I’m still trying to rhyme ‘homicidal maniac’ with something sexy for that Tampax songwriting contest. I’m also struggling to rhyme ‘rape kit’ in a ballad about a long-distance relationship that turns into forbidden 'Ain't no mountain high enough' passion in pre-1941 Yugoslavia, when Croats, Slovenes and the Kingdom of Serbs lived in an uneasy, but copasetic peace. Or wait, maybe I was excited to hear about Heidi Montag’s clothing line (which I must put on my body), or it was her intention to record a CD. Finally, a once-unknown pseudo-celebrity starring in a partially scripted reality program can record a decent Christian album. Anyway, if I win the Tampax gig, I get a complete kitchen remodeling makeover! Which is awesome! If I, uh…had a kitchen. Huh. I don’t even have a house, let alone an apartment. Hmm, wow, starting to think it was foolish to enter if I didn’t actually have a kitchen.
Damn, I’ll probably never get that non-refundable $25 entry fee back,
Song of the Day:
Utah Phillips & Ani DiFranco, “Bridges”
Monday, June 30, 2008
Posted by Feo Mateo at 11:41 PM
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Lured hook, line and sinker by his untamed eyebrows, perfect mane of run-your-fingers-through-it-hair and casual beach bum threads that say “Jimmy Buffett and Magnum P.I. ain’t got shit on me,” the Paco Camino Man reels in two hotties with his environmentally sexy catch & release program. Angling for a three way, nervous giggles abound trying to handle a slippery foot-long trouser trout that would make Led Zeppelin groupies snap red. Judging by the impressive length of his pole (and custom fishing rod), the Paco Camino Man has a whale of a weekend in store. And that’s no fish story.
Posted by Feo Mateo at 10:37 PM
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
The following handwritten letter was found crumpled on the steps of McKinley Hall after a passionate rally for diabetic cats:
I’m investing in a footwear art studio that only makes ceramic flip-flops. They come in two different kiln-inspired styles—flat thong ashtray glaze trekkers and hand-painted flowerpot ankle-cuppers. Sure they’re clunky and impossible to walk in, but all sales go to help support high arches of low stature. Hey if the tables were on the other feet, then would you still turn your best foot forward, take a step back, and walk this way like Aerosmith suggests? After experimenting with Cialis as a powerful diuretic, I’ve discovered it now burns when I pee and I routinely have erections lasting longer than four hours (which is obviously weird, since ya' know, I don’t have a penis). Like at all.
Hey, I think I’m ready to watch my first episode of LOST. Anything I should know?
Song of the Day:
Supergrass, “Diamond Hoo Ha Man”
Posted by Feo Mateo at 12:18 AM
Friday, June 20, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Certainly not these two incompetent chuckleheads. As expendable decoy operatives rushed through face-contorting G-force threshold tests, aggravated body temperature measurements, and joyrides in the radical vertical impaction simulator, these GLG20’s have only one plan—“Let’s play dead.” Hardly Paco Camino Man material, but there’s still hope for these two nincompoops. Despite their bumbling ineptitude, they will somehow manage to avert an ICBM from hitting the U.S. while getting laid by super foxy Foreign Service agents Donna Dixon and Vanessa Angel.
Posted by Feo Mateo at 12:03 PM
Friday, June 13, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
The following handwritten letter was discovered folded into a paper airplane, but crumpled and left on the sweltering marble steps of McKinley Hall:
I’ve got my sights set on my new hottie optometrist, Dr. Peepshow. He tells me that by the time I go blind with conjunctive stink-eye glaucoma, scientists will have developed beer goggles for seeing dudes who have trouble scoping out googly-eyed chicks at last call. So I’m like totally set! However it’s possible I’m just simply allergic to invisible air particles that can’t be seen, but my random guess could be my new Pollen Power perfume & Hay Fever body lotion. Hell, maybe it's the cat dander plug-in air freshener with suspect salmonella detector (so no worries about contraband tomatoes I got from the unventilated sawdust mill & dust mite colony). Later tonight after I drop acid with Rudolpho Superslice, Glarg Jimmypants and Peter Fartancockles, we’re going to the ridiculous name conference in Turdcrap City over in Flatulence County.
I’m even having baked beans for dinner,
Song of the Day:
Lalah Hathaway, “Tragic Inevitability”
Posted by Feo Mateo at 11:02 PM
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Monday, June 02, 2008
That new tuna-scented deodorant suppository you recommended doesn’t seem to work very well, particularly when I’m hanging out down at the docks at the abandoned fishing marina or volunteering at the trout hatchery off Interstate 57 (right near the Red Lobster). And weird, I’m really split about those dissociative identity pills that have me feeling like two different people half the time. Plus I guess I’m just a little upset since I found out that my dad once spent a summer as a Mexican pool boy masquerading as a French Irishman from China operating in an Italian mafia family that defected from El Salvador. Or wait, I think he was a German Swede from inner city Iceland. And he could breakdance.
My alter ego simultaneously loves and hates my dual personality,
Song of the Day:
Liam Lynch, “United States of Whatever”
Posted by Feo Mateo at 12:02 AM