When Life Gives You AIDS, Make LemonAIDS.

Fresh from the unlocked bathroom behind a high school in Duarte, I've come to smear the truth all over your righteous gobs. Okay, to be fair I don't really know what that means: I've been doing a fair amount of meth off of the hoods of parked tractors down by the feed store for the last 3 days straight, mostly just to keep my mind from getting too uptight.

So pigeons shit all over Kings of Leon at a concert in St. Louis. That's fucking performance art right there. Quote of the day: "We had to bail, pigeons shitting in [bassist] Jared [Followill]'s mouth." Now where do I get some, and how can I train them to follow Shiloe around shitting in their open mouths? BOOM! 5 sentences in and I'm already talking about wild birds' shit hitting Shiloe's collective pie holes. Fuck, that adderall smoothie is finally taking root--shit is about to get real, bitches!

Yeah, life is hard. And at the end if you're lucky you might die. That's why you gotta snort everything that isn't tied down, because usually anything that's tied down is too big to snort. Remember that shit, man, that's some free life advice.

Wait wait...back to pigeons shitting on Kings of Leon for a second: "Jared was hit several times during the first two songs. On the third song, when he was hit in the cheek and some of it landed near his mouth, they couldn't deal any longer." So they let pigeons shit on them for two songs, I guess? Better than their audience got. They let Kings of Leon spray them with their shit-rock for 12 minutes until they cleared the stage, taking the rest of their fans' $75 plus Ticketmaster rape charge back to their velvet-lined tour bus. I don't care what that fuck Jesus Ayala thinks, getting shat upon by feral pigeons is better than a Kings of Leon concert. Fuck you, Ayala! Stay outta Pico or I'll cut you with my boot knife.

Alright, enough vague threats and side notes about nothing. I got off track after that part about getting birds to dive bomb Ken Ramos. It's hard to write this shit, you know? The mind tends to wander to things like, "why didn't that eightball I hid up my ass a week ago ever come back out?" or "did I remember to clean out the fridge today?" Cut to a shot of my fridge:

FUCK! It's so hard to focus when you're high on $8 worth of uppers and a couple of packets of sugar from Denny's that I confused for coke. They kicked me out but the joke's on them--when no one was looking I stole all that food they left on the ground.

Look, you have to know when to let your dreams and hopes die forever and never return. Because you don't want to end up like a hipster from Animal Collective--always wearing ironic wolf sweaters and looking ready to go down on the nearest record executive.

There's no dignity there. Your hipster friends next to you aren't looking too good either, really. So it's settled, and now it needs to be asked, "Who's going to start the hipster Auschwitz?" Someone needs to take down the editorial staff of Vice Magazine, Pitchfork.com, and all the other rags out there that refuse to publish my weekly column of drug recipes/band management abuse/advice (Not that that stops me from mailing it to them every day) and put them to work in a camp in the middle of Tujunga somewhere.

Look here jizzwizards, I can't keep typing my words of wisdom here forever. I've got a full day ahead: I've got death threats a column to mail to Pitchfork in an hour, and karate lessons to give to random kids I meet in the park later today. Those kids aren't going to learn how to take a punch from a junkie unless they learn first hand! You'll just have to resume touching yourself and watching The Hills in your parents basement if you want amusement.