Welcome. Place your soul on the table and enter

I received a gift in the mail today. It was a ticket from Jefferson Parish. They even sent me pictures of my car so I can put them up on myspace. I could go and try to explain why, but I think that would be a useless trip. They need to see the before and after to make these decisions. I can hear the storm troopers marching down the street already. “We are here to take your children and make you wear this gray jumpsuit. Thank you for visiting Jefferson Parish” This is the first step towards the dream Hitler always wanted. An eye in every house watching everything you do so you don’t hurt yourself. What’s that? Someone is knocking at the door. Hold On………………………………………

………………………….Okay… It was the ghost of Harry Lee. He showed me all of the bad things I have done over the past years whilst meandering in and out of Jefferson. He also asked me for free food. I gave him a pack of Spree and he said he would go away. I might have to call that tiny chick from Poltergeist to get him out of here.

The strange thing is, no one in that sheep infested place ever put up a fight to keep the cameras out. I thought this was a Democracy? Now the Sheriff can just decide he is going to do something and do it? Who does he answer to? That’s what happens when you have someone in office for 800 years. They don’t ask permission anymore. Another strange thing about Jefferson: On tax forms and permits for businesses, you make all payments to Harry Lee, Sheriff. Now it’s the other guy, but still, this is pretty fucked up. Why does the Sheriff’s department have reign over property and business tax? Shouldn’t that go to some sort of Parish entity other than the sheriff’s office? That’s enough about that.

Could you imagine sending tax money directly to the Police Department in Orleans?
They would be in line at Sewell Cadillac buying up all the escalades. All you can eat red popsicles at every sub station. They would have gold plated guns and eat at Emeril’s every day. I just used Emeril as a reference, he can suck it too. But do you get what I’m saying? It’s all a little strange.

I was at Molly’s last night. I was recognized for the first time for writing on this thing. It was weird. Some friends of friends, well I’ll call them friends were talking about Metroblogging and they mentioned me to some other friends and than they found out it was me and it was kind of crazy and stuff and stuff. It was cool. I want a fucking pay check for this shit.

I went to Krewe Du Vieux the other weekend. If the girl on the back of the pick up truck is reading this, you dance well. You had “Kiss me I’m a Pirate” on your ass. I wasn’t dancing with you, because I’m not gay, but you were dancing on the back of the truck. Call Me.

Okay, I’m done for now. Not one of my best, but I’ve lost the mood.

As Always, I leave you with this thought

We fired our guns and the British kept a comin’
There wasn’t nigh as many as there was a while ago
We fired once more and they begin to runnin’
Down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico

—- Johnny Horton—-

Hail Ming!

Peace out Suckas!

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