Plane flights look unable to secure themselves without plague.

[unburiable]

There was an amazing accident underway as I rolled up onto the ramp that headed Eastward. I think by the time my car finally stopped tumbling and pushing through the burning remains of countless other large twisted smudges of steel and rubber and wires and glass, by then all but indistinguishable as automobiles, I’d unintentionally gotten quite

Comments

How distasteful.

[unburiable]

Somehow, Yorba, you manage to talk more shit than even Quentin did after Oliver Stone turned his shitty lackluster script into something a whole lot less shitty, which is what someone needs to do to you before you can ever make yourself exactly presentable for an audience of over 100+ guests, if you know what I mean.

Last night at The Good Life’s show, I was sharing a drink with Ted Stevens by the rum & fruit bar, during which we had the chance to discuss getting Lullaby For the Working class back together for a special occasion to open for this new band I recently discovered called A Blurred Painting. You see, the thing is, we get an already established band to open, so that way when the main event comes and the huge crowd finds out it’s actually just a note-by-note rip-off of the opener anyway, I’m guaranteed to see the record sales blast off like the Columbia, charting so high it never comes down again, because if you’re a fan of one band, then you must surely be a fan of the other. I win.

We sell records, Yorba. We don’t just break the record for being the biggest asshole this side of the continent has ever seen. (I’m talking about you, by the way). I’m so fucking technologically advanced that I sometimes scare the ghosts out of my robot maids.

So beat it.

Neil Garriscond / fancy.

Julia Roberts is waiting for me at the new Ethiopian restaurant off 7th and Broadway.

[foreignpetals]

Carly walks into my office, while I'm speaking with Martin Sheen about possibly doing a sequel to Terrence Malik's disturbingly somber 1973 film Badlands, and hands me a copy of this week's Star. Written on the front page was "Yorba. Pedophile?"

Carly insists I rationalize and not accuse you.

Carly, I assume is fucking you behind my back.

I'd like to congratulate Neil Garriscond personally on the push to shove tabloid war he has begun.

Robert Redford came by to thank me for the wonderful night I showed his niece, whom I fucked in the ass in the back of my Lincoln Navigator limousine while Carly had her hands covering her eyes. Mr. Redford apologized for your slanderous accusations and convinced me his men were watching your every move, waiting for you to fuck up.

The Enquirer has already called me to ask me about your personal life, Neil. I'll let you be surprised next week when you go buy your greek olives at Frank's at 7PM every tuesday (thank you Mr. Redford).

Good night you cheesy fuck,

Yorba.