Two whole years of harshness, volatility, and gripping content that is simply not to be found elsewhere. And that's for good reason. When we started the Latewire, a multi-author, pan-topic, uncensored stream-of-unconsciousness antiblog seemed like a pretty bad idea. We did it anyway. Two years later, it seems unconscionable, but you're still reading it -- in fact, more of you get lit up by the Wire every month, your strange legion now well in the thousands.
"The truth is mixing with the lies to create some potent new reality." - Josh Kornbluth in "Haiku Tunnel"
Latewire has been on top of some pretty vital issues, earlystyles. This is nearly incredible for a totally unorganized collective of deeply bizzarre posthumans. Organizing against bank bailouts? LW was there first. Emo capri pants on males? LW enthographers spotted them in the field. Exclusive interview with Ken Lunde? Only on Latewire. Realization that not all reggae music sucks? That epiphany brought to you right here.
Different readers use Latewire in different ways. To some, it's the place to go for Austrian-style economics analysis infused with black humor. To others, it's a reliable source of morose comedown prose and doomed poetry. Still others look to LW for an image reservoir and original* graphic art that bests the most popular imageboards on the intarweebs. Some come to Latewire for radical and reasoned thinking on eating and growing food. And some look forward to articles by particular writers : the terrifying clarity of Dr Roe; certifiable voice-of-the-damned 1m1w; the graphic arts genius of DeadcowX; the stark insight of Bill. See, LW is like a jar of mayonnaise. What you do with it is your business. We don't want to know**. Just keep coming back and we'll keep serving it up, even with the end of the world coming up and all.
Latewire. Fortunately for everyone, there's nothing else like it.
"Mens insana in corpore sano"
-Hank 04-01-2010
*Provided that your definition of "original" includes stealing images from other sites, messing with them, and then writing "LATEWIRE" across them
**Actually, we kind of do want to know. In fact, send me an email to Hank [at] Latewire (diddot) com about why you Latewire in 500 words or less. Please include aphorisms. The author of the one we like best wins a free Latewire Latewear T-shirt of their choice (see link at sidebar). (36,540)
Failures ring along my spine The haunts of endless fruitless time Love sought wrong life devoured Innocence lays torn bleeding deflowered
Holes form scars upon my hands Anything more to not have to stand However you do it wherever you go Get there whatever way you know
Defeating earths gravity by chemical means Reality guises those unmentionable unseens Lords of This World ruinous intent A Plague of Angels they have sent
On the nod again please not again GG Allin died from this sin One hand a needle the other a spoon That disfigured claw The Hand Of Doom
Tranquilized mind and frame contorted A blessing I say for those souls aborted Abolish my psyche make me feel The need to revel in something real
Feeds my impotence brings no releif Conception is the initial grief Push the Button begin the end After Forever begins again
Killed my time like killing a child Done ever in the VEIN style Seeking the unsought everything Always madness touching something (31,977)
OK, here we go, my soggy mopesters. In it to win it this time, so do your wurst! +10 oblivion points to anyone who correctly guesses th' inspiration for this one.
__
My feet are tired and my hands are sticky Don't think I'll ever make it home The name of forgiveness freezes in my throat So many nights with just the stars as my coat
Am I gone?
A wretched close to this benighted year I don't think I can do any more The soreness crawls like a spider up my back The remorse won't stop gnawing; don't think I'm intact
Am I gone?
Maybe they asked a favor And maybe I said "OK" And maybe now I'm feeling I'm in a place with no escape
This has been such a tough year This has been such a tough year [maybe you can't take any more] This has been such a tough year This has been such a tough year [you just can't take any more] This has been such a tough year [you just can't take any more] This has been such a tough year [you just can't take any more] This has been such a tough year I just can't take any more This has been such a tough year I just can't take any more This has been such a tough year I JUST CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE This has been such a tough year I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT
They say we're done for Because of what's coming on the wind They're handing out death for free To anyone who asks for it
They say that their way Is rational and best And that we'd better hurry And eagerly fall to rest
But no matter if they're right or wrong, That's a deal I won't accept
Maybe the Lord will save us But probably not There's too much poison in the air
But even a last moment in anguish Is a moment that belongs to me And I won't let them put me down
We may hear our children Cry out in pain Yours may be the last remaining Human name
But that doesn't mean That I'll let them take the reins I'll stay here and and present with you While we wait for the final rain
Even all these aching thoughts They're thoughts that belong to me And I won't let them put me down
We always, always, always fought And I'll fight to the end I won't surrender my last hours On the advice of these wretches
Even at the end of hope for this life I still hold on to hope for pride And I won't let them put me down
I'm not saying that I'm OK with this being the total end I was one of those who dreamed of art's survival long after the Sun's death Now there's slight time left, and you're my ultimate friend
But that's the way of things - There are stones you can't roll back An even now I feel that weight So heavy on my neck
I won't trade time for comfort I won't give up this last thing I'm keeping every feeling that's Been allotted to me
When I feel the terrible change, That sensation belongs to me And I won't let them put me down (56,475)
On a brilliant, natural morning in the spring, Hape Shapley set down his enormous green coffee cup, languidly browsed his email, and checked his calendar. Today’s regimen of tasks, uncharacteristically, held one that promised a glimmer of amusement. The job at hand was to successfully woo the franchisee of three Sports Authority retail establishments; this sort of thing was totally usual. The spark of fun flickered behind the name of Hape’s quarry : Danny U. Dracula. Well, Hape thought, I’ve closed deals with bloodsuckers before. At least Danny’s upfront about it.
Hape pulled his Toyota into the parking lot and parked in the barely-crooked fashion that he had subconsciously perfected. The sky was a Martian azure as he stepped out to survey the terrain and push the button on his keyless lock device until it beeped. The Sports Authority location where he was to meet Dracula was in a cement vega of a high-falutin’ strip mall, and Hape could feel the heat that the structural columns radiated as he passed them. The cruelly-designed parking lot was brimful of Infinitis, Land Rovers, and other symbols of middle-class prosperity, though, so Hape felt that this meeting would not be a complete waste. Now, Hape thought, what sort of guy calls himself Danny U. Dracula? As he strode businesslike toward the gargantuan glass doors, he boiled the probabilities down to three, ranked by likelihood: 1) This man is some stripe of mutant jock-goth goofball with enough money, charisma, or brutality to maintain a business 2) This man is a normal and successful person of Eastern European extraction. Hape wondered what the accent would sound like –Romanian? Czech? He struggled to hear the sounds in his head. He chased away invading images of Gary Oldman in purple shades only to have them replaced by a shaveling Klaus Kinski. Presumably, such a fellow would be aware of the strangeness of his name and use some kind of alterative pronunciation to keep the chuckles at bay. 3) This man is called Dulraca, or Drakler, or perhaps Gacula, and Hape’s assistant Kim Deely had puckishly typoed the name.
It was ten-thirty-four by Hape’s Timex when he first grasped the hand of Danny U. Dracula. The walk across the store had given Hape just enough time to develop a wrenching curiosity regarding the man’s name. Had he thought it through, however, he would have realized that the instant camaraderie of modern business etiquette had made moot this question.
“Danny? Hape. Pleased to meet you; how you doing?” “Great to meet you, Hape –- wanna have a look around?”
No! First of all, Hape had been inside three dozen Sports Authorities within the past two years – he didn’t need to have a look around. Second, what about the name? The name! Now that the initial confrontation had been completed, would there even be another opportunity to speak Danny’s last name? Dracula, for his part, did not seem likely to volunteer. Now, so far, the evidence was pointing to possibility number 3), as Danny had zero sartorial matches for “goth” and no discernable accent, and features that looked more Gallic than anything. Hape had little hope now but to make Danny sign the contract compelling him to buy 670 total units from Head’s putatively-groundbreaking “FlexTelligence E” product line plus the full apparel complement. Then, he could at least see the name properly spelled out and, if he could muster the pluck, Hape would inquire about it should it turn out to be the real vampiric deal.
As Danny led Hape around the store, Hape noticed that as usual, most of the store’s patrons looked like they hadn’t played sports in quite a while. It seemed to be a nearly universal phenomenon : these big athletic chains attract dilettantes who will buy the most costly gear and have it gather dust in their closet, or, in the case of high-tech clothing, will wear it to any occasion save that for which it was designed. Folks who are serious about a sport, Hape found, would usually seek out a small specialty store like Runner’s Galaxy or Lacrosse Barn, where the employees tended to give something resembling a hoot about the sport in question, and the owner was often on premises. Hape himself looked to Advantage when he needed to get himself re-shod (which, for a notorious toe-dragger like him, was at least six times yearly). However, it was much better for Hape to sell to the bigger chains like Sports Authority, as the corporate buyers tended to be less discriminating (they only cared about the bottom line, not about a somewhat negative performance review they’d read online) and the customers at the stores were much more likely to buy high-end items with frequency – it was a known fact that Escalade-pushing neophytes buy the most expensive gear possible, with the hope that it’ll improve their play and give them something to talk about with their buddies (“What stick you got there, Bill?... Oh, the Frightanium 6? I heard that’s a real cannon – let me give it a whack?”). Hape wasn’t really listening to Danny as the latter prattled on about which lines had been moving for him, overall foot traffic versus sales volume, the primacy of his location, and other banal details. Hape was instead looking at the girls in the store, taking inventory of the local stock. Hape had decided a few days ago that he was going to seek for himself a steady girlfriend. Danny managed to snap Hape out of his lecherous reverie with a brisk “Hey! You hungry? Let’s go over to Hattie’s and get down to brass tacks.” Hape hated that expression, but he was indeed hungry. Hattie’s was a standard-issue 1950s-themed diner, awash in chrome and tufted vinyl. The two padded over there, sweating slightly in the morning sun. Settled into a cavernous booth, Hape perused the sticky menu. Standard fare : burgers, shakes…. He came across a club sandwich that sounded good, and decided to order it sans fries. The placed their order with the perky, tattooed waitron and descended to the alloy fasteners.
“Hape, I gotta be straight with you. The Head stuff just isn’t moving like it used to. Last cycle, the Wilson product was outselling you guys almost two to one.” “That’s interesting; nationally, we’re seeing the reverse trend,” Hape fibbed. “Think that display placement could be a factor?” Hape was already thrashing in the waves. Maybe this guy was in fact a vampire. “You’re joking, right? Your stuff is right in there with everybody else’s. I think that what we’re really looking at is that Wilson has better endorsements, better graphics, and better advertising. It seems to me that since Agassi retired, you guys have been , ah, scrambling to connect with the consumer.” “I don’t know if that’s true,” Hape hemmed (he’d had to filed this question before, but for some reason felt a lot of pressure now). “What about the Rotundi endorsement? Greaper? Sarkozi? These guys are huge with the kids. And the new stuff we’re gonna give you…” “And look at what’s happening with Babolat and Yonex – they’re both strong in the consumer market now, not like years ago. It’s not just between you, Wilson, and Prince anymore. The kids are seeing that big guys play these funny rackets, and they’ll pay for that. And there’s something else.” “What’s that?” Hape hated it when these goons did their homework. “You’re not supposed to know this, but Nike is going to make a big push into tennis hardware next quarter. I’ve seen the product. It’s good. And they’re going to get Greaper away from you guys.” This sounded like rubbish to Hape. “We’ll see about that. We’ve known about their goals for months – they haven’t got a candle to hold against our technology, racket-wise. Maybe in clothing, which is traditionally more their domain.” “Maybe. But if they do to tennis like they did to golf, some people are going to get squeezed out. They have R+D up the wazoo, and enough ad sense to really exploit the brand…” “Well, Head will worry about Nike when something really starts happening – right now, it’s all vapor, and like I said, our new stuff is going to blow everybody else away. Look at what we’ve got going on.” Hape cracked open his portfolio to reveal a sleek laptop, which he opened to Danny’s dismay and started the presentation. This was his ace in the hole. He’d helped put this thing together, and it not only briskly revealed the technological superiority of the FlexTelligence E line, but broke the news that Head had bought no less than three super-high-profile endorsers away from rivals : Gil Fisher, Ainsley Chong, and the apparently unbeatable Ricky Phil Stiller. Stiller was widely expected to sweep the Grand Slam this year on the strength of his terrifying serve and shrewdly evil baseline play. It was commonly speculated that his endorsement of the “Claymore” model racket had been the only thing keeping the Prince corporation alive.
The presentation video was fast-paced, well-produced, and hard-hitting, saving the Stiller endorsement for last and introducing a flashy new model co-designed with Stiller – the “Big Brain”. That epithet was one commonly applied to Stiller early in his career, when his primary method of winning matches was making fools out of aggressive opponents by exploiting their positions with his surgical shots from the baseline. Since, he had developed a high-velocity first service to match his better opponents, but the name stuck. Hape could never shake a vague unease with this title and Head’s adoption thereof, however – he felt that it was mildly anti-Jewish. There were plenty of cerebral players out there – wasn’t this sobriquet a way to shove Stiller into that old “Jews are smart but lack brawn” box?
Danny, who generally loathed presentations, found himself quite engaged by this one, and the news of new endorsements softened his heart a bit toward Head. Hape, who was watching Dracula’s face like a poker player throughout the presentation, began to notice the details of Danny’s appearance. His close-cropped blond hair amplified his ruddy complexion to an almost alarming degree, and his left ear had no lobe to speak of. The faint shininess of skin around his neck suggested corrected scarring and made Hape suspect that Danny had been in a bad auto or industrial accident. His white Ping golf shirt was pressed, but had a small red stain on the left shoulder blade that Hape surmised Danny had missed, given the meticulous condition of Danny’s Nikes and the impeccably creased pleated khakis he sported. Hape imagined how the stain might have gotten there unnoticed : did the offspring of Dracula sneak up with a Crayola marker? Unintentional dribble of Kool-Aid from a hoisted toddler’s lip? Shirt taken from irregular stock? Hape realized with a twinge of regret that he would never know the answer. In the end, Hape’s presentation won Danny over. After some price haggling (Hape, as was his wont, budged only two percent, saying that “cost is through the roof on carbon fiber”), it was agreed that Danny’s Sports Authorities would carry the presented Head product, minus most of the apparel, which Hape conceded after Danny showed him a spreadsheet indicating that 70% of the previous year’s line had been sold at clearance prices due to lack of demand. Hape printed out the contract that they had edited together on Hape’s computer, and Danny signed it. Danny had made no correction to his name before printing. Hape had to know : “Thanks, Danny; we really appreciate it. How’s your last name pronounced?” Danny fixed Hape with the look that women give to people who ask if they’re pregnant when they’re not : “It’s ‘Dracula.’ Like the vampire.” And that was that. Hape could tell that he had best ask no more.
Hape had teetered a little during his encounter with Dracula, and he knew it. That kind of psychological stutter is the kind that breaks deals. Danny had really clocked Hape with no problem, and here was Hape, driving down the road tormenting himself with the mysteries of Dracula. As Hape dwelled on the meeting, his thirst for details took a firmer hold. What was the deal with the earlobe? The stained shirt? How much of that -
-= = = = = = = = = = = = = =
When Hape was twenty-three, he quit his marketing internship at Scoop Systems to go explore the rough-cut northern towns of Arizona and see if there was any significant tennis-industry jobs out there. The hot buzz of Cake City had grown wearisome to Hape during his last few months of school and he wanted to know whether the vague romantic notions of the reduced-instruction West might be reflected in these parts of his home state. He checked his bank balance ($3,089.04), packed his rackets along several days’ worth of casual and athletic clothes along with his one good suit into his fairly beat-up Rav4, and motored on up the I-10 toward Flagstaff. He had scoped out a few likely targets and identified some worthless backwaters to be avoided. He’d start in Prescott and work his way up toward Payson until he either found something worth doing or gave up.
In Cottonwood, he found a small quasi-resort hotel with a tennis court on premises. He decided to check it out. It turned out that the hotel didn’t have a tennis pro and was considering bringing one on. Hape knew in his heart that he was far from pro material, but a deep geographical prejudice planted in his mind the idea that these faux-cowpokes might not be able to tell the difference. In a spurt of risk, he offered his services, and the recreation director, a trim blonde called Amy Grumman, agreed. The pay negotiated was meager, but this was a chance for Hape to see how far his knowledge and bravado could take him. Hape needed to find lodging. (46,080)
So you want to be a web super star, and blog large, go to myspace, no charge, comin’ up in the web, don’t troll nobody, gotta look over your facebook constantly. I remember the days when I didn’t know an instant message from a webpage, looking in a monitor, dreamin’ about downloadin’. The forum flamers. Changing credits. Illin’ with the web cam bots. Linking horrible things and whatever the anonymous deserves from me. Shit its funny how hilarious images manifest, and the names that be comin’ with it. Nevertheless, you gotta learn the html, but you don’t know about the tubes, worms, and donkey pron, ‘cause even animals get it on (the web). And losin’ some of your avatar in raids past, expansions gone by, hopefully it don’t manifest for Chinese gold farmer guys, megalomaniac and the elf attack don’t know how to act, shit deep, 48 hacker guerilla group has the internet feel, think they’re gonna hack the matrix but never will, ‘till they all cross over, still, fillin’ your head with fantasies, forum with me, show the l337 it takes to flame the noobies. You wanna be a web super star in the biz, and make sites for people who don’t know what html is, I wish it was all fun and games, but the monthly fees are high, and some can’t pay the way, feel trapped in a contract, what you bloggin’ about? IM me what happened when your connection fell out? The ISP you chose service is lapsing. No modem. No router. No dial up. No matter. No internet denizens of questionable gender, and everyone lies about their weight, they’re all fatter. So you wanna be a web super star? And blog large, go to myspace, no charge, comin’ up in the web, don’t troll nobody, gotta look over your facebook constantly. People see web stars, you know what I’m typin? But you still try and get out in the daylight like everybody else, you know, it’s a nice day, but its still outside away from your router range. Save your skin man, SPF is true. You’re pale, don’t take long to burn, you know what I’m typing? I mean, you got roll hacks in this game too. There’s gonna be another internet citizen comin’ out, blogging like me, flaming like me next year. I write and therefore purport to know this. It’ll be a 12 year old, spamming his lack of puberty in your ear, somebody else trying to offend the masses asses. You ever have wet dreams? Of makin’ it to Charley Sheen? Money shot, cock slapper on the LCD screen. You wanna facebook gently, keep it friendly, be a web star and always check who sent me goatse. You wanna have big epics, let me count a tick as another net ho done come on my page, first they get hits like they found a whole pile of fossilized Jesus shits, long as you don’t smell it’ll be ok, then you get flamed by the webmasters and trolls, internet things never stay the same way they began to roll, I read that some never get flamed to the fullest, that’s why fools end up snackin' on an internet bullet, think everything’s fine on the world’s time, see me on my laptop online with the power cord shine. So you wanna be a web super star, and blog large, go to myspace, no charge, comin’ up in the web, don’t troll nobody, gotta look over your facebook constantly. My own clan don’t know me, I’m surfing in a McDonalds, lonely, but thank Al Gore on whose internet I chill with my long distance homies. But sometimes I wish I was back on my homepage, but only no links or ads, they’re phony. Got to hit the net solely so the web bitches know me, I’m in the ether like an internet Maloney, and the trolls say that my own guild will pwn me, and the best way back is to keep your hands on the keys, never drop down to your knees, they’re too busy with their bitches to know how to blow me, they just want a Klingon, to ring on, and so on. Log on fall off – the internet ho’s fall off to the next web super star with no shame, give him a page and they’ll lie about their age, the same as the last ones who logged on before them, got hits started getting blocked, or worse still internet stalked. I warned him, assured him this web shit ain’t easy, take from meezy, sleazy websites want your credit cardeezy. They’re fucking the internet. So you wanna be a web superstar, and blog large, go to my space, no charge, comin’ up on the web, don’t troll nobody, gotta look over your facebook constantly. Inspiration courtesy of Cypress Hill. (69,579)
"Take Sick and Die"
Original by Boyd Rivers
Additional lyrics and music by Hank
You're going to have to take sick and die, one of these days
You're going to have to take sick and die, one of these days
All the medicine you can buy,
All the doctors you can hire...
You'll still have to take sick and die one of these days
You're going to have to take sick and die, one of these days
You're going to have to take sick and die, one of these days
You can appeal to higher powers
Bargain with Jesus in small hours
But you'll have to take sick and die, one of these days
You're going to have to take sick and die, one of these days
You're going to have to take sick and die, one of these days
All precautions you can take
All that health food sure won't save you
From having to take sick and die
One of these days
You're going to have to take sick and die, one of these days
You're going to have to take sick and die, one of these days
You can live just right as rain
Never cause another living thing pain
But you'll still fall sick and die
One of these days
You don't have to go and live out in the wild
You don't have to try to connect with natural life
'Cause every thing under the sky
That grows, crawls, swims, or flies
Every life must fail and die
One of these days. (40,025)
Oh, witness the end.
As we know it.
Peace by Piece,
Inch by Inch,
Cog for Cog,
The wheels of the machine,
Came crashing down,
With vigor,
Came crashing down,
A market no more.
Leaving the horse unable to feed
And then soon the people as well (32,534)
In other news, the spam levels in my inbox indicate that the botnets are back. Storm ain't just for 'X-Men' fanatics anymore.
SELECT * FROM Jobs INNER JOIN Job_Types ON Jobs.Job_Type_ID = Job_Types.Job_Type_ID WHERE ISNULL(Jobs.Finished_Date, '') = '' ORDER BY Entry_Date, Job_Type, Job_Title (36,747)
with drool-slathered chops, the jocks berate
criticizing my eye-shadow and pentagram necklace
and my man-boobs
they fear what they do not understand
and they fear me
with an eye for justice I cast my spells
a drop of cat's blood, which fluffy fought hard to keep
a piece of parchment seals their fate
a spaghetti-O's can serves as my cauldron
a spinning, naked dance around the hot-plate catalyzes my intention
mother speaks of bed time, mutters "freak" under her breath
they will all get their comeuppance, when satan heeds my call (37,222)
the darkness echoes the homes of my soul
where the ravenbeaked moonlight clips howled wolves
level 60 in world of warcraft and the new cure album fails
my miserable screaching banshee life wails
cruel harpies of living despair
i think i need to re-dye my hair
disembodied awful thing slithering crawl
i think i'll have mom drop me off at the mall
requiems twilite the shivering pale
wear proudly your tunics of chainmail
abysmal poem comes to a close
forgotten orgies of the winterpeak verbose insane asylum atrocities wash the bathroom floor...with blood
death (35,656)
I live for it.
There is nothing in the world like it.
It is the ultimate sensation of power.
I dream about it when I sleep at night.
I wake up and it is all I think about.
And I drive myself to campus, after drinking my five dollar cup of seventy-five cent coffee.
I pull into the parking lot, listening to the same song I've listened to for the past 3 months on absurdly high volume on a stereo system which my parents paid astronomical sums to purchase and I cannot properly configure.
I pull into the parking lot and I see my opportunity, this moment I have been longing for.
I see him.
I see him there.
He is walking, his head hooded and slowly nodding to a riff I will never hear by a band I do not know.
He is walking.
He is alone.
I see him.
And then, then it happens.
I drive right by him.
My pupils spastically fluctuate.
My anus clenches and unclenches, rapidly dilating. Pulsing in anticipation, expressing my excitation.
I see him.
He does not see me.
And I do it.
I turn off my stero.
And I do it.
I rev the engine of my truck which my parents bought for me.
I rev it hard.
I fucking rev the shit out of it.
And it makes the noise of a tiger dying after mistakenly jumping off of a very jagged cliff.
The sound is unleashed.
He hears it, I know he hears it.
But he does not respond.
He must have heard it.
He must.
I roll down my window.
I yell, "Fag!" as loud as I can.
I have won.
I am right.
He wants me.
He wants my truck.
He is envious.
He must be.
Who wouldn't be.
And I pick up my girlfriend after her Intro to College Reading class.
And I take her home and fuck her gaping and ragged axe wound, its labia replete with dentata and mucus.
I fuck her hard. I fuck her fast.
I ejaculate in minutes.
I make the sound of a rusty cabinet hinge while I ejaculate my inadequate seed from my tiny penis.
When I ejaculate inside her unfertile womb I do not fantasize about men.
I do not close my eyes and think about AberCrombie & Fitch models frolicking erotically on sandy beaches.
Because I am not gay.
I do not love men.
I do not lust for cock.
My truck tells me so.
My truck tells me I am not gay.
My truck makes me a man.
Every time I rev its engine I reaffirm my heterosexuality.
I am not gay.
I love my truck.
My parents bought it for me.
I sell enough low quality drugs to afford it but they bought it for me anyways.
Because they love me.
And I love my truck.
I am cool.
I am not gay.
I love my truck.
VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM (40,835)
I am currently waiting on an approval. You will here from me shortly. Thank you.
The sales team isn't ready to sell. And the organization isn't ready to support customers.
The first one is the one I believe you are looking for.
They are coming today to pick that unit up.
Is this one ok?
I have adjusted your request.
Whatever you guys
decide is the best route to take is fine with me.
Also let me know the return tracking info when its available so I can process the credit memo.
My search results by PO# did not bring anything up.
Please let me know
if you need a hard copy faxed to you
I had my tech format the drive,
It did so without any problem,
I don’t know what the issue could’ve been
Feel free to contact me if you need any additional information.
Thanks and have a great day! (36,763)
Beware! If wary ye be.
For the woods hold sights which to see.
While deep in their heart.
I gave up a start.
And heard sounds which in woods shouldn't be.
I lent up myne quavering ear.
And beheld sounds no hiker should hear.
First with a moan.
Then with a groan.
And lastly with a sharp whine of fear.
I stood in my tracks.
My gait had grown rather lax.
The fear was beginning to grow.
My pulse it raced.
My fingers they traced...
the air as I got ready to go.
As my boot hit the freezing soil.
I began again my Sisyphean toil.
I heard from the trees.
A cacophony! A wheeze!
And a curse that set my blood to boil.
For it is as they say.
Approaching the first of May.
When lovers may fuck where wind nips.
But think ye on this.
And answer if ye wish.
Was that whine brought forth from human lips? (38,687)
Jar Baby
sweat that brown goo
open your eyes
how i want you to
nibble fingers
like fish in heat
you shrieking scrap
of living meat
no soul to sell
no heaven no hell
jar baby stuck below the sky
paddle your arm
I'll do you no harm
oh how I wish you could run
alongside the sea
you creature bereaved
and sing with me "Fears of Gun" (37,381)
Share
