The fuck out of here — that’s pussy talk. If you’re just tuning in, this bloggery was written in the 1950s and buried in a fucking time capsule. I hope it could one day be opened up and read out loud, in the city square, for all those interested in stocks to hear. If you’re listening to this now, under-developed monkey brained men and women, then you’re feverishly in search of more money. Because once you get more money, your lives will be better, yes?
Why, you’ll be able to buy new shoes, bags, pants, DUNGAREES (see I really am from the 50s), and all sorts of lovely items — like guitars and drum sets.
Life is moribund without a good meatloaf supper, a tall glass of milk, drenched in ketchup. Eat your stringed beans too — they’ll put hair on your cocks. Imagine women with cocks, funny. It’ll never happen.
Anyways, I have to go now — Johnny wants to go play some catch down in the alleyway, where the other boys are playing sticked ball. Just the other day, I had to throw one of them a beatin’ for looking at me sideways. The cop on patrol asked me to kindly stop throwing random kids beatings, especially since they’re not my children. I got off on a warning. Irish mick bastard.
I’m hearing IBM is a good company, working on some new computing machine, and all of the fellas at the bowling alley like Coca-Cola. That Pepsi stuff is absolute shit; trust me, Ty Cobb vouched by that statement.
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