Why the fuss in Hollywood? Same old police state. (Since 1947)
And oh Lordy, we now have big drama as the street urchins
and California King Kongs all know when their white boy is hungry. Teary-eyed I
was getting over the abject fucking disgrace Downtown Los Angeles is near Union
Station, and I’ve got to wonder what the civilized tourists from Japan and
Europe think when they pass the homeless, raggedy, depraved show and are asked
for a cig or a dollar. Not to worry, as one of the guys in an old wheelchair,
when I was, as the Lost Generation says, “stressing,” rolled-up and said,
“Here! Eat! Or, throw it in the trash if you don’t want it.” Like magic it was,
but if you play that Heart song one more time, I’ll kill the next guy who comes
along with a flat top hairdo and GED-level tattoos. Excuse me as I play it on
July 17, 2013, a day I may survive despite the “number kooks” and their hairy
1-7 and 2-7 days.
Casinos? What casinos? I’ll bomb them to dust if I turn out
to be a Royal with some “juice.” Baby may have new shoes that month, and quite
frankly, if they would make the methamphetamine cleanly & legally, I’d
rather you spend your funds on that in hopes of doing something productive,
instead of feed slimy wedding guests at the marriage of some mob king’s daughter.
Poor guy; he’ll have to write yet another “Married to the Mob” book when I
can’t even get a literary agent. Why not beam the book or tune into their hard
heads? I’ve got the technology today, and it did not come from the backside of
Mars.
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