Elton and Johnny
Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Johnny Cash.
I went for a ride yesterday and I stopped at a courthouse to talk with a robe-wearing judge. He was very intimidating, but he dismissed me with a wish for a happy holiday. Very kind, after all. But I suspect he wasn't after I left. I've seen him before. He hates chewing gum and hats. What a strange form of hate.
And then I laughed! I mean before. I laughed before, I think it was tuesday, which wasn't yesterday. But it wasn't because Johnny Cash is actually dead now. No, death isn't something to be laughed about, it's something to be conquered! let me at him, let me at him, I'll smash him to pieces. Not Johnny Cash. I love Johnny Cash. His latest wife was hot! His former wife was pretty hot too. Hot chicks are cool. If Johnny Cash were a hot chick, wooooooo! Imagine a hot chick with that voice, turn on or turn off? Shut up bitch! You could say that with reason, unless she sang and picked some strings, naked.
What's wrong with rock and roll? It hasn't progressed enough. I'm tired of going to rock shows without naked chicks. I've never seen Marilyn Manson. He has naked chicks at his shows whenever he can. He's awesome. I wonder if he's an incarnation of Marilyn Monroe. They have the same first name, so it makes sense, and Charles Manson is still alive. I slept with her last night. No, actually with Jessica, who was flowing whitely. Not the Jessica, unfortunately. There's so many Jessicas now. Yet another popped up last weekend, and she was flowing whitely too, and, but, she went home, and then yesterday the Jessica waved hello and then goodbye and we were busy, well, she was, but not the kind of busy I wanted her to be. Look at me, I'm skinny. And just then, rabbi, moses came to town and said to all the children, we hate love, we love hate, or was that paul? I forget. But I did go to see paul. He lives in Rome. Beautiful garden he has. Very powerful message. But Jessica, woman she looks good. Tall, long legs, red hair, blue eyes. Oh, what do the eyes matter. A self-proclaimed schizo-phrenic I had the wonderful occasion to talk to, thought she could look into my eyes and see how crazy I was. Said she could see the real me, or something like that. I didn't blink for a long time, which disappointed the fact I couldn't do that four weeks previously when looking into another girl's eyes to see who she was. Ha ha. Funny. She, the schizoidphreniac, said I was real crazy, but she didn't get that from my eyes. She declared that before the eye thing. In fact, she said everyone was schizo-phrenic, but didn't know it. She wanted me to disagree. So badly that she imagined that I did and proceeded to kick me away, literally, she kicked me away. Frightening. The robe-wearing judge wasn't as harsh. Another Jessica had a talk with her and she wanted to fight, but we left.
Would you die for me? I would only go so far about half the time, but for the Jessica, wooooo! I'd tear myself apart limb to limb. Imagine eating. It's easy when you're hungry. Eating when you're full is tough, and imagining it makes you sick.
I don't want to leave without relevancy, so I'm including today's fact in the honor of the late Johnny Cash, you know, the musician who sang and picked and fucked. SOngs, including This Heart of Mine. Let me tell you something about this heart of mine, people. Though jabbed and staked and punctured and shredded heart that it is, the beat goes on. How wonderful it is to know I'm still alive with this heart of mine that hasn't died. It soaks up enough love to keep on ticking, though barely enough, it seems sometimes. Strangely, it also seems that every lash makes it stronger because it's more aware of its limits, and therefore more willing to give everything at the moment before the apocalypse, like a balloon that wails at its last breath of deflation. Sometimes I even fear the pain is necessary. Painful joy, is that it? No, joyful pain. What is today? No more questions. I have lunch to eat and Johnny's home for the holidays. I'm guessing he's still fat, black, and gay, and if you don't know what I mean then you're as a beefy cop told me earlier this week, shit out of luck. The bright side is that I wasn't, so you don't have to be either, and it's all because of God's grace, and if you don't know what I mean, then you're as a beefy cop told me earlier this week, shit out of luck. And you know what it means to be shit out of luck. Okay, I have to explain this to Bob. You are shit, and you live in a house called luck. Then the POlice come knocking on your door and you make the mistake of opening it, after which they handcuff you and take you away from your beautiful home. Shit out of luck. The bright side to all of this cannot be made more apparent, I think, than by a man called Elton John. He cheated on his husband last night, if you consider a blow job to be cheating. Anyways, in your new house you don't have to cook for yourself.
I went for a ride yesterday and I stopped at a courthouse to talk with a robe-wearing judge. He was very intimidating, but he dismissed me with a wish for a happy holiday. Very kind, after all. But I suspect he wasn't after I left. I've seen him before. He hates chewing gum and hats. What a strange form of hate.
And then I laughed! I mean before. I laughed before, I think it was tuesday, which wasn't yesterday. But it wasn't because Johnny Cash is actually dead now. No, death isn't something to be laughed about, it's something to be conquered! let me at him, let me at him, I'll smash him to pieces. Not Johnny Cash. I love Johnny Cash. His latest wife was hot! His former wife was pretty hot too. Hot chicks are cool. If Johnny Cash were a hot chick, wooooooo! Imagine a hot chick with that voice, turn on or turn off? Shut up bitch! You could say that with reason, unless she sang and picked some strings, naked.
What's wrong with rock and roll? It hasn't progressed enough. I'm tired of going to rock shows without naked chicks. I've never seen Marilyn Manson. He has naked chicks at his shows whenever he can. He's awesome. I wonder if he's an incarnation of Marilyn Monroe. They have the same first name, so it makes sense, and Charles Manson is still alive. I slept with her last night. No, actually with Jessica, who was flowing whitely. Not the Jessica, unfortunately. There's so many Jessicas now. Yet another popped up last weekend, and she was flowing whitely too, and, but, she went home, and then yesterday the Jessica waved hello and then goodbye and we were busy, well, she was, but not the kind of busy I wanted her to be. Look at me, I'm skinny. And just then, rabbi, moses came to town and said to all the children, we hate love, we love hate, or was that paul? I forget. But I did go to see paul. He lives in Rome. Beautiful garden he has. Very powerful message. But Jessica, woman she looks good. Tall, long legs, red hair, blue eyes. Oh, what do the eyes matter. A self-proclaimed schizo-phrenic I had the wonderful occasion to talk to, thought she could look into my eyes and see how crazy I was. Said she could see the real me, or something like that. I didn't blink for a long time, which disappointed the fact I couldn't do that four weeks previously when looking into another girl's eyes to see who she was. Ha ha. Funny. She, the schizoidphreniac, said I was real crazy, but she didn't get that from my eyes. She declared that before the eye thing. In fact, she said everyone was schizo-phrenic, but didn't know it. She wanted me to disagree. So badly that she imagined that I did and proceeded to kick me away, literally, she kicked me away. Frightening. The robe-wearing judge wasn't as harsh. Another Jessica had a talk with her and she wanted to fight, but we left.
Would you die for me? I would only go so far about half the time, but for the Jessica, wooooo! I'd tear myself apart limb to limb. Imagine eating. It's easy when you're hungry. Eating when you're full is tough, and imagining it makes you sick.
I don't want to leave without relevancy, so I'm including today's fact in the honor of the late Johnny Cash, you know, the musician who sang and picked and fucked. SOngs, including This Heart of Mine. Let me tell you something about this heart of mine, people. Though jabbed and staked and punctured and shredded heart that it is, the beat goes on. How wonderful it is to know I'm still alive with this heart of mine that hasn't died. It soaks up enough love to keep on ticking, though barely enough, it seems sometimes. Strangely, it also seems that every lash makes it stronger because it's more aware of its limits, and therefore more willing to give everything at the moment before the apocalypse, like a balloon that wails at its last breath of deflation. Sometimes I even fear the pain is necessary. Painful joy, is that it? No, joyful pain. What is today? No more questions. I have lunch to eat and Johnny's home for the holidays. I'm guessing he's still fat, black, and gay, and if you don't know what I mean then you're as a beefy cop told me earlier this week, shit out of luck. The bright side is that I wasn't, so you don't have to be either, and it's all because of God's grace, and if you don't know what I mean, then you're as a beefy cop told me earlier this week, shit out of luck. And you know what it means to be shit out of luck. Okay, I have to explain this to Bob. You are shit, and you live in a house called luck. Then the POlice come knocking on your door and you make the mistake of opening it, after which they handcuff you and take you away from your beautiful home. Shit out of luck. The bright side to all of this cannot be made more apparent, I think, than by a man called Elton John. He cheated on his husband last night, if you consider a blow job to be cheating. Anyways, in your new house you don't have to cook for yourself.
posted by Tegbir Singh at 10:03 AM
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