???he???d be dead by now.As I???m sure you can tell by the funny taste in your tap water, today is the born day of the one Terrence Clubbuppington III. If you???re on this site and reading these words, then whether you know it or not, you???ve felt the side effects of my man???s particular brand of ATL-dopa. And if you don???t know, now you know. Dude comes with a generosity of thought, word, and energy that???s unparalleled, like his brain???s birthing squirrels while his jaw unhinges to vomit live parrots, the two tribes going to war simultaneously in the kudzu between his ears and in the cyberspace just above our heads, with the losers cauterized in a shower of sparks and cannonballed baptismally into a Sargasso sea of sizzurped verbals, where they await reissue, street date TBA. I can count on one hand the writers around here that deliver like dude, and I don???t even have any hands. So, here???s what I want y???all to do, for Tee: something extra. I don???t care what it is???crazy .jpeg, dirty joke, half-finished beat, some smooth lyrics, something chopped, screwed, and haikued???just make sure you put your back into it, at least a little. And in the ganz tol spirit of the man himself, don???t check TCB with no lightweight stuff: Any of you heshers that just punch in with some ???Happy birthday, dude???peacey weace??? or some passedoutwookies.complacency or some bullshit throwed code that cock-blocks everyone else better fuckin??? katie-bar the door, matey, cause I???ll kick in the door waving the four-fingered and will rock you in your Mount-Rushmore fronts for three consecutive terms, until your Lincoln???s blinkin???. All right, maybe not all that, but if I sense that you???re not at least trying, I will reach deep into my Balzac, call you out of your name, and insult you with wicked randomness. Unless we???ve actually met, in which case I will not hesitate to make shit personal, and let all these real heads know about that funny business you tried to pull at the slumber party (Yes, your sleeping bag looks snug and comfortable, but no, I have no interest in ???making manchovies??????I mean, dang, dude). And even though I???m the calm one, please believe that I???ve got repressed bile like Chicago???s got twentysomething Molly McButters rocking the three-quarter-length moss-colored belted overcoats (Miss Crabtree, I hope that you???re not mad at me???yo, I see you, grull!), so when I flame, you get all that. Consider yourselves warned. All those who come correct will receive via telepathy my invitation to some pony shawarma, long-fin killie, and polmone del capra down at the Double Lady, my treat.And although I welcome the contribution of newer folks (I love y???all like a fat kid loves diet cake), I also wanna put out a special call to my old heads. My Underoo_Blue-era dunnions. Like, maybe soulstrut used to be your church and now it???s just your craigslist, so you???re just lurking; maybe you just come around to show off baby pictures and plug auctions; maybe you got tired of writing long letters and getting postcards in return; maybe you ran out of bullets, or maybe you just can???t find the words anymore. None of that matters. We are now on the far side of this great soulstrut parabola, so I???m beseeching all my aging gigolos and gigolettes to--one mo' ???gain---bring ???em out bring ???em out.And lest we forget the reason for the seasoning: Even though he???s probably sniffing BC powder up in Tower and/or nursing a mimosa ovadosa at the Ponderosa, and may thus never even see this, Happy Birthday to Terry_Fuckin???_Clubbup. Westward, ho.
