2004-05-07 - 9:05 a.m.
**Fuck Cinco de Mayo. All the poseurs filled the bars Wed. night, celebrating because their local radio station told them someone had half-priced Dos Equis. Last night I celebrated Sies de Mayo. Its only purpose is for you to imbibe as much tequila as possible after work and before midnight. My head is pounding from swilling Jose Cuervos Gold out of the bottle for an hour before switching to margaritas. Consequently, creativity's hovering around -1 today. Instead of Pencopal, I give you the notorious glorious Pastori-i.
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Here am I. I am me. I am...Pastori-i. I am the ninth in a generation that knows no right. I live, breathe, and exude life. I smoke lots of cigarettes. I love red meat. I enjoy things the best I can. And to be completely honest, I just don�t give a shit.
Pencopal was kind enough to give her reigns up for a day, and dedicate it to modest old me. I�m not big on introductions, so I�ll get straight to the point. I�m right. You�re wrong. So please. By all means. Go fuck yourself.
I like Pabst Blue Ribbon. Despite its inherent bad taste, trendy disposition, and tendency to cause explosive diarrhea, it is relatively cheap and sold in tall cans. Tall cans are important. When it comes to booze, I buy with the knowledge that bigger is better. It has a logo much like that of your local police department, and boasts an aftertaste that says, �Fuck, you�re not liquor, but you�re awfully damn close.� A simple badge, a symbol of honor, a way of life. Pabst Blue Ribbon. Who gives a fuck.
Anyways, I�ve taken the tendency to drinking during the day. Lazy Saturday, nothing on the tube, and I�m stuck surfing the Net and listening to tunes. I sit at my desk, I pop on a record. The music flows, I crack a tall one. Take a pull. Sit it down. Open my ear and wait for some sound.
Music these days is a fickle thing. In my case, I�m a total fucking elitist. You have to really be doing something different to turn my ear; I�m not a tune in, turn out kind of person. I don�t know about you, but when I hear something that�s wild, intricate and completely obnoxious, I get an enormous hard on. I jump up, I get down. I take in the madness that surrounds me. I�m alive, and I know it for the millionth time. If you don�t get it, you�re a fool. Feel that shit, motherfucker, FEEL it.
So yeah, I just got up to grab another brew, and much to my surprise, one was already there. Brilliant. I grabbed two on the way up to the typer, how�s that for fucking foresight? I forgot that the brew was right there next to me, which makes it all the more better. It is important to take notice of the simple pleasures in life. You work your job, you pay your rent. You try to maintain some type of physical composure. There�s so much bad, negative shit out there, it is pointless to not recognize insignificant things. Stuff like that makes me happy.
Of course, there is something insanely comforting about looking at three beers when you�re pretty much halfway there. They sit, sweating in their beautiful, innate coldness. They ensure total and utter redemption, you�ve finally made it, baby. Pop a can, take a hit and somehow the world seems better. I love them, and in complete mock sarcasm, I love you too.
At any rate, don�t look for this kind of thing again soon. I have no desire to discuss politics, life, or even describe myself to you or any of the other maniacs that habitually read this column. I was bored on a Saturday afternoon, and here it is. Simple as that. See ya later, you crazy fucks. Direct all feedback to Pencopunkass. What a dumb fucking nickname I have.
Pastori-i
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