Eight slow hours.

[unburiable]

The rich kids in class were always talking the loudest. Even when the teacher was in the middle of explaining what a paradigm was. You would think that always having everything they ever wanted would sort of make the rich kids bored of everything; even talking. But that really wasn’t so, I guess. Maybe the hot new cars they could afford were always

Comments

fear not.

[escape_infinity]

why didn't you try to help the victim?

Jason Robards in Bright Lights, Big City.

[foreignpetals]

While in Vancouver on the set of the new Katharine Ross film entitled Don't Let Go, I noticed this broad has really let herself go. I'm talking co-star in Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid Paul Newman old. I remember jacking myself off to The Graduate at 13, always wondering how good of a lay this hardbody was. Now I wouldn't go near her with one of escape_infinity's boring as Howard's fucking End fingers. Howard's End being a film enjoyed by Neil Garriscond for many years.

The trip to Vancouver wasn't a total waste, however. I met up with this cute hardbody grip and received a great handjob from her in the back of Scott Wilson's limo while Robert Redford's niece left seven fucking text messages on my Nokia.

Fat girl, great lay, but fat girl.

Louis Yorba.

Dead pigeons filmed for three hours straight and called art.

[unburiable]

Five years ago I’d have laughed it off as some really lame joke some commoner-turned-up-and-comer might tell at a big premiere party circle while we all poured our first chilled glasses of champagne and clinked to what an amazing accomplishment whatever schlock disaster it was we were spending thousands of dollars being there for. But today it’s one of those mock-surprising realities only bad writers like Steven King seem to think are worth shoving at the end of a 600+ page novel about ghosts seeking revenge, or aliens assuming the bodies of the living-or any other fucking ending from ex-science fiction magazines out of the 1950s that nobody gives more than half a fuck to remember

Jason Robards in All the Presidents Men.

[unburiable]

Two girls just came into the office asking about the gold ring around the elevator button leading to my floor.

Re: Dead pigeons filmed for three hours straight and called art.

[escape_infinity]

and then we have artist like you who sit back and only find homour in those who try, and then some how forget that they are not being orignal, they are only being observent. I guess we are coping eachother we are all coping this rewritten roughdraft that only seems to be the same no matter how hard we try.

i think the only way we can be orignal is to be random and unorganized following no rules. here's an example. "we die talk fall for talk for cat sand far leche cattle for too do for for for toot fart cat shit of the fatttttt klsoiasfoiajweiofhiosdalkasdfg asfjka alfjdoijfo jsdfkldsfjiowe sfjosejr" but yet that well probably be copied at some point in history because we we'll never be origanl enough or artistic enough for the observer. who can only observe and be unorignal like the rest of us....

hey, so why didn't you help the victim? not while the faggots were in thier stabbing him, but after when the corpse lie there bleeding. why didn't you run for help? or maybe see the guys who did it?

Re: Dead pigeons filmed for three hours straight and called art.

[escape_infinity]

is this just a story you wrote? because im really confused.

[escape_infinity]

i wouldn't let danzig touch me anywhere, if he were the last troll to ever stop here on tour.

If I didn't know better I'd say you were a dumbshit.

[durwoodsauls]

Hey, here's a novel idea for a true original artiste. Shut the fuck up. Or at least keep your vile self important attitude to your id and your ego. Super Cunt. Would you like to Value Size your McGapingVagina with that. Leave pop art and philosophy to those who know what the fuck they're talking about. Go stand in a field somewhere and let someone else tell you what's cool for once. It's obvious you're not getting the point.

Later Fag,
D.S.

OH, one more thing why don't you try to "escape" my "infinity" up your goddamn ass you prissy little gland sucker.

An empty bottle next to the chipped wine glasses and a pitchfork.

[unburiable]

Some purely ridiculous half dead girl with a crowbar stuck through her sweet, flat belly. When making love, she likes to ride her opponent like a bull. A broken chair lies silently, collecting dust and bacteria in the corner; after I swept the floor I put it all there. The moan she gave as I was going down on her was, incidentally, the very same type of moan she gave when I was fitting my balled fist into a tear in her neck that I cut there with the intention of climaxing onto her windpipe. The trachea. The sweet spot. Both moans sounded the same but they meant entirely different things. What part of her psychology was responsible for that? I tried to scrape out a wide hole from her heart, big enough to put some change into; a few quarters, a whole lot of dimes, scattered nickels. But it was a tough organ, and the stuff inside didn’t budge much for even the sharpest spoon in the drawer. Lovers eat on the same side of a booth while dining together at a restaurant. Coffee poured hot into her empty neck. Her fingers on my lips as she

be excellent

[escape_infinity]

Real pop art and philosophy, fucks you through the center of your stomach, and doesn’t waste time spiting angry words on gay ass live journal. Ohh and I’ll tell you if you’re cool or not. Perception is my weapon. weak word fuck..

E.T. was no bible bashing extremist

[durwoodsauls]

why don't you whine a little more
so you can wait for me to score
on your fat ass lil' sister
you big gay cock blister
hey mister, why not
squeeze your noze and bleed snot
all down your slimy gizzard
like the jizz I shot on your schnizzle

who does this quy think he is god's gift to 50 cent?
does he really think he's getting anywhere special by insulting his own medium of attention getting?

this is my live journal too, o.k. guy.
ps. you misspelled "spiting."

quire thesaraus-less twat.
the D.

Jason Robards in Parenthood.

[foreignpetals]

HllywdBdss652: Make sure I get my Sprite before my one o'clock, Carly.
YorbasSec: You might want to check this thread out, Louis.
HllywdBdss652: Carly?
HllywdBdss652: Call the Enquirer and the Globe.
YorbasSec: What's going on?
HllywdBdss652: Garriscond's drunk broad of a wife came over wasted last night after the press conference held for Breaking Away 2.
YorbasSec: Shitty.
HllywdBdss652: Not entirely, Carly. She had never let me bite her tits until last night. She's got a pretty tight body for a woman of 32.
YorbasSec: I'm 27, you know.
HllywdBdss652: Lose some weight.
HllywdBdss652: You still there, Carly?
YorbasSec: What do you need?
YorbasSec: I'm kinda busy.
HllywdBdss652: What the fuck are you listening to out there? it's fucking poisoning my ears.
YorbasSec: It's the new Bright Eyes record. Have you heard?
HllywdBdss652: Nah, bra. I don't listen to teenage rednecks gone faggot.
YorbasSec: Shut up.

Jason Robards in Crimson Tide.

[unburiable]

The hot word in the board rooms is that somebody’s been cynically strutting her stuff around town in the guise of my “wife.” The day I throw my $12,000-insured knees down on some half-hearted vows for some starlet I already slapped down $340,000 for to let her finger sport precious metals that are supposed to speak the poetry of my heart . . . well that’s the day I do it so well that people are crying when the director yells, “Cut! And that’s a wrap

Jason Robards in Magnolia

[foreignpetals]

Taking a look at Garriscond's hands one night, ashy from, I assume, masturbating in the Estradi's men's room, I discovered two scars on his palms. "What the shit are those? did you stab yourself jacking off?"

He simply replied with, "Stigmata wounds."

Stigmata wounds??

Are you fucking kidding me, Garriscond? I seem recall an incident about 3 months ago when a certain Wynton Marsalis was infuriated backstage at Carnegie Hall and stabbed you through both hands with his conducting baton. Didn't you get caught eating out one of his violinists? Or was it that wart-infested viola player? Stigmata wounds.

As for Be-lay-nda, why not ask Kevin McDonald and Bruce McCulloch about Belinda? At a party thrown for the cast of Bruce's film, Dogpark, not one, not two, but three "Kids" gang banged her by the jacuzzi while I gave it to Janine Garofolo doggystyle in the upstairs guest bathroom. I could be wrong, I was on a lot of blow that night. The blow I scored from Belinda.

How about that for a you're fucking fat?

LY.

Jason Robards in Tora! Tora! Tora!

[unburiable]

Lately I’ve been noticing that the skyline outside my office seems to have shifted a few degrees to the west. It’s like when I look through the stained glass portrait of the poster art for Fright Night (co-designed by me) I should be seeing the empty space where those damned towers used to reflect the sunlight straight onto the ceiling-high Joevline mirrors on the front wall. But there now appears to be a very subtle shift in what I see there now. Granted, it’s still a view of the empty space, because let’s face it, those buildings were fucking massive-but the regularly familiar view seems now to be a little distorted, you know? For Christ’s sake, it comes directly in the path of a binocular view of some goddamned deli that I never even knew was there before

Re: Jason Robards in Tora! Tora! Tora!

[vittra]

Im singing in the acid rain
pollution problem solved!
Us humans as a race have no escape