srijeda, 06.02.2008.
Uberkul i urbano
Ima jedan kafić, ispred vrata mu ispisano velikim, lijepim slovima: "INTERNET BAR PIRANA." Taj kafić se nalazi blizu jedne škole i pun je više-manje uvijek. Dakle, u čemu je problem? Pa, u tom kafiću nema ni kabela, a kamoli računala i interneta. Postavlja se pitanje: "Zašto, pobogu, piše internet bar kad nema interneta?"
Prijatelji dragi, pogodite kakva se vrsta glazbe tamo pušta.
Upravo tako - turbo-jebeni-folk.
Uh, jesmo kul i urbani, idemo u internet bar, slušamo techno-cajke.
Ma bravo, seljačine u gradu.
- 19:55 -
Komentari (3) -
Isprintaj -
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Opis bloga
"To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt
They'd immediately go out."
William Blake
Ovo je blog (da istaknemo očito). Molim vas bez spama, debilizma i nepotrebnih komentara. Svi koji budu ostavljali lance sreće i poruke tipa: "Super blog, posjeti moj!" dobit će po guzi, a njihovi komentari će biti po hitnom postupku izbrisani!
Ako ne dijelite moj smisao za cinični, sarkastični, suptilni humor, dakle ako ste glupi i zatucani, sigurno ćete se uvrijediti na NEŠTO napisano na ovom blogu. Ukoliko ne pronađete baš ništa što vas vrijeđa, onda mi javite i to će se promijeniti. Ako ste došli ovamo srati, shvaćati sve ozbiljno i općenito se praviti pametni dugim komentarima koji ništa ne znače, jer ste u startu promašili bit posta, onda otiđite, mamu vam! Naravno, svi posjetitelji bloga moraju prihvatiti mene, Funky Momka, kao vrhovnog gospodara života i smrti. Uživajte...
Najbolja pjesma ikad
The Court of the Crimson King
The rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change
The tournament's begun.
The purple piper plays his tune,
The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
For the court of the crimson king.
The keeper of the city keys
Put shutters on the dreams.
I wait outside the pilgrims door
With insufficient schemes.
The black queen chants
The funeral march,
The cracked brass bells will ring;
To summon back the fire witch
To the court of the crimson king.
The gardener plants an evergreen
Whilst trampling on a flower.
I chase the wind of a prism ship
To taste the sweet and sour.
The pattern juggler lifts his hand;
The orchestra begin.
As slowly turns the grinding wheel
In the court of the crimson king.
On soft gray mornings widows cry
The wise men share a joke;
I run to grasp divining signs
To satisfy the hoax.
The yellow jester does not play
But gentle pulls the strings
And smiles as the puppets dance
In the court of the crimson king.
