If I ever get a jacuzzi, I'm never coming out.
Real jazzmen wear periwinkle.
I had a tuna croissant for lunch. Washed it down with a powerade and a bag of fat free cheddar ruffles. The diet for a successful afternoon of sitting and entering data.
Sort of out of it today.
I'm sort of upset that I don't have a jacuzzi and I kind of carry a grudge about it. I feel that I deserve a lot of money and wonderful new house and a fridge full of truly excellent white wines. I don't deserve these things necessarily since I haven't worked/swindled for them.
Why do I deserve these comforts?
Because I've been to the mountain and looked down and can play bass like Donald Duck Dunn and am overly sophisticated. I would also donate a kidney to a stranger if it was totally necessary. I would hate to have to do that but would probably feel very good about it later after the wound healed.
Jazz is like the sun, it's better if you don't stare at it but do something else and just allow it to shine on you while you go about your activity.
Jazzmen throw hard boiled eggs at me and spit slime through their bells. They throw a decanter of Canadian Club on my head. I say "fair" and grab a big Joe Pass jazz flattop and plug into a big brown stack of felt covered amps and play them some of my brown suede smoke. A smokescreen of vague brown ice and Harlem napkin designs. And barley corn. And kite design. Big burgers in the fryer and long dresses on fire. Fans of fantasy, please respond.
Sonny Rollin's fanclub. Baby doll satin and cream de cocoa. Fat hustlers outside the club. Bread, chops, imitation licorice sticks, discounts on stuccoing your abode, abdominal crunching devices fresh from the otherside. Milk miked with rum. Champagne that chimps drink out of a ram's horn. Big pancakes covered with tar. Pregnant salmon smoking sugar cigars.
"Fantastic cigar, Sam!"
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