I thought I'd write something. I've been working and busy and have no chance to update this site for a bit. I've generally spent my evenings sleeping, and then getting up to work again in the morning. It's a vicious cycle and the only way out of it that I can see is to become a hobo. So look for me ridding the rails sometime later this summer.
I'll be posting from Internet cafes at train depots and men's only barber shops. I will carry my lunch in a bag at the end of a stick. Though this will only occur when I reach the end of my rope.
New things? Not really. Sorry. I hoped to be able to tell you something extraordinary. Something to really drive up the site's hits like, "OH MY GOD I'M PREGNANT!" or "Brittney Spears slut picture download!". However all I can leave you with is a short story that I'm going to make up right now for you.
There was once a man named Frampton Motley KISS. He'd been named after his father's favorite bands, and sadly when as an adult he had applied to have his name changed to something normal like Michael Dowler or Rodney King, the judge was a metal head as well and insisted that he not only keep the name but that Frampton's new nickname was "Badass Dude".
Needless to say like many unfornuatly named indivduals, the Dali Lama comes to mind, Frampton lead a difficult life. Oh granted he got free into nearly every concert that Power 104, and previous to that the Lizard, sponsored but his heart was just not in it. Frampton believed that his destiny was not as a groupie for various bands from the 1970s' but rather as a sandwhich artist at his local Subway.
"Father," he said one day as his dad passed him a big fattie at a Clint Black concert in Kelowna City Park, "I know you like getting free tickets to all these shows but I wish you'd support me in changing my name."
His father ignored him. See his father had recently begun expanding his interest in music to country, and was trying hard to dig the Clint Black. Besides Frampton's whinning was bringing the two chicks that he was trying to score down. He had wished he had had a daughter. His hypeathetical daughter, he was confident, would never complain about being named Cher Lauper Kim Deal.
Frampton sighed, and turned back towards the stage, and tried to get into the concert.
Later that day he was walking by a saloon which had just opened in Kelowna and so he went in. Then he died because it was being fumigated so the nachos cheese would stop growing mold when left unrefrigerated for weeks.
Alright so it falls apart at the end, but what do you expect from ten minutes at work with no actual thinking involved?