chefcraig
01-09-2012, 12:13 AM
This is posted as a nod, a wink and a tribute to the late, great Hunter S. Thompson.
...I pretty much plan to to turn off my computer, take that really goofy "Snuggy" I got from a distant relative for Christmas (seriously, it has a Superman print all over the damned thing), and throw it over my computer.
I already have a well stocked armory, so...I'll first go to my local liquor store (I'll explain where to get a vehicle in a moment), and stock up on the needed liquids to assist in studying this significant artifact. Yes, this will amount in an expenditure of over seventy five dollars. Of course, I'll also make a change of protocol by actually speaking with the two clueless twits that maintain my swimming pool, to see if they are in any sort of pipeline to purchase the sort of drugs I normally can not find in in my normal line of work. I'll later go to Best Buy, Wal Mart or Target (whichever is closest), buy the damned album and listen to it, repeatedly and loudly, preferably in a temporally borrowed convertible owned my neighbor whose dogs bark all night. (These bastards deserve to have their cars stolen, and believe that barking dogs will prevent theft. Fucking morons...) I'll make up my own mind as to how the fucking album works or desnt's after driving all night to the other coast, and crashing in a the cheapest hotel offering a vacancy sign, and only offer a report or maybe refrain entirely from doing so depending upon the service I receive. Shit, there might be a couple of desperate, underpaid sportswriters lost between buses that can offer up some insight as to properly laying bets on a couple of upcoming events. (Thank God or someone like him for these lost souls.)Who cares? There is simply something exhilarating about listening to music loudly while driving drunkenly and recklessly in a car (in an area where you can not hurt anyone else) that belongs not to you that just makes you feel at one with life.
I find it astounding how folks can make predictions of how valid this record is gonna be, based upon one or two crummy clips from a live gig and a 28 second sample of a recording.
Yeah, yeah...it's the internet, baby. Everyone is entitled to instant editorials, thoughtless testimonials and for Christ's sake, clueless, uninformed opinions from dubious sources.
At this point, I don't care, friends. I have a plan. I have the release date, I know where to get the needed supplies, and even better...I know where my neighbors leave the keys to that (red) convertible I mentioned(and fuck these mutants altogether for blasting Journey and other crappy tunes over their satellite radio systems each week during their crummy BBQs each Sunday) .
Now, about getting that car back...screw 'em all.
Life is fucking good, friends. Listen to it loudly, with a highly attuned ear. The alternative is fucking off in silence. Yer choice, gang.
chef.
...I pretty much plan to to turn off my computer, take that really goofy "Snuggy" I got from a distant relative for Christmas (seriously, it has a Superman print all over the damned thing), and throw it over my computer.
I already have a well stocked armory, so...I'll first go to my local liquor store (I'll explain where to get a vehicle in a moment), and stock up on the needed liquids to assist in studying this significant artifact. Yes, this will amount in an expenditure of over seventy five dollars. Of course, I'll also make a change of protocol by actually speaking with the two clueless twits that maintain my swimming pool, to see if they are in any sort of pipeline to purchase the sort of drugs I normally can not find in in my normal line of work. I'll later go to Best Buy, Wal Mart or Target (whichever is closest), buy the damned album and listen to it, repeatedly and loudly, preferably in a temporally borrowed convertible owned my neighbor whose dogs bark all night. (These bastards deserve to have their cars stolen, and believe that barking dogs will prevent theft. Fucking morons...) I'll make up my own mind as to how the fucking album works or desnt's after driving all night to the other coast, and crashing in a the cheapest hotel offering a vacancy sign, and only offer a report or maybe refrain entirely from doing so depending upon the service I receive. Shit, there might be a couple of desperate, underpaid sportswriters lost between buses that can offer up some insight as to properly laying bets on a couple of upcoming events. (Thank God or someone like him for these lost souls.)Who cares? There is simply something exhilarating about listening to music loudly while driving drunkenly and recklessly in a car (in an area where you can not hurt anyone else) that belongs not to you that just makes you feel at one with life.
I find it astounding how folks can make predictions of how valid this record is gonna be, based upon one or two crummy clips from a live gig and a 28 second sample of a recording.
Yeah, yeah...it's the internet, baby. Everyone is entitled to instant editorials, thoughtless testimonials and for Christ's sake, clueless, uninformed opinions from dubious sources.
At this point, I don't care, friends. I have a plan. I have the release date, I know where to get the needed supplies, and even better...I know where my neighbors leave the keys to that (red) convertible I mentioned(and fuck these mutants altogether for blasting Journey and other crappy tunes over their satellite radio systems each week during their crummy BBQs each Sunday) .
Now, about getting that car back...screw 'em all.
Life is fucking good, friends. Listen to it loudly, with a highly attuned ear. The alternative is fucking off in silence. Yer choice, gang.
chef.