So what the fuck happened to me, huh?
So... I just checked and found the last post I made was in, uh... March. I'm sure you're all wondering where the flying fuck I've been. Was I continuing my brave crusade to rescue kittens from dark places? Ferrying orphans to Disneyland in my solid gold yacht that apparently can drive straight up on land? Whoremongering with Nelson Mandela?
No, I'm afraid not. At least not with Nelson Mandela. Pretty much what happened was schoolwork picked up and I was suddenly coming home from the library every day at fucking eleven o'clock to be heckled by shirtless bufoons playing sports games, and then they made me clean house and wash their hair and sell real estate for their evil, faceless corporations.
Okay, except for that last entire thing, what I said was true. School gots hard. And then I sort've got bored with the whole blog thing. And when I say "got bored with," I mean several ethnicities and political groups politely asked me to stop via the medium of lead pipes flying down at sharp angles. They only reacted because I was telling the truth and because I kept drunk dialing their elderly relatives.
But now I'm back, and more shirtless than ever. Right now I'm looking for a shitty job, which is difficult, because for high school all I did to earn money was play in a quartet for weddings and parties, and who the fuck am I supposed to cite for that reference? Me? Some dumbshit couple who's probably divorced now? That and in freshmen year I worked for a mostly-illegal-landscaping company, but I talked to my mom, and, I am not joking, the guy who ran that place drank himself to death, apparently. That sucks, because he was pretty cool. But it came as no surprise. I mean, this was a guy who tore the filters off his Camels before smoking them. He was either going to die in his own vomit or in the flaming inferno his Dodge Ram had become after plowing into an orphpanage at sixty miles an hour. Sometimes Fate is just written in the stars. But, regardless, there's no reaching that guy, unless you invented some sort've whoop ass phone, in which case I have a sound financial plan that consists of contacting Jesus, cooking up a few more books of the Bible, and then selling them to the Pope or Bush or whoever for All The Money in the Fucking World.
But that's still in development, so I'm going to head over to HEB and say, "Hey, do you have any shitty, shitty jobs for me to do at minimum wage? I'll do anything. I'd fucking eat mulch for a dollar, I swear. Do you have a dollar?" Bagging groceries. That fate is also written in the stars.
I guess I'll fill you in on the latest dumbshit thing I did in order to end this whining on a high and obscene note. Richard had his 21st birthday dinner last Saturday, and about 20 people showed up, including his dad and mom. Later on in the dinner his mom wound up walking around asking people the irritating and difficult question of what they planned to do after college, and after several nervous, shirking answers, she eventually got to me, and, in total deadpan, I told her "Oh, I'm going to be a merciless assassin who operates under the cover of a Hollywood gigolo."
She asked "What?" and then I told her again. Then I noticed that three people around me were laughing wildly, tears running down their faces, and the other 15 people in the room were staring at me open mouthed. Well, fuck me, I didn't know this was going to be a fucking formal ball, being that the birthday boy had already openly uttered the words "fuck" and "shit." Also, the last time I ate with his family, his 28 or so year old brother wound up enthusiastically miming a girl masturbating two ejaculating penises onto her face, so I figured I wasn't exactly rolling with royalty, here. So I decided to explain my plan, cause, see, as a high-class Hollywood gigolo, I can have intimate places with high security, and no one ever suspects the vapid gigolo. Eventually a few other people wound up laughing, and I nearly killed Tyler, Ryan, and Jasper, but Richard's mom just stared at me blankly. She stares at everyone that way, though, so I guess I'm in the clear.
Tune in next week to read my review of Revenge of the Sith, and why Hayden Christiansen should be prosecuted for war crimes.
No, I'm afraid not. At least not with Nelson Mandela. Pretty much what happened was schoolwork picked up and I was suddenly coming home from the library every day at fucking eleven o'clock to be heckled by shirtless bufoons playing sports games, and then they made me clean house and wash their hair and sell real estate for their evil, faceless corporations.
Okay, except for that last entire thing, what I said was true. School gots hard. And then I sort've got bored with the whole blog thing. And when I say "got bored with," I mean several ethnicities and political groups politely asked me to stop via the medium of lead pipes flying down at sharp angles. They only reacted because I was telling the truth and because I kept drunk dialing their elderly relatives.
But now I'm back, and more shirtless than ever. Right now I'm looking for a shitty job, which is difficult, because for high school all I did to earn money was play in a quartet for weddings and parties, and who the fuck am I supposed to cite for that reference? Me? Some dumbshit couple who's probably divorced now? That and in freshmen year I worked for a mostly-illegal-landscaping company, but I talked to my mom, and, I am not joking, the guy who ran that place drank himself to death, apparently. That sucks, because he was pretty cool. But it came as no surprise. I mean, this was a guy who tore the filters off his Camels before smoking them. He was either going to die in his own vomit or in the flaming inferno his Dodge Ram had become after plowing into an orphpanage at sixty miles an hour. Sometimes Fate is just written in the stars. But, regardless, there's no reaching that guy, unless you invented some sort've whoop ass phone, in which case I have a sound financial plan that consists of contacting Jesus, cooking up a few more books of the Bible, and then selling them to the Pope or Bush or whoever for All The Money in the Fucking World.
But that's still in development, so I'm going to head over to HEB and say, "Hey, do you have any shitty, shitty jobs for me to do at minimum wage? I'll do anything. I'd fucking eat mulch for a dollar, I swear. Do you have a dollar?" Bagging groceries. That fate is also written in the stars.
I guess I'll fill you in on the latest dumbshit thing I did in order to end this whining on a high and obscene note. Richard had his 21st birthday dinner last Saturday, and about 20 people showed up, including his dad and mom. Later on in the dinner his mom wound up walking around asking people the irritating and difficult question of what they planned to do after college, and after several nervous, shirking answers, she eventually got to me, and, in total deadpan, I told her "Oh, I'm going to be a merciless assassin who operates under the cover of a Hollywood gigolo."
She asked "What?" and then I told her again. Then I noticed that three people around me were laughing wildly, tears running down their faces, and the other 15 people in the room were staring at me open mouthed. Well, fuck me, I didn't know this was going to be a fucking formal ball, being that the birthday boy had already openly uttered the words "fuck" and "shit." Also, the last time I ate with his family, his 28 or so year old brother wound up enthusiastically miming a girl masturbating two ejaculating penises onto her face, so I figured I wasn't exactly rolling with royalty, here. So I decided to explain my plan, cause, see, as a high-class Hollywood gigolo, I can have intimate places with high security, and no one ever suspects the vapid gigolo. Eventually a few other people wound up laughing, and I nearly killed Tyler, Ryan, and Jasper, but Richard's mom just stared at me blankly. She stares at everyone that way, though, so I guess I'm in the clear.
Tune in next week to read my review of Revenge of the Sith, and why Hayden Christiansen should be prosecuted for war crimes.
posted by Robert at 12:04 AM
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