He was in blue jeans and a work shirt, which is another weird quirk of Rich Old Men. Just one of the guys here. Blue jeans and a work shirt, salt of the earth, working man like yourself. Like they're somehow uncomfortable about being rich enough to sleep in a bed made of vaginas being pulled around the town at night by a fleet of gold-covered midgets.
Don't live with writers. Writers are bastards.
So this Zealot comes to my door, all glazed eyes and clean reproductive organs, asking me if I ever think about God. So I tell him I killed God. I tracked God down like a rabid dog, hacked off his legs with a hedge trimmer, raped him with a corncob, and boiled off his corpse in an acid bath. So he pulls an alternating-current taser on me and tells me that only the Official Serbian Church of Tesla can save my polyphase intrinsic electric field, known to non-engineers as "the soul." So I hit him. What would you do?
Listen to the Chair Leg of Truth! It does not lie!
Santa Monica's only walkable if death is no hurdle. The air's the wrong colour. People put sunglasses on their dogs. It's a hideous place where humans are not welcome and those who stay suffer eight kinds of brain damage.
My neck and shoulders are killing me. Hard to focus on writing about murder, doom, shagging, our hopeless future & other comedy etc etc.
That means that the universe is two-dimensional. Matter, energy, time, you, me and the floor are holograms.
I want vasopressin, washed caffeine, Jumpstart, ginkgo biloba, guarana, and any intelligence enhancer introduced in the last five years.
You must remember that the common criminal will always join the armed forces for, if nothing else, regular meals and expert training in the use of guns.
Los Angeles had no culture of its own, just a large collection of misreadings of the artistic histories of other, proper cities.
Elijah Snow: 'Who have you pissed off this time, John?' John Stone: 'Sumatran robot death sluts -- Dammit, ONE of these buttons fires the atomic death biter --
good morning sinners. vampiric red bull intake in pub smoking compound commenced. day of heavy brain-fingering ahead.
I admit that I have sometimes claimed to be Batman in the past. But only when really, really drunk.
I grew up in the 80s in England: we'd wake up each morning and look out the window to see if the government had finally put Daleks on the streets.
There was a time when I liked a good riot. Put on some heavy old street clothes that could stand a bit of sidewalk-scraping, infect myself with something good and contagious, then go out and stamp on some cops. It was great, being nine years old.
Jim Rosato was recently married, to a Greek nurse. Rosato was half Irish and half Italian, and there was a pool on at the 1st as to which of the two would arrive at work wearing the other's skin as a hat within the year.
Cheap! But not as cheap as your girlfriend.
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