Why Vinyls Are So Very Delicately Amazing

It's been said thoroughly enough in the title: vinyls are so very delicately amazing, in every way and facet imaginable. The raw crunchiness and sincerity of the sounds that come out of that record player make my ears cum so hard I literally have to change my earmuffs. Here, now that I've grabbed your attention, allow me to foolishly digress to things that are probably related to food.

We got a caterpillar today. I guess we didn't "get" him so much as we "took" him (from his miserable little existence on the shitty bark of some cold ass tree, mind you). And we've shown that fucker a good time. It's been nothing but fine bitches and flowing brews; he's been living like a king in our cut-up Saltines box full of dirt and assorted woodland bits. But even in this sweet-ass pad, the little Schmuck keeps trying to escape. Or, should I say, trying to leave the party early. He's all green and hairy with a brown little creepy ugly face and an X on his ass. He's adorable. We just wanna have a good time with the guy before he goes and becomes a moth (and as a moth the poor guy wouldn't have a mouth) and mates himself to death! Not that that's a bad way to go out, in fact it's one of the best I suppose. If it should come to that. See, my plan is to live forever. So far, so good.

We're leaving bitches, so y'all can peace the fuck ouuuut.

You-know-who-the-guys-the-usual-guys-you-know-who-I'm-talking-about-thoooose-guys

Do I Even Need to Explain Myself?

Do I even have to explain myself. Probably not, and I don't think I'll try. I can't explain anything, really, except make shitty observations about things. Like, "Oh yeah, I'm the first person ever who has seen this one unique fact about this mass-produced pen that I'm looking at right now". It's also like when you wear a monocle out, and people approach you and say, "Why are wearing a monocle?" And all you can think of to say is "'Cause it's fucking awesome, uh, hyuduh." Because you really don't even need to explain yourself, you stupid son of a bitch.

Moving on: so alright, I'll explain a little something: how does thought make sense? Because that means fucked up thoughts make even less sense. Holy shit come on. Thought? Explain yourself please.

You know what I'm thinking? What's next. And I don't know, man.

And this brings us to "Primo Kebab." The true crux of the matter. Does it need to be explained? Maybe we ought to explain what it symbolizes. To us, it symbolizes everything's good, everything's gonna be just fine because we're happy. Primo Kebab is a sock filled with rice and oil that you can heat up and put on your neck; it's sitting on a bench and realizing how much sky there is; it's looking at something and saying "Well, why not? Nothing bad can happen!"

Where to? Where to? Southwest! Take us southwest, captain!

What scares me is the thought of more knowledge. There's so many things to be known. We really don't know anything, when you think about it.

Estamos llegando.

h's & k's

Welcoming Post

Welcome all, to this blog of ours! Come in, don't be shy. We don't smell like urine! At least, we could smell worse.

Why are we who we are?
We are who we are for a number of reasons, not the least of which are our leisure activities. No, we are not actually going to discuss these reasons in this post. We're not an open book! Alright! We're done then.

At this juncture it is relevant to note the sheer dumbness of ourselves and, consequentially, this blog. If you're looking for existential thought or a stimulating read, you have come to the wrong place. However, if you think it's really hilarious for two dumb guys to try to use words and be smart, then this is the place for you, bitches!

H's and K's,
Us