sorry, i got lost...

so, as i was saying, about the links, i'm not sure what happened there, apparently i didn't clean anything up because the last time i checked my page (which is just about every five seconds, i do it for the ladies), nothing was fixed...

Saturday marks the 21st year of the Wench, otherwise known as Flippin Wench's 21st birthday, or Wench's birthday, if you're an anti-semite (which apparently i am for naming my parakeet hitler)

this is an official stoner get-together, jam packed with risky car rides, respective ritualistic dancing such as "the ryonce", "the wench birthday pop", and perhaps even a big waisted visit from Roe. Oh yes, and we will be trying shrooms...

DUN DUN DUN!

i won't be, of course, i'm the designated stoner referee, which means as soon as everyone is tripping, i get to rip off my clothes and blow a whistle the size of a tim hortons (katio: "tim hortons?!") berry blast muffin(the one on the poster, as opposed to reality), watch people's brains piss out of their foreheads, should be a hoot...

apparently there's a rumor going around work that i've quit smoking...i don't know who nipple fucked that out of their imagination, but there is no such thing as a sober stoner, and you can quote me on that...

next week the stoners will have their own radio show, yes, i repeat, someone gave us a time slot...it might be on the national jesuit college radio station, but, after 10pm, we can say "fart" and "turd" and "tits", but we can not however talk about homosexuals...naturally i'd love to invite scott thompson on the show, even though he's the most unconvincing gay man that ever called me a fat ass (thanks for kicking me off of aol again!::::::throws up west side gang hand gesture::::::::, do the whole human thing much?, stand up?, walk?, buy oranges? sweaty nightmares about accidentally signing up for juno and not being able to read usenet?...pigfuckers)...

ever since birdman's initiation (i've completely forgot how to phrase sentences and spell, but i think being high 14 hours a day really makes up for it, in the long run), he has not removed himself from the fake leather couch by the window at Barton (not to be confused with the late Parkdale, and the soon-to-be late Harvard), except to wrestle, yes wrestle, with bobcat and wench...

in fact, we've been wrestling so much that we might contemplate creating an improvisational wrestling league, which is the excuse i gave the doctor last week when i bruised my rotator cuff, and just about everything else after wiping out at work on the wet floor sign (irony, much?:::::picture a "writer" with "writer glasses" a really old leather jacket, converse sneakers and an unfancy chewn top bic roller ball, with that exact catch phrase, we'd have frost-wannabe's lining up at talking leaves {that's a bookstore, katio} like your local librarian was giving a free lecture on the art of pocket pooling)

birdman is a good shit, though....he takes me to school, and drives fast (although i'll never admit it exhilirating at the time, in case we get in an accident, and i die and he doesn't, we wouldn't want him to think i would forgive him for being reckless with the life of a fucking genius, and this sentence might prove itself to be prolific, and hopefully if i was to ever die in a car crash my mother wouldn't learn how to use the internet and weep at the sight of this particular sentence, here, as i sit quite alive in the lab because my plant class was cancelled)

auto show today, dinner with bobcat tonight, and pray for my knee, and with that the hope of the stoner improvisational wrestling league that lingers without my help...