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| So the end finally found us.
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"Nemo dat quod non habet." | | |
| QUICK ONLINE FAME! This is literally fresh off the records, produced
IN-HOUSE by Tactik under K-Spy. But we need a VOICE DROP from ANYONE!
Guys can vocalize as well, though we sorta want a girl. It's just
sexier that way. So if you wish to live in hip-hop digital fame for ten
seconds, here's your chance.
Instructions:
1. Listen to the rough cut.
2.
From the minutes 1:03 - 1:10, you can record a seven-second vocal of
ANY kind of shout-out for K-Spy e.g. "K-Spy in the mixxx."
3.
Winner will get their vocals cut in/remixed to this mash-up. It's the
only one of its kind that I know of. DEADLINE: Midnight, May 5, 2007.
Comments/opinions are appreciated as well!
DOWNLOAD at your leisure: Busta Rhymes - Promiscuous Girl (K-Spy Remix) | | |
| I would like to start off this reflective essay by saying it is so not 2007. No new catch phrases, new girl, new bag. I mean come on, the Invention of the Year was the Macbook, and Britney Spears got so slutted out that even Paris Hilton had to cover her up. There are still so many things up in the air...except taking my first dump to usher in the new year. Dear readers, you obviously know where this is going, so feel free to make the bad decision to read on. You've been fairly warned. You can thank John Ying for allowing me to borrow his laptop to type out the Pulitzer spew.
I think I was still reading Barron's intro column about the shareholder sell/buy ratio in November 2006 page three when my body suddenly broke out in cold sweat. It's that Spidey-instinct sweat that you know pain is about to flood your most intimate body spots. Like your gonads, or in my case, the butthole.
Apparently, there is this one turd that wouldn't end, and I realized it hadn't dropped since the bottom of page two. Not only was it getting harder to push out, it was getting wider. It seemed like a reincarnate of the previous week of all the fluctuating booze, smoke, & bad sleep culminating in this shitting experience. It was awful, and it kept going. And going. Like it wouldn't break off and go away.
Barron's was completely forgotten & I was panting. It must've been like five minutes of reverse engineering on how to fit a 9" circumference poop through a tiny anus ring. I lost all feeling from what was left of my waist organs downwards. All I kept thinking to prevent myself from blacking out was, "Goddamnit, I didn't even get cake in Chinatown. Now I am shitting out my second aborted fetus, I can't feel my legs, and I'm bleeding like a bad period."
I hope it's not colon cancer. And oh, Google shares are going to drop.
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| Strangely this week's worth of work has been extremely lax so for the first time I took the commuter 5:03 PM Express, which apparently is the time that EVERYONE leaves on. No big deal, it was eye-opening because the young gentlemen next to me twitched the whole way while we were both sleeping. He twitches! I AM NOT ALONE. I used to be so ashamed, but now I found a napping buddy. So we both twitched happily together in unison until Westborough came.
The T stops at 6:01 PM. Immediately the herd moves out and a couple of scraggily Indian fobs in shirt/ties break formation and sprint for their cars. No running form whatsoever. Their skinny arms are flailing with their laptop briefs. I laugh and make "Wtf" hand gestures. I say to the nearest commuter, "Why are they running, are they having a parking lot meeting?" Too bad the guy didn't hear me. Cause he was running, too.
SIXTEEN MINUTES LATER IN THE SAME Parking Lot with a bunch of bicyclers, a pregnant Asian lady, tons of cars trying to get out of the bottleneck exit, and I'm in the back....
"Oh. Touche."
Damn Indians keep everything to themselves.
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