Yeah. That’s right. I’m talking to you, friendly neighborhood Cineplex.

You carded me to get into an R rated movie yesterday. Consider me a little bit bitter.

So I checked my grades for last semester. The experience was like when you crack open that week-and-a-half old chinese food container just to see what kind of waft will emanate from the disease ridden morsels.

You know it’s going to be bad. But morbid curiosity prompts you to determine how bad.

And oh yes, my grades were that bad. X’s over the eyes. 6 feet under, covered in formaldehyde, and surrounded by a 10 foot thick Chernobyl barricade.

My i’s weren’t dotted, my t’s weren’t slashed, and my  unfinished thoughts were scrawled with an off-brand crayon on a highly polished surface. So I had it coming. But if anything, that makes it hurt a little worse.

The Honors Department chair noticed my steady decline of grades. Well, steady decline ending in a rather spectacular plummet. I though they should’ve at least given me points for style. They didn’t agree… And sorry Augie, but even style points won’t levitate that F to an F+. Whatever. An F is so drab. At least an F+ says, “I fail, but I fail with flair.” But I don’t think we believe in that at our academic institution.

Anyway, the honors department chair, sweet lady she is, became rather concerned (dare I say worried), about me, and went so far as to ask a friend if I was on drugs.

I’m not quite sure whether that is depressing or hilarious. But it’s understandably of course, because only a highly altered state of consciousness could possibly account for such an academic decline.

Has a once fertile young mind given up his altogether boundless potential for a life of crime? Has he traded the glorious pursuit of knowledge time for time spent hanging out in back alleys with Meth Man shooting up dangerous meals of Heroin Helper?

Your eyes are more bloodshot than they used to be Augie. You look disoriented and confused. And is it just me, or those molars appear suspiciously loose, Mr. Fash. Have you been stealing tv’s and selling family heirlooms for a hit of the ole white gold? Lift up that shirt! That’s scar tissue building up at 73 degrees latitude, 78 longitude on your left bicep, isn’t it? What did I tell you about proper tourniquet usage?!

So yes, you’ve got me. I’m living a life of crime. Sorry Scruff McGruff. I’ve dissapointed  you and your puppet pals. I’m a little down for the count.

I just urinated by candlelight.

I think it added a certain amount of classiness to an otherwise pedestrian affair.

http://yoyoskills.com/augie-interview.html

That last post (now deleted) wasn’t worth a 4 month absence.

It was a lot like Michael Jordan retiring to play baseball, and then quitting basketball again to play with the Wizards. I know, I know, the Wizards are a “basketball team”. But they’re also “Gatorade drinkers”, but we don’t define them by that.

Tell ya what. I’ll write a new post and backdate.

If you’re concerned abotu journalistic integrity, just realize you’re reading a blog with a word in the title spelt wrong. We aim high here kids.

Consider me inspired.

Well, that was delicious now wasn’t in?

…In my cabinet. It was next to Wheat Thins and a green tinged sourdough.

Augie Fash’s capacity for organization sucks. I can barely remember to keep the toilet paper next to the toilet.

And toilet’s in the dang title.

So it’s 2-ish am, and I’m cooking bacon. That’s right. Bacon.

No lettuce, no tomato. No heart healthy, kick start your day excess bull.

I’m feeling very manly, and it’s very atypical.

I’m gonna go adopt a loincloth and javelin a cheetah. Don’t mess with me. Grr

(I believe that was the first occurrence of onomonopia (sp?))

Peace out brothers and sisters

Update: I just finished 5 strips of bacon 10 minutes ago and now I’m working on a Diet Coke. I feel like hell.

Verdict: Go to Aca Taco at 2 am instead.

lyric)

“I’m a curbside prophet, got my hand in my pocket, waiting for my rocket to come.”

I love you Jason Mraz, even if you’re so very red light district.

If you get a bad mail order bride, does she have to go through baggage claim?

I saw an incredibly beat up limo the other day. Cracked windows, mud sheen, chipped paint. Super odd.
…I keep thinking Tupac got shot in it.

I’ve been urinating a very pale yellow lately. I guess I’m fervently dedicated to promoting healthy kidneys. I use a public restroom and I don’t flush, so people can stop by, view, and learn from the master.

It’s a postmodern art piece.

And the gargantuan mass of Mexico tinged laundry is angry and awaiting washing. I need a good abrasive to hide the fact that at times, I smell absolutely horrific.

The laundry machine is going through a seizure, but I’m absolutely hell bent on smelling good.

And I will not resort to Axe.

Or Febreeze for that matter.

If I ever became big in the rap game, I would sample the laugh track.

Inbetween gunshots, sirens, and Rodney King… ————–> hilarity. I think it would add some sort of mood uplifting quality in between the police brutality and untimely death filling the rest of my beats.

Perhaps oddly disturbing instead. I dunno, either way I think it’s sellable.

If Little John can market hockey slap shot samples and being ugly, I can market bass-ridden laughter.