He's at it again.
You probably have no idea who I'm talking about since he's mostly diapers with a car.
Tony "Moses On Jamba Juice" Moser is up in the grill of yours truly, making attempts to rattle my gilded mic stand. I've tried to listen to the underlying message of his rantings about me. I've let the words fall aside and squinted so that I may look not at the mirrors, lava lamps, and smoke drifting from Moser's breathing holes, but at the intent of those words. Well I saw that intent my friends. And it was blank.
He was basically typing just to hear himself type. He's now taking credit for the songs written by bands such as Poison and Slaughter. He's stealing. He's plagiarizing the work of these men he so very much desires to look like in order to, basically, steal the clout of one Bradford Whitcomb Ainsely Undersworth Brake III. Keep trying, Mose.
I'm admit, I am NOT in Tony's league. I skipped it on my way to "confoundingly astonishing" at 3 months into this whole comedy thing. Tony sees me outside of his league, but he's so backwards that he believes he's looking behind him and there he sees me, but actually, I'm AHEAD of him, and he's forgotten what the future looks like. He's living in the past. Actually, he's living in a dreamworld populated by aromatic midgets, and he thinks it's the future. In reality, he's living in his mom's closet again. Nice pants, Gay Lord.
Deal with Moser any way that you must, but remember this: He is only out to please ONE PERSON; And when that woman of ill repute comes along Tony will finally quit comedy and become her lap dog. And maybe THEN, she'll realize what a real man it takes to do it the way it's done by Bradford Ainsmob Whitforth Underpants the Broken VII.
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Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
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