234 - Gotta' love Humanities

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I find it funny that the car from Pyscho - you know the one Norman dumps in the bog to ditch the girl's body, well that later became the Clever's family car in Leave it to Beaver...kinda sick if you think about it.

Empty Batteries

I wish we could all be like Frankenstein’s monster; just have these big fucking bolts in our necks that were attached to our brains or spines or something-so that every time we were pissed or sad or depressed we could attach cables to them and all the negative energy or emotions we didn’t want to feel would have their electrical signals be withdrawn from the brain, and carried out of the body to a empty emotion battery or something.

It's been a while...

Anyone need smokes?

Fond memmories from 'roo

I feel that nothing
Encompasses all that is Bonnaroo like this photo taken of Timbo, who probably has little-to no recollection of it. Mmmm mmm opiates…

Observing a 10pm Dog Hill and an epiphany

I sat alone, a spectator to a wide abyss of salvation green grass, plummeting downward into the mist which seeped in surfeits in to the world with the veil of night. Upon a the hill I swam in the nostalgias thoughts which barreled through the gaunt fragments of my mind; lost in the visual poetry which lingered in the twilight. There I bore witness to angelic beams which dove through the night and pierced the evening mist, the stifling double wielded flames of justice plunging into the sifting tides of fog, fallowed by the mechanical roar of a night-owl stompin’ in D. As a looming spectator mentally lost, mentally barricaded if you will, after a endless day of chasing geese I left myself. With my mouth a smokestack of billowing camels; my mind drifted as a specter on high from beyond the desolate scraps left after weeks of binging. I transcended, lost in the sublime dream of reality, and succumbed to persistent delirious epiphanies of what life is. Paying homage the hypnotic tide of lights drifting like clockwork in a sea of nebulous twilight tides I realized the beauty that is this fleeting life about us. Every experience is an experience worthy of having, every moment is the final one of its’ kind, and no matter how much you treasure it friends, you’ll never get it back. Brown Day was a theory built upon the days that matter, and the days you feel most alive. In time I have come to question the significance of every other day, every other passing glimpse, every other unnoticed breath which is a world of splendor onto its self. Then came possibley the most monumental mental debris of all, that every moment, no matter how loathed is an experience and thusly a divine miracle. We only get one shot at life kids, and life shouldn’t be wasted on striding for perfection, or working for the weekend, but simply taking time to look around on occasion and bask in the glory all around us. We’re now headed for the brink to end the first era of our own lives, beyond is the main act… smile daily and reminisce in the splendor that is your life, the miracle of the hum-drum and the brilliance and wonder that is reality. In a sigh of conclusion, please my friends acknowledge life, because I assure you with everything in me, it is all ways acknowledging you. Now stop reading this bull and go live you little shit….

With all the love that has ever been,
-His Holiness the Drewbylama

Dast is big gabidge truck!

They've surrounded us now, but they are gone.......... smelly men everywere!

From the Lust of Heat 2

The bastards swimming in the back wouldn't you know... The liquid leather of beer drains like a mucus down the back of my throught. The Gonzo Royal Emporter swims in my veins heavy from an afternoon of deep loathing and sweat chills of random late afternoon inebreations. The sand sticks to me like an evangelical from his pecker, round about the ol' ankles resting up on a mutated palm. The seagulls are screaming and the ocean is pulsing with a rushing breath, and I swayed on the back of the bike tween them sandy sandy legs. But now the hour is late and we discuss the TV land traugh and observe the truths of talk shows. Think about it, some brilliant freak is set behind a counter ready to blast, with non of that que-card shit, puling the pud onto the face of some obscure vulnerable un fucking prepared celebrity. My neck is the very essence of wet nudle. This is a sick state my friends; the paranoa in the air strikes to an intence brilliance drenched in stupidity. The vegging has patheticly comenced and with all the shit in the air there is the hope for leasure....or some bullshit likr that. I hope Iam able to spell because Im blind. I just have sister avt to guid me.... oooooo this is true blue sloth right now. Cheese and all my friends. god it's like talking to an infant with a thom yorke eye. The smile is there but the mood sn't the same. Kinda like wanting to kill it becuse it just rubs you an earily obscene way. Drown it in it's own slimy mucus. Oopoh boy! That stuff slides down the throught like the blackest coffee. I'm fried my frineds an in need to doodle. Farewell from the sloth of sweat and the obscenity of insomnia. To all of you I send my deepest love, and to you angknowledge that the journey is never really done my fxriends. To you I love you all in thet truest from. SO I leave you with only this, my never dying love, which will return. My promise...
But now I doodle,for the love of living....streetlights and seasons bright....

From the Lust of Heat

That sucks you can't tab... well the maniquins hae descended upon me as of the current time. They are in the mist of a homiscidal smirk that screams Marsha.

Outside the thwapping rain of insects comes to melike a bitter grimace on new years day. Well i gues we can begin this tale from within the tale. I first located the preciouse Hunter S. Thompson beer, but then I was able to aprehend a few on the beach. Then that rgowjWOghjerophegr90grsn nbegruw90grwn stonedmiop'RGHWnSVnjimp'kSDGdd nI{Q@@Q

I just killed my bro's computer>...

Suburban Lullaby

A fortnight into November, on a greased skillet left to dry; the glistening obsidian dance floor freshly waxed with twilight flurries stretched its two lanes down either end of the midnight neighborhood, vacant and ridden with nighttime specters. The inhabitance of dreams loomed humid in the mauve wind, and these drifting figments danced heavily on to the breeze as they seeped out of bedroom windows, occasionally kicking-up the debris of withered leaves; a heavy melody of typewriters producing a text of Tolstoy proportions. They fled like antelopes, prancing in violent graceful bounds, maple mammals on a concrete plain under siege, disoriented by panic. Given one’s presence, you would have been distracted from the sight by the melancholy sigh of wind; an exhalation of a fellow made desolate after his love was put to waste, suppressing memories with a surfeit of distilled spirits. The chill which made even the massive skeletal structures of autumn trees chatter there branches, like an elementary juvenile’s teeth after a bitter defeat in a snowball fight.
And in the midst of this sonic-vacancy, significant to those who desired rest, came a distant pitter-patter too quick to be replicated by a four-legged wonderer. An apparition, with strobe-like tendencies, an on-and-off rhythm as he passed under the illumination of streetlights, only to plunge quickly back in to shadow. Upon an ancient Schwinn he glided, with a wake of fallen flora, a sputtering V trailing close behind the back tire. Though only visible for seconds before passing back into the nebulous night, he remained visible by a constant unfiltered addiction, which made him resemble qualities of a particular red-nosed Christmas tale character. A locomotive, he left wisps of contaminated toxic breath, dissipating rapidly by his side.
As I gazed apathetically at him from the headache-gray curb some thirty feet beyond, I became aware of the dangling headphones draped around his tree trunk neck, blasting the poetry of Radiohead. They jovially swung in their makeshift glory, broken and bound carelessly with a series of duct-tape mounds and slipknots. The brilliant handyman of this exceptional repair was unquestionably riding upon the bike; for his jeans seemed to be a concoction of denim and the spare scraps discarded from an elderly man’s dresser. His gaunt Goodwill knit sweater billowed three sizes too large in the brisk wind, and remained mostly trailing like a parachute behind him. And as Nick, my friend’s unkempt face drifted into the illumination of a streetlight, I became ever aware of his nicotine stained “sulfury” whites glistening at me. Observing the corn-like teeth protruding from his gums I gave a drowsy halfway grin in salutation of his approaching presence.
The usual exchange of endearing insults soon followed, with the typical, “Lazy bastard-this,” and the classic “God took a shit and there was you.” This of course was accompanied by the aggressive game of who can simultaneously break the other’s hand while shaking it like it’s engulfed in flames; your typical manly greetings of the casual nature. Releasing the limp pulp that was once our hands, we went about our way. Strolling the pavement, a footloose mosey, we meandered off in to the chasm of night.
Along the thick uninhabited pavement we found sanctuary in presence of the other’s company. The open ear of a confidant used as a landfill for the anxiety of the previous week bore as bone-warming reminder of what good can be found in elementary leisure. And amongst the solitude of the twilight ether, shared only by the blue boob-tube light of fellow insomniacs behind glass, and the blissful air illuminated by the gospel of streetlights dwelling in midnight serenity, we came upon a secular salvation. The fat chewing of days gone bye was romanticized by the divinity of the simple. We basked in the fact that in the night air everything exceeds its own existence. Beneath the sifting blue veil over the starry skies we drifted in to a world of visual poetry, and found awe in the optical lyrics of this suburban lullaby.

Our Hero has brought us closer to his beautiful vision

Aren't you proud to be an American today...

They'd like to think they can force you to read....

B-O-A