yr welcome

obama hoops

racists run around saying dumb crap like

i want my country back

which everyone knows just means progress scares you

and you’re uncomfortable that theres a black president steering the ship

where everything is going exactly as you feared:


the u.s. was so low when obama took over that some people thought the republicans werent even trying

“lets let things get worse before things get better and then we can re-take the white house and everyone will love us again.”

but the stock market is up, housing is back, unemployment is down,

bin laden dead, people have health insurance, and the cubs are playing incredibly.

and people can try to discount all of those achievements and say this or that about them

but one thing they cannot deny

under obama we have felt safer.

we are not hyper paranoid about every little thing.

we have gotten our country back.

theres no more ridiculous terror alerts. theres no more

fear fear fear

being shoved at us. which no one believed anyway, but still.

i appreciate that.

quality of life means something to me, so thank you for not lying all day to me

so i would buy into your malarkey.

am i thrilled about the government spying on me?


but im enjoying pretty much everything else.

everything i want is impossible

isla vista

a beautiful black xbi lady doctor today told me that i should get surgery on my hands and wrists and stop dicking around with the compression sleeves and icy hot and just let trained professionals cut and yank and remove all the bad stuff thats causing me pain.

all i want is you.

that and to go back to isla vista when a band could play on your balcony as the sun set and the keg settled in the ice bucket and the ladies of the house said hey

hey hey


ho ho.

i just want to buy a house one day and not have to rob a band first to do it.

i just wanna write a book one day that will get taught in the same college class where Bukowski is taught but i aint got no stories like his to tell and they dont teach him to the kids no way anyway so why do i even think we’d both get taught when theyre obsessed with all the gold standards of yore who were fine and all but come on pappy.

pretty girl got in my car yesterday and said home james and i said if only. as if. you wish. turned out she was in the wrong Benz. and i said arent we all bb, arent we all.

got home and jeanine had done my laundry, hung my drapes and worked out a way the cats could sit in my windowsill and give eskimo kisses to the one eared black stray who lives under the house and this morning i got paranoid that he would give them fleas so i shut the window and they meowed in such a way that woulda broken any normal mans heart but i have no heart any more and i aint been normal since leon bull durham let that ball go through his legs in san dieger which is why i hate san dieger and wont ever name my kid leon bull durham

thats for damn sure.

but what do i want? i wanna girlfriend who, if i was in jail with a 5 million dollar bail, would bond me out after she won the powerball even though im probably the lamest heroin dealer in the world. she still believes in me and doesnt want me in jail even though now that shes a millionairess could get any man in the world.

except for the busblog. bc the busblog only cares about ur heart.

and when he kisses the right girl with the right heart sees a hippie band jamming on a balcony on DP in IV

as the sun is setting

and the old keg is getting pulled out as the new keg is getting lowered

into the tub of ice, topped with red solo cups, one of which has this name scribbled on it


but we ignore that bc shes a good kisser.

uggie’s dead. is there any reason to go on?

uggieamerica’s favorite living silent star is now dead.

uggie the dog.

le petite chien who stole our hearts in The Artist has now been transformed into a heavenly spirit.

he didnt say much when he was here but we heard every word.

most of the time he was telling us to have fun, eat right, and love each other.

he died the way he lived, wondering how a celebrity could croak due to a wonky prostrate.

the artist was a miracle of a movie: a black and white silent film overrun with french people.

uggie of course was the secret weapon. the one thing we could all relate to.

and now he’s dead.

he’ll never see the cubs win the world series next year. he wont see Straight Outta Compton premiere this weekend. he wont live a day under President Trump and the inevitable world war four.

maybe uggie knew when to bid us all adieu.

animals usually do.

au revoir, mssr uggie.

au revoir