Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
A person wearing ragged cloathing. From tatter, to torn into shreds, and demalion, of uncertain origin.
"Florry Talbot, a blond feeble goosefat whore in a tatterdemalion gown of mildewed strawberry, lolls spreadeagle in the sofa corner, her limp forearm pendent over the bolster, listening” - James Joyce, Ulysses
There, my little mabinogs, now you know.
Friday, December 17, 2010
I've watched 'Machete' the other day. Weird.
Here's a small anthology of mr. Trejo's unique achievements, reenacting some of the finest scenes of the 7th artform.
|Expressions? We ain't go no expressions. We don't need no expressions. I don't have to show you any steeeeeenking expressions you goddam cabron and ching' tu madre!||[impersonating Cheech Marin] Hey maaaaaaaaaan, whazzup duuuuuuuude, that's some heavy shit maaaaaaan.|
|Bond. Jamech Bond. From her Majechty'ch checret cherviche.||[a hommage to Leslie Nielssen] Nice beaver.|
|Are you looking at me? Huh? Are YOU looking at ME?||[singing] the hills are aliiiiiiiiive……… with the sououououound of muuuuuusic……|
|By Grabthar's hammer, by the sons of Warvan, I shall avenge you!||You mean they put mayonaise on their fries? Uuurgh|
|Oh my god! Someone has sent me bowel movement!||Machete doesn't message.|
Machete doesn't mail.
Machete doesn't fax.
Machete doesn't Facebook, Twitter nor blog.
Bur Machete can draw you a fish if you like.