Sugar Free Diabetes

She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, she loves me not...okay so I came.

This blog is about nothing, I've decided to not let the pressure of writing good blogs come in the way of expressing mundane abstractions and screaming bitches of the zoloft galaxy.

VH1 blares, a beautiful song after another beautifully packaged song. What do we like about this music? The flashy graphics and the color-coded outfits, or the music, would be like the music if it were bereft of half naked models and black guys screaming murder, or calling out to their ho's or referring to their bling, which gets some action for their thing, or thang. Bloody Murder, screams Oxford my pet poodle. He thinks these brothaz from the hood are perverting every sylabble of his canine english dream. He barks, Woof, thats a proper queen's woof, 'Why does every rapper delve into the doggy dog world, all dem bitches are mine dawg.'

Hmm, I'm thinking of calling Mr. Oxford, Mr. Bling G Dogg. Is that bestiality? When rappers call each other dawg's and think of doing each others bitches, with some ice factory being responsible for a lot of the glitter, that blinds these otherwise intelligent females into submission to these dawgs. Why would any woman want to be degraded? Who takes this shit? Except on TV? I bet back home, these dawg's moan doggy style, and comply to their 'bitches' orders, serves em right? (I apologize for the inordinate amount of profanity and bad grammer that accompanies some of my vh1-induced posts.)

Now readers, I'm sure you'd expect me to refer something about Diabetes, Sugar Or freedom from castor. Okay maybe next post, I won't lie about sexual relations with Monica Blewinsky. Adios for now, alter-trash-talking-ego appears in another exciting mindless post, much sooner than you can say O-shoo-be-doo.