat Loaf--the man or the entree. I regard both with equal amounts of hatred. I would do anything for love, but I won't listen to that shit. Sorry, Meat. Tough luck, pal.
The mental outlook is a bit better than yesterday for reasons that I shan't go into here. While I'm still a pulsating storm cloud, I'm not quite ready to drop the angry shitstorm on the parade below...yet. Peel back my cumulonimbus exterior and I'm a fuckin' sunbeam shining like those fucked up gold teeth that the rappers wear these days for reasons unknown to me. Considering they also wear those pants that perpetually hang at half mast, I am very fearful for the future. The only upside is that someday their spawn will find photos of the pre-Snoop Daddy Dadd phase and laugh their asses off, because the shit's even more hideous than those fuckin' bellbottoms from the peace, love, and mellow shit days. I'm not sure what dumb shit brought back the shit and shoved it up the fashion world's bottom in a non-loving fashion, but it is not appreciated by this gent.
Since it's a sunny and warm November day in Kentucky, I killed some time with the pre-historic office camera. On with the show...
Here's some of the religious propaganda that I've accumulated in my office. I figure stealing the religious booklets moved me one step forward then two steps back on the karma scale.
Postcard from a kind soul.
This is a trash can. In the event of hail, it can become protective head gear. If shower caps can be acceptable fashion attire, so can a trash can. Don't let anyone tell you any different.
Photographic evidence that I don't always wear black clothing and occasionally stoop so low as wearing lesser colors, so put that in your skin pipe and smoke it, Mr. Pink Polo. Modesty and the desire to retain a G-rating prevents an official crotch shot. (I can't use profanity and maintain a G? Well, fuck me running! Who knew?!?!)
Untitled photo with the following advice--"Always use the stall."
One of the ladies down the hall has the magnetic words and some fargin' sneaky bastage made art with the shit.
Lesser artsy shit.
This photo was taken too far away due to my fear of being mauled by the goose posse. Until we talk money and contracts are signed, I have no desire to be in a future installment of When Geese Attack.
Please do not remove chairs.
Kickin' glass and takin' names.
Fungus.
The place where I put down angry footsteps.
And as a stunning conclusion, I bring you some dying plants.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
A Speck of Paint on the Measuring Cup
I wanted to sit down and write a post tonight, no matter what. But, this freestylin' audio post happened instead.
Enjoy.
<<<<<<<<==============Play button on the Gcast player.
Enjoy.
<<<<<<<<==============Play button on the Gcast player.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Friday, November 03, 2006
sweet & sour.
I made my way through the mean streets of Owensboro, Kentucky to the lame ass hotel complex where Twisted (fuckin') Sister will be playing in March '07 to acquire tickets for said show. After the kind lady hooked me up with VIP (which I can only assume means "Vulgarian Interrogating Packaging") seats, I made my way out of the lame ass hotel complex to the lame ass parking lot. Even someone that is non-observant and constantly 78% asleep even while walking would notice the deeeeee-luxe tour bus parked near the front door. Figuring that a tour group from Bear's Nutsack, Nebraska would have such a ride, it must belong to the artist playing the Showroom Lounge this weekend.
Jerry Lee Lewis.
The Killer.
Unfortunately, I didn't have time to linger and loiter because the workplace feels the need to keep me in a stranglehold within its soft and smothering bosom most of my waking hours. In other words, I couldn't dick around for very long, because I had to drive across Hell's half acre to get back to work before they fired my belligerent ass. But I imagined the questions I would ask the man.
"So, Killer, would you recommend marrying a cousin for career advancement?"
Then I remembered that legend has it that he once shot a band member and then yelled at him for bleeding on his carpet. I got the hell out of there, but I regret not being able to shake his hand and thank him for his contributions to the music world.
Jerry Lee Lewis.
The Killer.
Unfortunately, I didn't have time to linger and loiter because the workplace feels the need to keep me in a stranglehold within its soft and smothering bosom most of my waking hours. In other words, I couldn't dick around for very long, because I had to drive across Hell's half acre to get back to work before they fired my belligerent ass. But I imagined the questions I would ask the man.
"So, Killer, would you recommend marrying a cousin for career advancement?"
Then I remembered that legend has it that he once shot a band member and then yelled at him for bleeding on his carpet. I got the hell out of there, but I regret not being able to shake his hand and thank him for his contributions to the music world.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
¡Día feliz de los muertos de YPS!!
Happy Dia de los Muertos!!
"And if I don't meet you no more in this world, then I'll meet you in the next one and dont be late..."
--Jimi Hendrix
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
The POOF And The ...ploop
Hopefully this won’t make the ladies too paranoid.
MANY years ago, what would you say Bone? 1985? Bone Machine and I went to high school together and of the many poor souls that attended with us, was one that is the subject of this story. You see, KG we’ll call her, while a nice grrrl, had the oddest of hairdos. POOF was the style in those days, and while she was quite capable of the POOF, she went another step.
Right on top, in the center of her POOF covered skull (think of the added foam of a microphone cover) was this smaller poof, a “ploop” if you will.
Unbeknownst to KG (whoops, almost typed her name there) there was a bit of a dialogue that began amongst Bone and myself. (Brain? Were you in that one too? What the hell am I saying, I’m sure you probably were.)
You see, in our eyes, KG’s POOF and ploop where a mirror image of Gene Simmons' do, and immediately the jokes ensued. Since those days, anytime mention of KISS is made, Gene is always part of the discussion…which nearly always turns to insulting comments. We talk about his trade-mark bass “ba-woooooo” sounds. His gut. His love of Hostess Twinkies. And, of course, his POOF and ploop. No, we haven’t grown up at all.
Anyway, more often than not, when KISS and Gene are mentioned, inevitably so is KG. Yes, grrrls, it’s true. Boys notice your hair and continue to make fun of it for decades to come, even when you’ve likely changed it 50 times during the years we haven’t seen you.
So you can all imagine my delight this morning when I received a photo in my email. You see, one of my good buddies actually works with Mr. KG and while KG didn’t dress up like Gene for Halloween, well, she’s just a promotion away. This is, as I am told, KG and family. The Twinkie Prophecy has nearly come true.
Ba-woooooo!! Where’s Paul? Had any good Twinkies lately? Are you still the God of Thunder? And Rock N Row-oh?
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