Mattolo Musings


Here are the musings from Mattolo…Nolo and Matthew. Start from the bottom to make it flow…B!




Turn the beat around…turn it upside down. The short short hot rod now remixing Beat it……so beat it…. just beat her…wife beater….not the tank top, Miller Lite maven.  Don’t you ever come around here… doesn’t matter who’s wrong or right…wait doesn’t it, doesn’t it? (Beat it remix)? Rice and Peterson showing their might….throw the right hook, whip da boy. It’s normal millenial sports talk hype 1310 24 hour radio time. I stay by my man…he’s not your man, my man, we got the son, he be Ravone….beat it.  Glorify the wrong to fulfill the fantasy football dude watching for his lonely boy updates…..sell those commercials…..ratings, people, ratings…..what’s the beat on the street??? Oh Oh Oh A Pete gave him the beat…innocent before guilt but don’t start him this Sunday…..priorities people….priorities.


We need to get back to the 80’s.  The innocense.  The lyrics.  And we can build this thing together, standing strong forever, NOTHING’s gonna stop us.  NOTHING’s GONNA STOP US NOOWOWOWW, OH.   Frizee bellitit hair, ultimate poofiness.  Big hoop earings.  It was art imitating life imitating art.  Sitcoms.  So simple.  Growing pains.  Mr. Belvedere.  Now it’s “gossip girls”, or “torture”, “house of lies”.  The cat’s out of the bag and the bag was nice warm, and snug.  Like the snuggles, the downie freshner.  Or pillsberry doughboy  “Heheeeeeeeeooo”.  Basketball players used to wear ridiculously short shorts, and dribble a lot.  So structured.  HOT ROD WILLIAMS.

I think I should get off her first? Is it me….neee….the millenials. It’s the selfie gen…it’s yours..mine mine mine mine like a seagull in the nemo. It’s a show, the art of selfie….how do I depict myself to others without the use of them? Up, front…and center. Gen self…maybe gen them, let’s reverse the curse as they wrote on the Storrow when the Sox won the ’04 SEREEIISS. Make it that you need to use your Iphone 36 to ONLY take the photo of them, those without the selfie means to self appreciate, self deprecate or self tolerate. Shut the eye…..eye of mordor can’t take more than the one selfie a day…this phone, selfie phone will self destruct in 3,2,….1…….

I’m critical of the hypocrite who doesn’t at least move the needle in the right direction.  We are the emperor who has no clothes.  The globe is warming yet we all cool to the task.  Sacrificing a la Ricky Watters style.  For who, for what?  I’ll tell you what.  We talking about a game.  Not practice.  Not practice.  It’s picture perfect how imperfect it is when we incorrectly correct problems that we created in the first place for fear of falling into last place.


As far as the 90’s is concerned, there was nothing more extreme than Extreme.  There’s a hole in my heart that can only be filled bayouuuuu.  Hole Hearted.  They looked like regular chili peppers.  There were many styles of the 90’s.  Grunge.  Plaid.  Nirvana.  Polly want a cracker.  Ehhh.  Flannel.

The gig is up, man…of course there’s an organic, grass fed, locally produced non carcinogenic, never lab tested lavender based tumeric blended doucheay….tushhay. It’s the by producted system of labelness nothingness. Is it power yoga in a bottle or nuts not mixed with dog food. When did the foodie become a trend, a mark, a label a stereotype. It’s foodie food food man….an earthly right, comes from the ground, not meant to give us a pound or a layer of warped satisfaction, I mean does snickers always satisfy? I crave simpleness, non descriptness, conformist to not conform, apathy to convenience or non feel hype. Hey giver! Hey giver! Give me the stories of the past and something pure will truly last

We’re all addicts. All of us. We all itch our necks like Priscilla the crackwhore living in Section 8 begging for blow. The difference is we’re high society. So instead of crack, it’s facebook. I gotta see the new feed. Oh cool, a new “postcard” about feminism with some Norman Rockwell woman flexin her muscle. Or, “like” if you hate cancer. Seriously, do we really have to agree to hate cancer? “Like in 3 seconds” or you are an insensitive asshole. The internet. Too much power for stupid people. But I get sucked in anway. The internet WANTS me on that wall. It NEEDS me on that wall. I can’t handle the truth.

Silly Rabbit tricks don’t know how to be flipped like a cantaloped flip fantasia. The world is flipping in a flippery way. You meet a person, “Yo, you got face”, they say no, it’s this sudden shock of two simultaneous thoughts. They’re either hiding something or fuckin losers. I can follow a girl I hooked up with when I was 19’s troubled feed of her son’s sickness yet can’t call my boy to get some bubblicious and some skittles. The personal impersonal way of 143 (I love you too) has hit the floor runnin and what’s it gonna do. Disconnect to connect and connect to disconnect a series of walking contradictions of faith, love, rhymin and stealin in a drunkin state. Who’s to say the right way is the way it is? Kill my liver letting loose legally or focus my mind herbally and get royally corrected? Love those that seek the truth but don’t trust the ones who said they’ve found it. Yeah I watch Dexter so what? It’s a way to subtract by attraction and add by my chemical romance. Who’s the addict now chachki?

A pleasant surprise is to walk into any public bathroom and not have single ply toilet paper. Just once. I feel like I’m wiping my ass with tissue paper used to wrap fancy gifts. And you gotta wipe all day. Fold. Wipe a little more. Jesus – still brown? Fold.

Which makes me wonder when the head buddhist visited Latin America, did he say “Hola. Mi llama es Dalai Lama?” Think about how cool it’d be to to puff a j with the BIG DL. The one guy who could meditate away the munchies. Which makes me wonder if you could even tell he’d be high in the first place (sorry Asian people just saying). Just a smooth guy, even at his age – he’s on facebook and twitter. Just embracing it all. Is that a good thing that people from the older generations trying SO HARD to blend in with the new. Will we be hearing status updates and pics about our parents getting hip replacement? Like if Our boy blue, the recipient of a brand new plastic HIP, had a twitter feed. Twitter is so confusing. I feel like it’s impossible not to leave twitter without A.D.D. Forget about conversation, just give me your best 143 characters and move on. It’s like watered down, cultureless American Haiku’s. All Day. “Yo, I got the freshest kicks and my tricks are for kids.” #tag Justin Bieber (aka Leave it to Justin.)

Is Rhythm really a dancer? I mean take the white man, the gringo to the latin’s ( not the greeks mind you). He takes his stab at Salsa and Reggaetone in a wind up penguin doll like way. The feet are boppin but the body is stoppin. I like to call the feeble attempt of the gringo dancing latinly, Liverpool Salsa. Think of people from Liverpool, their faces, expressions, mannerisms and overly stating, keep battlin’ in a rough English accent combining with an orange and red dressed, bronzed skinned sexual latin diva dancing to Daddy Yankee and voila, you have a kool aid mix called Liverpool Salsa. Just imagine it spread like a baby rash through the bustling first world’s and combining into the fourth or fifth mundo’s. The toy penguin? The nutcracker? The robot? All in a latin like lover mush of dance madness of chaos. Why are there so many llamas that are Latin? Damn spitters, always shocking you with their necks of length and immense flem and spit accuracy. What if they replaced the city pigeon or rat? You’d miss those little bastards if they were replaced by the dalhi of street creepers, the llama…big hitter. Think about the reverse curve of street creatures, they’d make you think twice about public transport after a long, liverpool salsa night of love, wouldn’t they?

Everything needs to be as intense as techno music was in the 90’s. Rhythm is a dancer. WOAAAA. That bitch meant “WOAA” like she’d see you in her rear view mirror and run you the fuck over and not care. WOAAA. Or the dancing in the 90’s. The worm. The running man. So much passion. They make it look so easy. It’s not. Like dancing salsa. Looks easy, gives me hip pointers…..