today i was a sub for mr. carver. i was a ham and cheese sub. since i don't eat pork, i lost 5 ezra pounds today. part of my duties was showing a film on mesopotamia. when they got to the part about writing being invented there, i exclaimed "just remember that the people we are bombing now? their ancestors invented writing." when you think of danielle steele, this may not be such a great invention, but what of cervantes?
yes, i enjoy being a sub, but being pasta is even better. he who controls the pasta controls the presenta, he who controls the futura controls the pasta. all is well that orwell. yes, a "substitute." a lot of great men have been substitutes, including paul atwood, richard steven silberg, and mr. calos, a balding 30ish sub at the king solomon burke lewenberg school in mattapan. i went from the mattapot straight to the mattapan. what the matta, pan? their is a pandemic in africa! we must do something, perhaps a walk, or wear a t shirt, or have a teach in? oh no, we couldn't take over a building, or refuse to pay taxes, or have a work stoppage. no, that's something che might do...better to wear a t shirt with his image on it that sells for 25 bucks at urban outfitters. never before has it cost so much to look like a bum. i say if you are gonna look like a bum, do it on the cheap. but perhaps that is a poor substitute, like splenda in the grass, a film about herb williams. this blog is going to pot. smokin joe knows what i'm talkin about even though he got the word second hand, which is much more harmful.
all power to the people, except johnny most of them. which people? the rednecks? the soldiers? the drunks at the bar who think war is played every sunday from 1 to 4? i'm blue bland every sunday, thinkin over stormy monday, that one day that i'm with you. i hope you are howlin' wolf with laughter over that one. i'm shootin bb's write now, right? sunday, i go to ward churchill, and i neil armstrong down to pray for the all the white natives being fired from their posts in academia. ahh, the end of america, but when did it start? i too will sit at the table, but the food will be cold and there will be no veggies. i am the darker brother,and i sing ballads to my landlord. what happens to rent that is deferred? does it get you evicted? or do you go live in a syrupy sweet log cabin to save money on electricity? i can feel the stax-volts pouring through this blog. yes, my genius shines through,,,but alas, it is blind world, unseeing, fumbling in the dark. all is lost, except my sense of direction, that i got for 25 cents at the dollar store because someone always has to give their 2 cents but i'm tryin to buck the system. ain't that grand that i'm one in a million. yo, my shit is money mofo.
peace my hound.
yes, i enjoy being a sub, but being pasta is even better. he who controls the pasta controls the presenta, he who controls the futura controls the pasta. all is well that orwell. yes, a "substitute." a lot of great men have been substitutes, including paul atwood, richard steven silberg, and mr. calos, a balding 30ish sub at the king solomon burke lewenberg school in mattapan. i went from the mattapot straight to the mattapan. what the matta, pan? their is a pandemic in africa! we must do something, perhaps a walk, or wear a t shirt, or have a teach in? oh no, we couldn't take over a building, or refuse to pay taxes, or have a work stoppage. no, that's something che might do...better to wear a t shirt with his image on it that sells for 25 bucks at urban outfitters. never before has it cost so much to look like a bum. i say if you are gonna look like a bum, do it on the cheap. but perhaps that is a poor substitute, like splenda in the grass, a film about herb williams. this blog is going to pot. smokin joe knows what i'm talkin about even though he got the word second hand, which is much more harmful.
all power to the people, except johnny most of them. which people? the rednecks? the soldiers? the drunks at the bar who think war is played every sunday from 1 to 4? i'm blue bland every sunday, thinkin over stormy monday, that one day that i'm with you. i hope you are howlin' wolf with laughter over that one. i'm shootin bb's write now, right? sunday, i go to ward churchill, and i neil armstrong down to pray for the all the white natives being fired from their posts in academia. ahh, the end of america, but when did it start? i too will sit at the table, but the food will be cold and there will be no veggies. i am the darker brother,and i sing ballads to my landlord. what happens to rent that is deferred? does it get you evicted? or do you go live in a syrupy sweet log cabin to save money on electricity? i can feel the stax-volts pouring through this blog. yes, my genius shines through,,,but alas, it is blind world, unseeing, fumbling in the dark. all is lost, except my sense of direction, that i got for 25 cents at the dollar store because someone always has to give their 2 cents but i'm tryin to buck the system. ain't that grand that i'm one in a million. yo, my shit is money mofo.
peace my hound.
2 comments:
I almost choked on my extra large sub reading yr post . . . gagged on the provolone cheese.
Who are you? This shit is hilarious!!!!!
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