The Hunter S. Thompson memorial pharmacy

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I’m watching this Paris Hilton show – not the one where she answers her cell phone while taking a huge cock from the rear in night vision, but the one where she is with Lionel Richie’s mongoloid heroin addict daughter, terrorizing this small town. I don’t really know which one is worse: Hilton dressed as a high-rent stripper and giggling in this cross of ValGal slang and stuck-up, vapid monotone, or the fact that all of these dumb rednecks act as if their town was invaded by Nazi stormtroopers who are setting up a Dachau-style concentration camp for any citizens who like country music. What’s even worse is that I’m wasting my time watching this show while I sit at the computer, and I find it vaguely amusing that these two girls would do shit like tell their 15-year-old TV-brother’s ex-girlfriend that they were double-teaming him just to make her jealous.

Crap, ER is a rerun. I guess I had enough medical bullshit this week by trying to get my god damned prescription refilled. I think the pharmacy by my house would operate much more efficiently if Hunter S. Thompson and a group of three meth-addled model glue addicts ran the place. Ironically, HST just broke his leg in Hawaii, where he was attempting to cover the big marathon. I never seem to get any news on him, and then in one article, I found out he married his 30 year old assistant, and he’s frantically trying to get the Rum Diary movie done. He’s a guy that’s really in need of some kind of web page, but I could see how that goes against everything he stands for.

I wanted to write more, but got attacked by the telephone. Now it’s too late to do any more work, and I’d like a few hours of sleep. Goodbye, farewell.

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