anyway. so it's monday, july thirtyfirst. i get my measly little handful of cash tomorrow, which means i have to type up shopping lists of ridiculous shit today, half of which i'll manage to get because everything has to be done alone. is that not compromise enough, when in this situation? but no, they have to promote loneliness to you like it's the only product you can afford. someone's got a case of the mondays.
more like... someone's got a case of the consumerism...?
ew, i wouldn't want that when you put it that way. you might want to have that looked at. ew, you've got consumerism? i hear that's worse than cooties and herpes. how long do you have left?
anyway. so my birthday is coming up. september twenty six. and yes, i take paypal. for those who prefer to be anonymously nice. if you're that anonymous, i also like anonymous encounters. anyone even know what that is? pop quiz?
why does 'in the air tonight' by phil collins never get old? i've seen mike tyson rock to this tune, and it's still... this song is like ozzy osbourne, you can put him in a phone commercial with justin beiber, and he's still ozzy fuckin' osbourne! that's what tells me that ozzy osbourne must be satan on earth, because he's the only person who can't sell his soul. he's incapable of selling his soul, it's like his soul has too much cocaine damage, and not even satan wants it. 'i ain't touchin' that thing, it's smoking!'.
'it's darker than my outhouse'.
anyway. birthday wishlist. there are a few things i've been wanting, that poverty keeps screwing me out of getting. first, on redbubble.com, you can order a shirt that says 'homeless lives matter'. i wear medium (as opposed to ten years ago). i'd love one in orange, and one in green, but i might look better in red or purple. so that's up to you. pick a colour. or, you can go to zazzle.com and personalize one a little more, with better fonts and crap. which would be cool for me, cause i personalize and customize fucking everything. i ain't no clone.
mama dun't raise no foo.
also, on zazzle.com, i'd love a black medium shirt, long or short sleeve, doesn't matter until you've heard my sleevejob joke. with pink text, in the tango font (or hank or hobo), approximate text size eight five to ninety, centered. that says, in all lowercase, 'fuck rich people'. again, black shirt, pink text, small font, says 'fuck rich people'.
here are some links, in case you can't find it...
fuck rich people: my flabby black ass
homeless lives matter: my saggy purple tushy good god, that's a long link. well shit, zazzle keeps not saving the text. apparently, you just have to add your own text, customize your own shirt. but i'd like it to say 'fuck rich people'. wait, which link was which... i'm confused. goddamnit. where's my google brain?
and this is where you can ship to:
- Ozzy Draven
- 2133 3RD AVE STE 116
- C/O SKYE WHITE @REACH
- SEATTLE, WA 98121-2385
- United States
- Phone: 509-994-0484
this is the one i like: higgety haggety hack
another idea for a shirt... actually a few necessary (obviously) ideas... i need a shirt that says 'rich people stare at me, but women ignore me'. i also need a shirt (or a forehead tattoo) that says 'i don't fucking do drugs! stop asking me! i'm not your drugmaps information booth! i'm not scum like you, nor do i look like it! (that might be a bit much for a shirt, depends on how small you can print it, and how small they can read... or if they can read)'. i also apparently need a shirt that says 'don't fucking call me bro'. and i need to print my preferences on a shirt, like 'i don't like coffee, bananas, berries (except barry white), or vegan shit. or jail food. or rap music. and how many places do i have to write that i don't do drugs, how stupid are these fucks? i get asked twenty times a fucking day, you think that's a little sad? i can't wait to do my character on a stage and put that shit on youtube. 'i need some shards, man, i can't handle all this thinkin' crap'. fuckin' drug addict scum. please, if you have any sobriety or humanity left, please, i'm begging you, stay the fuck away from me, i really don't want to stab you. and i will, believe me, i'm on the verge of a meth addict killing spree, i'll be honest. these fuckers need to go, and don't be in denial of that, don't try to be overly human in this instance, there comes a time when you need to get a little cold. just like winter on the earth. some things just need to die. everything dies. it's okay. don't feel bad, it's like taking out the trash. keeping earth's mind clean. that's all it is. cleaning up your streets. there's no reason to make excuses for those people. they chose their life. and if they're going to persistently ask me for their drugs, or 'where's the seven eleven'... i'm not their information booth.
you'll notice, i'm no longer using the sign 'ask me anything for a dollar'. people have some of the dumbest questions i could ever imagine, and i keep asking them to be creative, stump me, pick my brain, something.
god, these childhood memories are getting powerful lately, and the smells. fuckin' weird.
anyway. i'm pretty much loaded up on everything else i need. but some new shirts would fucking rock... it's been at least ten years since i've worn anything that said anything on it. i used to enjoy wearing slayer shirts, and crap like that, but... i don't know what happened, it's certainly not that they got too trendy, in fact quite the opposite. i almost never see them anymore. and if i do, it's the lame default popular shit; metallica, slayer, avenged sevenfold. fuckin' come on, people, get some tastes of your own please. pick one band no one else listens to, please, for the love of uniqueness.
so yeah. shirts that say 'homeless lives matter', or 'fuck rich people'. i'll wear that.
i was born september twenty six, nineteen seventy eight, six:twelve pm, kino hospital, tucson, arizona, aka hell. if you're still asking me where i'm from, please stop. put a little more effort into getting to know me. it's not that hard. for people who are low tech, library computers can access my blog just fine. it's retardedly easy to get a library card, unless you're targeted and singled out like i am. also, if you ever go into the downtown library, and see the tall white, white haired security guard named dave, do me a favour and tell him, 'you really fucked it up for ozz, he still hates you, go fuck yourself'. and don't get me wrong, he was the nicest guy, i even introduced him to the movie 'dave' with kevin klein, which i still regret. he didn't have to be that much of a totalitarian prick.
anyway. that's my day. that's my brain. that's my pack o' smokes. spectacles, testicles, smokes and phone. we're good to go. ha, just thought of another good panhandling sign. 'it's okay if rich people ignore me, i know you're a coward, i don't want to talk to you anyway'. but i am so sick of being ignored by the snobby hot prissy bitches, the women who refuse to look at anything, what the fuck is wrong with you scags. scuntroaches. blabberheathens. i can't have a disgusting enough turd roll off my tongue to describe you. just stop existing, would you please? you spread no love, you don't make the world go round, and you're truly not good for anything else. you're spoiled, self inflated, pampered, and fucking useless. why do you exist? just to sell yourself from credit card to credit card? i'd love just one point in my life where i could ignore them when they need something, even if it's just a hug. or a handjob. fuck you coward squanks. this is honestly what i think those rich, snobby bitches should do; find a homeless man who hasn't been touched in three years, and fuck him till he builds enough confidence to get his ass on a stage. problem solved, homelessness over, and ego properly slaughtered. and what gets me, those women are usually the ones who bitch about 'ego' the most. welcome to camp hypocrisy, do you have your pots and kettles badge yet?
and people wonder why i talk this way. i'll give you a hint. (to weed out the rich cowards!). wink wink. of course i'm fighting capitalist scum, why wouldn't i be?
it's okay, you won't own the earth much longer. thinking you can own the earth for another two thousand years... what a douche. you think you're that important. you need a job? i need a personal butt scratcher. happy new life! what's your anticapitalist resolution? be poor, it's cheaper!
that reminds me, i need to make one more sign for today. simply saying 'humble'.
'when i had no roof, i made audacity my roof'...
skinny squanky spoiled starbucks bitches. wastes of fucking vagina. make the world go round, goddamnit. fuck a bum. stop playing 'wackabum'. homeless people need love, too! that reminds me, i'm officially putting my ass on sale for female fondles and gropes. scandal handle? panhandling, or manhandling? manscaping, or bumscraping? hmm. bums are better lovers cause we appreciate it more. ladies, next time mister fat wallet leaves you unsatisfied, go find a bum. but avoid drug addicts. and why the fuck don't people cheat anymore? when did that go out the window? divorce rates are higher than trump's hair, and no one's cheating? the shit this society expects me to believe...
up till right there, this blog post was nineteen seventy eight words. i was born in nineteen seventy eight. happy birthday to me. now it's two thousand eight words. hmm.
well, now i fucked all that up by editing those links. fuck. oh, and one last thing. finally getting a youtube channel going. have a glittery gander. panhandlin' poet.
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