pipirupipa


Stuff Overheard At a Bloggers Convention by albertog72
April 30, 2009, 8:13 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

“Been struggling for material lately. My cat’s being very uncooperative”

“Yes, I’ve been quite busy lately, what with my career and family and all. Also been going to the gym everyday, and going out every weekend– wait a minute, what the hell am I doing here?!”

“Has everybody tried the cheese? It’s delicious.”

“The weirdest thing happened the other day, I had a conversation with someone. Offline! It was bizarre…”

“Hey! Let’s go egg that ‘Twitter Convention’ next door. We’ll use 140 eggs.”

“What’s a newspaper?”

“You DON’T watch American Idol?! SECURITY!!!”

“You see that guy over there. He copy/pasted the same song I copy/pasted into my blog. What an unoriginal dick!”

“I’m making a ton of money, telling people how to make money. Recession FTW!”

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Bonbon by mooangus
April 28, 2009, 5:30 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

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Eyemo by mooangus
April 27, 2009, 12:24 am
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sadclops



How To Play Guitar by jaymanmatru
April 25, 2009, 10:28 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Why: Girls. Why else?

What You Need
Plaid shirts
Ripped jeans
Lack of personality
Stickers
Hair
iPod
Hair gel, eyeliner
Guitar (optional)

 Step 1

Choose your style. 

This is the longest and most important step, the one which determines what kind of guitar player you will be. It starts with the haircut. You have to make sure that it looks like you did it yourself or it was done by someone with cerebral palsy. If you’re patient enough you can always choose to just grow you hair out, but once you start you have to go full length. Facial hair is your choice, depends entirely on you.

Step 2

Promote yourself. 

No, I’m not talking about flyers or even MySpace, I’m talking about the kind of subtle/shameless self-promotion in which the pros excel. First, you should have a collection of  band posters in your bedroom, none of which should be dated after 1985.

You should always be playing with guitar picks and pretend like you’re just doing it unconsciously. When people ask if you play, remember, BE COOL. Just say, “A little” and shrug. If they request that you should play for them some time, move on to the next step.

Step 3

Get a guitar. 

It doesn’t matter what kind of guitar, what matters is that it has a case. In fact, you can even choose to first get a case and then a guitar. The important thing here is that people see you carrying a guitar case around. You should have it with you at all times. 

(Note: If you have a car, don’t just leave it behind, carry it with you ALWAYS.)

Step 4

Vocal exercises. 

Playing a guitar means nothing if you can’t sing. Now, maybe you think that singing is hard or something you’re, like, born with or whatever. That’s just stupid. Singing is about knowing how to alter your voice just right.

You can go for one of two choices: pretend like you just got hit in the pelvis with a Nerf ball, or pretend you have something stuck in your throat. Some people like to do a combination of both. Also, train yourself to close your eyes constantly while your singing. 

Step 5

Sit somewhere and hit some strings. 

For this step, you should really have a guitar (it doesn’t have to be yours), just make sure it has a bunch of stickers. They should represent contradicting ideologies (i.e. the symbol for Anarchy next to a picture of Che’s face). 

Sit somewhere like a bench or under a tree, preferably outdoors, definitely social. Hit some of the strings and pretend you’re tuning the guitar.

Step 6

Play. 

The internet is great, isn’t it? Before, you had to find some dude to actually teach you how to read music and what the different cord were and yaddi yadda. Nowadays, since we don’t live in the Dark Ages, we can just learn how to play a song in the internet. 

Just log on and look for whatever the number one pop song is and learn it. Go back to your tuning spot and play it. This is where all the steps come together. 

However, your true genius is gonna come not from playing an already recognizable song, but from impromptu song-writing. If you can write a song “on the spot” (meaning: you took a whole bunch of songs that already exist and mash ’em all up). 

Follow these easy steps and I guarantee you’ll get a fair share of arm candy for years to come. Just ask John Mayer or Jose Feliciano. Them dudes is ugly, one of them is even blind (allegedly).

 

yea i really gotit goin on

yea i really gotit goin on



mmg by albertog72
April 21, 2009, 4:32 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

picture-3

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Vacaciones de Semana Santa by mooangus
April 11, 2009, 11:05 am
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Trip by mooangus
April 9, 2009, 5:20 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

It was one of those Friday nights. Paul was standing in the curb, a smoky cigarette in his  hand. He wanted to cross the street, instead he took the envelope out of his jacket pocket. He studied it and put it back from where it came. “Balderdash” he said, as he tossed away the half smoked cigarette and took out a box of Nacional cigarettes.

Inside the box of Nacional, there was a smaller envelope; he studied it and put it back. He stuck both hands down his pockets. He lifted his foot half-an-inch off the ground. He crossed the empty street, looking straight ahead. He rang Kenny’s doorbell once. Just once.The doorbell rang a nostalgic sound. It reminded Paul of a minute earlier when he studied the smaller envelope.

“Come on… answer the door…” he thought.

Kenny was not home, his dog started puking marbles, so he rushed to the nearest convenience store, bought himself a six pack, a lottery ticket and some random newspapers. As he was halfway across the neighborhood, he noticed some Middle Eastern dude following him. Kenny knew that he couldn’t outrun anyone while holding random newspapers.

He started power walking, while he yanked the dogs leash. The dog puked another marble, he stopped to pick it up and the newspapers fell. He looked back and the guy was getting closer.

“This is the end” he thought.

Somebody tapped him from the other side, he got tangled in the leash and fell. The Middle Eastern dude was now looming on top of him. Kenny could only pant, he scratched the pavement with his nails, sweat beads covered his forehead. The Middle Eastern dude stretched his arm, fist tightly closed.

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“You forgot to pay for those random newspapers! You think those are Diario Libre? Those are El Nacional. Now pay.” the Middle Eastern dude claimed.

Kenny was speechless.

Paul was the one who tapped him. He handed the man a 10 dollar bill and said, “Sorry, he is having some trouble at home.” Then he helped Kenny up.

“What the fuck is happening to you and your dog, he just puked two marbles” Paul said.

“I dunno, man, He just–he just started doing that a couple of hours ago” said Kenny, as he got himself off the ground.

“Were you… smoking Nacional?” asked Kenny.

“You’re welcome,” Paul said sarcastically, “wanna hit the bar? I have some things to talk with you, but first we should figure out what to do with your dog.”

“I’m just gonna take him home.”

“But what if he keeps doing it?”

“He can’t do it forever.”

“True.”

And at the moment, the dog whimpered.

The dog vomited again. No marbles, only bubbly water. And then, marbles. Marbles everywhere. Well not everywhere, the dog only puked about a dozen marbles.

“Whoa, Kenny, your dog is about to die, how about we put him out of misery, it’s not even your dog” Paul said.

Kenny looked at the dog. It looked back at him. Paul bent over, he took a couple of marbles. One by one, he took them between the tip of his left index finger and thumb, and placed them carefully in the palm of his right hand. They stayed there static. He moved his hand ever so slightly, but the marbles refused to move.

“I don’t think these are marbles. I don’t even think they’re real.” Paul said bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“This must be what Balderdash wanted to talk to us about.”

Kenny stared at Paul. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Kenny winced. Annoyance took over him, he felt uncomfortable and a chill ran down his spine. He violently bent over and in a swift movement grabbed the dog’s leash. “Fuck that, man.”

They walked back to Kenny’s apartment. Kenny opened the door. He must’ve left the door unlocked. The place was filled with pottery brimful of marbles. Fish tank filled with marbles, glasses with marbles.

Paul mesmerized, slowly took out both envelopes, moved some marbles off the table, and placed the envelopes and said “Earlier today, I bought a newspaper and a pack of cigarettes, both of them had envelopes inside from Mr. Balderdash, I was waiting to meet to you, so we could open them together, but before we open them, I believe we should promise each other, that the content of this envelope won’t change–”

“No” grunted Kenny, “I don’t think I can do this. I’m not doing it. Yeah. I’m done.” He turned his back on Paul and walked into the kitchen. “Want anything to drink?” Kenny asked cordially.

“Don’t cower now!” Paul opened the bigger envelope and took out its content. A lime green-colored piece of paper, scented with the freshest of ‘herbs’. “Don’t you want to learn? Don’t  you want to know the truth?”

Kenny stared at his glass as he poured his and Paulʼs scotch.  He sighed “Go ahead, read it.” Paul held the piece of paper with both hands. He glared. Kenny looked at Paul, frozen.

“What does it say?” Kenny finally asked.

Paul looked up at him, his mouth wide open. “Well?” insisted Kenny. Paul extended his right hand, he handed the piece of paper to Kenny. Kenny just looked at it.

Kenny looked up at Paul, “It says, take what is in the smaller envelope.” As Kenny said that, Paul was already opening the smaller envelope. Hearts beat like buttocks getting smacked by carnival’s Diablo Cojuelos. Paul takes out smaller pink  and blue pieces of paper he notices that they are LSD, there is note inside that reads: “blue is for Paul; pink is for Kenny”

The papers with smiley faces on them, and a note that says “trip” .

.  .  .