The story of 90 whatever point sompthing

Oh fuck, hosses. Snug’s fount himself a brant new radio station and now he can’t even get out of his car. He’s been sitting in the parking lot at work for nigh on to two weeks, subsisting on the cheese stuck to a couple of old Sonic wrappers and popping cold pills just to stay awake for one more jam. Every hour on the hour they play an old Genesis song for him, the name of which he can’t quite put his finger in. As co-workers pass his car, he rolls down the window and yells, “Goin to the roadhouse, gonna have-a-rio…a good time!” He marvels at how these DJs seem to have all the same Beatles records as he does, and on top of that how they too dig hard on some Eagles. Say, did somebody just request “Captain Jack?” Yes, please. “Bungle in the Jungle?” Don’t mind if I do. Even the commercials are killer: the latest yuks and insane cackling of those wacksters from the Bob and Tom show have never seemed so concise.

Boys, if you’re in the area do him a favor and drop a 5-hour energy, a bag of Doritos, some large Huggies, and a half-pint of anything by his car. Don’t let him coax you into sticking around for a chorus of “American Pie,” though. You’ll never leave.

Fambly

Dambit, doods! How many tymes does a fella have to tell the world that he is the real-deal daddy of Anna Nicole Smith’s (god rest those titties) little love-baby? I’m about had it with these posers trying to act like their swimmers hit that bitch in the babypods any better than mine did. She told me herself that she was pretty sure the kid was mine and I was all, “Nooooo, thanks. You know I only impregnate girls who dig abortion, so this shit ain’t about me.” I knew I shoulda done her Cheatham county style, but my pill buzz led me off course and right into her danger tunnel.

Anyway, I faxed her mom to keep her hands off and I’m heading down to the Bahamas this weekend to claim what’s rightly mine. Any of y’all want to buy a baby?

Come on, brothers. Everybody knows that Taytyme's pet peeves are many and not mild. Take other people trying to light my cigarette. It’s not a team sport, man. You and I are too many cooks for this kitchen. My smoke's starting to look like one of those cigars that blows up in the face of a cartoon, because the tip of it was the last bit to actually touch the flame. My crossed eyes and jutted jaw are like a Neanderthal's, and girls who thought I looked good a minute ago are now acutely aware that I'm no kind of a smooth operator. Just hand me your lighter! Three times out of five I won’t put it away in my own pocket.

And Moses damn Malone, what about those blogs that just show you what a dude looked at on the internet today? You know, the whole category of “the internet, as I see it” blogs. The "hey man, look at this" variety. Put that baloney in an email to your friends. I already have the internet, and I sure as shit don't need you to tell me what's on it. It's like when people tell me that I HAVE to hear some band, see some movie, or go to some restaurant. I punch those fuckers in the tits and say, “Nobody tells me what to do.”

That being said, look what popped up the other night when Taytyme came home dronked up and googled "gayest band in the world."