Monday, September 06, 2004


Hot as fucking fuck. Damn it was hot. Hot enough to deem talking about the weather NOT a cliché, for the moment, for the moment folks.

You find yourself sweltering on the Eastside calling your more established associates on the Westside to see what they’re doing in their air conditioned homes. Perhaps you’d like some company if only for a few hours. Ahh, yessss. I'll be right over.

Bloodbaths in Russia, tempests in Florida, Clinton doing well they say, after a quick quad-bipass, dear oh my, the world’s gone to pot. And we’re hot over here damnit! There were flies in the diner this morning during breakfast! Our hair is frizzy! Our skin is filmy and untowards! But the sun sets and the heat slightly remits and we can rest assured that our climate controlled workplaces will be glad to see us after this long, hot, drunken blur of a labor fucking day weekend. A pittance for all we do! What do we do? Jack fucking shit, every one of us. And we do it so well, don't we.


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