Why DON'T we do it in the road?
Creme soda is a beverage I enjoy while I'm on the shelf but I would like to put whisky in it if anyone can get me some. Have 'em rap it up to look like toothpaste or sumthin', you know, this young doctor has an idea he wants to keep me alive. 
I feel like the subject of an experiment to see how long I can stay confined in this controlled environment before I shrivel of malnutrition but I'm eating what I normally would which is bad. The room spins but it's not as fun as it sounds.
Not to be gross but I washed my left leg for the first time in a month and a half and it was like some effect from a Universal horror film or like the true identity of the real leg was stunningly revealed at the last moment.
It's to be two more weeks of crutches, you see, and that makes me growl but I'm doing the time that was required by the certain crime that I committed which was some sin, I suppose, so I'm doing that time and then when my sentence is up I'll try to come back better prepared for the battle of everyday existence. I hope that doesn't come off as wishy-washy. Meanwhile, the density of the atmosphere presses me into the davenport and Tina warms a spot on my already molten lap. This may be my mission but it sure as shit is Tina's house. The world seems very small which is a sudden opinion to have just after flying back from the southern hemisphere. But having my leg, alone, out of wraps and in water felt liberating, like I was on my way. Putting one foot in front of the other... Everybody sing. I would like to swoosh to the stars and I'm in Hollywood where the elite meet to eat treats on neat seats. In a few days we start British Open coverage which will be my first from the west coast of the United States so viewing will begin at 3:30 in the morning so what a fine time to be holed up in a shack with nothing but a little insulted micro fiber optical cable something or other. My early pick is Stuart Appleby so it's official and in the record. Anyhow, I'll hold off on opening the Guinness or Boddington's til near sunrise and then settle in for the drama. They're playing in Liverpool so I have to choose between the Guinness across the thin stretch of sea to Ireland or drinking the cream ale or "mother's milk" of Boddington's, the pride of Manchester to the north. Either way, a marvelous dilemma to have and I accept the danger that goes along with it. After all, I have Inquisition style rehab ahead of me so I accept one last swig of madness to keep me to the next summer day.
I feel like the subject of an experiment to see how long I can stay confined in this controlled environment before I shrivel of malnutrition but I'm eating what I normally would which is bad. The room spins but it's not as fun as it sounds. 
Not to be gross but I washed my left leg for the first time in a month and a half and it was like some effect from a Universal horror film or like the true identity of the real leg was stunningly revealed at the last moment. 
It's to be two more weeks of crutches, you see, and that makes me growl but I'm doing the time that was required by the certain crime that I committed which was some sin, I suppose, so I'm doing that time and then when my sentence is up I'll try to come back better prepared for the battle of everyday existence. I hope that doesn't come off as wishy-washy. Meanwhile, the density of the atmosphere presses me into the davenport and Tina warms a spot on my already molten lap. This may be my mission but it sure as shit is Tina's house. The world seems very small which is a sudden opinion to have just after flying back from the southern hemisphere. But having my leg, alone, out of wraps and in water felt liberating, like I was on my way. Putting one foot in front of the other... Everybody sing. I would like to swoosh to the stars and I'm in Hollywood where the elite meet to eat treats on neat seats. In a few days we start British Open coverage which will be my first from the west coast of the United States so viewing will begin at 3:30 in the morning so what a fine time to be holed up in a shack with nothing but a little insulted micro fiber optical cable something or other. My early pick is Stuart Appleby so it's official and in the record. Anyhow, I'll hold off on opening the Guinness or Boddington's til near sunrise and then settle in for the drama. They're playing in Liverpool so I have to choose between the Guinness across the thin stretch of sea to Ireland or drinking the cream ale or "mother's milk" of Boddington's, the pride of Manchester to the north. Either way, a marvelous dilemma to have and I accept the danger that goes along with it. After all, I have Inquisition style rehab ahead of me so I accept one last swig of madness to keep me to the next summer day.
posted by Tony Aguirre | 2:18 AM
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