The Adventures Of Dr. Speed

So, I have decided to restart this blog, because I can't keep this shit to myself.
Where have I been, you ask?
My computer crashed and burned in 2007. I took a few months to get another one.
When I eventually got back on line, I stopped blogging.
Now, I'm back, warts, scabs, and all..
Updates soon.

My nephew had his birthday party today, up in the high desert. It was cool, Christians just party different, that's all.

Happy Birthday to Mr. Sarcastic. I'll be taking him to Urban Comedy Night on Monday.

Some more shit went down at work, but I don't fucking feel like writing about it right now. However, four words will suffice. Fucking dyke, (and), penis envy.

The Cory Laval show was the everlovin' shit.

Thanks for buyin' me drinks, The Promotor and Mr. Sarcastic.

Cory covered some old shit, sang some original shit, and generally rocked tha motherfucking house. He fucking ATTACKED Prince's shit . . .

Now, there was some freak up on stage before him, with a french wave on her skull, singin' about, "Let's Be Friends", and me and Mr. Sarcastic are all like, "Hell No!", and laughing during her show, and she was way too skinny for my tastes, but she had great pipes, so at the end, we gave her a standing ovation.

The Klub was cool, with a super-diverse crowd, which I personally think is cool. Black, white, brown, yellow, all were circulating, and goddammit,
CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?

WTF?

Back to Cory Laval, on the way back to Monster Island, we listened to his album, because even though I got his album like, 6 months ago, I'm a dumb fucking prick, and I hadn't listened to it. The CD rocks. Period.

Okay, I've done enough in my condition, Buenas Noches, Mi Amores,
Por Favor, el sleep-o well-o . . .

We are going to Cory Laval's show on Sunday at the Temple Bar in Santa Monica.

Buy a brother a drink, eh?

So, the tech guy says that squirrels chewed the shit out of my phone line. Thus, knocking me off the 'net. I'm like, "Get the fuck out of here!" He's all like, "Yeah, it's a common problem where you live Dr. Speed . . . " I'm like, "Get the fuck out of here!" He's all like, "No, seriously . . . "

Fuck a squirrel.

Anyway, a lot of shit has been going on; I decided to break up with Betty Page again. This will be like, the 4th time that I told her to fuck off. She keeps coming back for more of this dick, though. I'm a fucked up bastard. Because I let her come back. Frankly, she's putting pressure on me to take more trips, and I can't just up and go like I want to, so, fuck off, Betty, it's been fun. Actually, it's been a Great Ride, but nothing lasts forever.

Now, Kevin Cool is asking me if everything is all right between the two of us, because he saw how upset she was. Like an ass, I didn't give with a cool answer, so now he is certain that something is up. I should have said some blase' bullshit, like usual, but I had some other shit on my mind, so I didn't. I'm a fucked up bastard.

Miss Prissy and myself are officially dead. She is just way too fucked up in the head. Just to fuck with me, she dresses up like Audrey Hepburn and comes into my office to ask about routing reports. Bitch, e-mail me. You got no fucking reason to come up in my office. I'm looking at the swell of her breasts (with the second longest nipples I've ever had in my mouth, it was damn near like sucking a dick) and the tilt of her hips and those luscious, luscious lips of hers, and all I'm thinking about is why the package looks so good, but when you unwrap it, it's a bag of shit? She could have been a star, too. Get out of my office, and stay out.

That new girl with the big ass/tits is giving me the eye. I don't even know her fucking name. All I know right now is that she looks good in jeans, and she keeps some chickenhead friend with her at all times.

Moving on, it's time to talk about work. Apparently, I'm not supposed to tell my co-workers that they are a "Goddamn idiot", even if they are. Boo-fucking-hoo. So, let me get this straight, this stupid, rat-fucker bitch-ass fool can fuck with me for 3 hours, and I'm not supposed to say shit? Yeah, right. You know what? Suspend me motherfuckers. If it happens again, I'll say it again. Fuck you. Your dumb rat-fuck ass didn't figure it out when I called that little bitch a little bitch? I don't give a fuck, cockroach. All of a sudden, your feelings are hurt and you want to complain to Human Resources about mean ol' Dr. Speed? Your feelings weren't hurt when you were talking shit to me, bitch. I said what I said, and I damn well stand by what I said. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, and the horse that your fucking horse rode in on.

All 3 of my bosses came to me talking about how I should apologize. First, Gomez Addams (Lieutenant Number 1) comes at me, I'm like, "It ain't gonna happen, chief." He goes away. Next, Slim Oprah (Lieutenant Number 2) comes at me talking about how I should apologize. I'm like, "Fuck that, boss, I was fucking provoked." She goes away. Last comes Lurch, my true boss. "Um, Dr. Speed, why don't you tell me what happened?" So, I say, "Well, it's like this, boss, this dumb fucker fucked with me for 3 hours straight and I decided that I had had enough shit, so I said what I said." Lurch is all like, "You can't say that, Dr. Speed." I'm like, "I was fucking provoked and harassed for 3 hours straight. I gave the dumb fucker the proper response, now there's an investigation? Horseshit." Lurch is like, "You were provoked, but your response was over the top. You need to apologize. Now."
I'm like "Bullshit."
He goes, "Make it happen."
I don't see the point in apologizing. Someone fucks with you, and you have to apologize to them because they were fucking with you? This political correctness bullshit is completely the fuck out of hand.
So Lurch calls the little dumb rat-fucker in, and I make a completely insincere apology, for which, I am still kicking myself, and guess what? It appears I'm still getting reprimanded. The moral here, children, is to stick to your fucking guns, and fuck the dumb fuckers that have the audacity to want to fuck with you.

The upside is that the story has gotten around, and everyone is on their best behavior around me. Look, just talk to me the way that you want to be talked to, let's conduct our business in a professional manner, and everyone is happy. You say stupid shit to me, and I'm gonna go off on your dumb ass. And if you don't like it, I get off at 5, If you're feeling Lucky, Guy, you know where to find me.

It's no big secret that I'm a Scorched Earth kind of guy. Don't try me. I've been in this business a long fucking time. I've seen 'em here today, gone today.

That's all for now, except that we went to the Clippers vs. Suns game the other night and watched the Clippers get smoked by the Suns. Shawn fucking Marion went for 31 points because Coach Dunleavy didn't have anyone guarding him. Shawn just parked his lanky ass at the 3-point line and waited for Steve Nash to toss him the fucking rock. Over and over again and again. It was embarrassing.

The only plus to the game is that the cheerleaders came over and danced in front of us, and that sister with the blond hair is fucking hot. The Clippers' cheerleaders are kinda fat, tho.

Labels: Betty Page, Clippers, Miss Prissy, Rat Fucker

Went to a funeral today. Or, as the religious types call it, "A Homegoing Celebration!"

This guy was universally loved, the church was overflowing, and as one speaker put it, "It's very rare indeed to meet a man who has no enemies."

Of course, the church has all these Saints and 99% of the congregation is saved.
So, guess what? I stand out like a sore thumb. I was telling one of the Deacons that I couldn't go into the Sanctuary because I would burst into flames, and we had a laugh, then he spent some of the afternoon trying to convert me. Dude, nothing personal, but I'm not even interested in The Men's Group Meeting.

I did the whole Meet & Greet thing, and that seemed to please Mrs. Dr. Speed, and oh yeah, hey young black girls, please get your hair done and do not wear jeans to a funeral. Sheesh.

And one more thing, I am sick to death of people saying that I look the Pastor.
And one more thing, I am sick to death of people saying that they know me. I just have that familiar kind of face, okay?

Moving on, the deceased died suddenly, no hint of illness, and people were saying, "That's how I want to go, no suffering, just go real quick."
Fuck that. I want to die fucking. I want to be balls deep in some tight-ass pussy, getting ready to cum. That's my dream. Bury me with a hard-on, bitches.

Run Barack, Run!

I'm calling it now. I support the Edwards/Obama ticket.

Did you know that his full name is Barack Hussien Obama?

So, not only does he have to overcome the whole race thing to become President, he has to overcome the whole name thing. And don't think that racist fuckers aren't running around claiming that Barack is a Muslim. Sad.

These racist fuckers in Frisco called him a "Halfrican" saying that he can't claim to be an African-American, because his dad is from Kenya, and his mom is from Kansas. Hence, the term, "Halfrican".

In all my time on this planet, I had never heard the term Halfrican before. So, of course, I looked it up. Seems that the term has been around since at least 2003.

Who'da thunk it?

Years and years ago, the Great Richard Pryor performed a skit where he was the first black president. As Richard approaches the podium to make his speech, suddenly he started bobbing and weaving, while giving his speech, so that he could avoid the sniper.

That's what Barack has to look forward too.