My name is Allejandro, by the way, but I'm not a Latino.

Pink with wide pictures, I thought I'd better get in on this blog business before ERK ETC IRK sticks a fucking flag in his next post and claims this land to be his own, he'll retitle it Eric of Nazereth or Eric the Goat, after the Goat, or better he'll change his name to VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV, pink with wide pictures, dancing little blog, prancing mincing jaunty little boy, but wide, too wide I think, he needs training, cross training, legs and arms and all sorts of extremeties...to the extreme. So he's rolly and pink, a fat little blob/g squirting and squelching himself across the sidewalk.

Cross training. Like Jesus. Bring us Barabbas, but which one? I've got a number of Barabbasi in my prison, folks, ranging from sadistic motherrapers to debtors, oh we've got a debtors prison. Jerusalem is a modern city, like London eighteen o-fifty, with smokestacks and coal-cheeked orphans begging, bustling, busking for change. Fighting the power with a saxophone case and a dream.

Did anyone resist yesterday? I resisted the urge to throw rocks at the man with a peacock feather in his head. Where does he find them, and why can't he shave his face properly? Somewhere are there nude peacocks and chunks of beard? I also resisted the war. By not doing it. I didn't commit any wars yesterday, no matter how hard they cajoled. I said, look, fellas, I've got a busy schedule and a war requires months of effort just in the run up. I can't cobble together a mass of massive intense intents invasion-ready troops in few hours! It was an excuse though, I could have, I have loads of contacts willing to bend their lives over my will. Kitchen table. But I couldn't go through with it. Not that I'm opposed to wars, that's just in my principles, the same place where the rich top themselves off for us, no, but because I wasn't to be compensated properly. Diamonds? Abhorrent, do I look like I want to start an international world war with the blood of African Children on my hands? Gold? What have I been saying about the working conditions of Gold miners? Dollars, yen, yuan, pound sterling? ERK ETC ECK already convinced me that the currency phenomenon is about to drop out of favor as we make the push for the final millenium, old world traders and bad steampunk novels writ large and in real life. Myrhh? Not a real thing, stop trying to pay me in unicorn byproduct or the deal's off. Regardless, I'm not interested, that's what I said, I've got a moral position here that no unicorn is going to change my mind, so here's hoping they don't read my blog or things will be awkward at the old Ministry of Central War Intelligence Department Defense Agency, what we in the business called Shintoism.

Bangarang, that's suspiciously close to bat-a-rang, Mr., what is it, Roughio? Roofio? Now Mr. Wayne was prepared to deal until that childish flying incident for which he did not have a gadget, a fact he does not hold against Mr. S. Man because Mr. S. Man does not steal his gadget names for which Mr. Wayne has a manor wing of typographers and Go-To ad men admin who work night and day coming up with objects to put a bat in front of. That episode where they fight in the middle of a baseball game? Difficult, but the Bat-a-Batter Swing! was an alarming success for which there have been few revenue equals under the Wayne name, primarily from suing infantile school children for unsportsmanlike conduct. That and film students who steal his cool freeware fonts without reading the fine print about no commercial use, goddamnit is a CC license worth a goddamn thing around here, the joys of altruism, bogus, fucking bogus.

But the real reason we came together. Leaves are falling and we're cold again and no one has any more cologne to make fire. Or oil. But now we can drink beer and we feel things have improved but they probably haven't, we're just drunker and more oblivious obliterated oblong than we used to be, more in tune with our absent liver functions, our chemically disturbed brains drip drooling on the page, excited by the pink, a page change always invites such lively commentary, and quality too, like this billowing pile of shit.

I thought I learned today that Pandas weren't really bears, but pigs somehow, and it all made sense because Koalas are squirrels or devoluted aborigines, but they aren't they're just bears. I could have accepted that in the first place, it's got it in the title, but when you go making me think it's a completely fucked pig-beast, I get down in the dumps as you rip it away. Panda fuckers.