Kanye West Isn't Fit To Suck Sly Stone's Dick. [ 2006-02-08, 9:29 p.m. ]

I just suffered in ways no one should ever suffer waiting for Sly Stone to appear on the Grammys. I know the Grammys have long been a joke but Kelly Fucking Clarkson? Give me a break. Also, someone needs to punch Bono in the nuts. But, I digress.

Sly Stone wrote some of the most insightful lyrics and knock- you-on-your-ass funky music of the early seventies. He wiped out on cocaine in the eighties, had some run-ins with the law and has lived in some kind of sheltered housing for the past 20 years. That's the public story, anyway. He's always been known as somewhat of a fox (Like that? Sly fox? Oh, I slay me.) and I often wonder how much of what's out there about him is truth and what is the cleverly manufactured fiction of a reclusive genius. And really, I don't care. I just want everyone to love him as much as I do.

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Here's why I get paid the big bucks: The older charge woke up mid-nap crying and saying that his stomach hurt. I hustled him into the bathroom, where he sat down on the toilet and let loose with some nasty liquid diarrhea. Almost simultaneously, he told me he was going to throw up. I jumped up and grabbed a towel and yes...caught the puke in the towel, prompting the charge to weakly congratulate me with "That was a good catch, Laura!". Go me.

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Chicago, I am coming your way Friday. Warm the fuck up before I get there, please.

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Did I swear enough in this entry? I fucking well hope so.

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