My dreams can get pretty crazy. Last night I had a dream that I could fly. It was great but I still remembered that I had only nine dollars in my bank account.
Flying isn’t fun when you have only nine dollars in your bank account.
My dreams can get pretty crazy. Last night I had a dream that I could fly. It was great but I still remembered that I had only nine dollars in my bank account.
Flying isn’t fun when you have only nine dollars in your bank account.
Just go with me on this one. What if I got into the lion-feeding business? You know, like, I start a company that made food for lions. I would totally call my product “Christian’s”. You’d never forget what to feed your pet lion.
Thank you, thank you. Tips go in the jar.
The sign of a true alcoholic is not only justifying why you drink but also being able to justify why you would drink if you were somebody else.
Just the other day I imagined myself to be a pregnant woman and I thought to myself, “Well, at least I’m not drinking alone.”
As a side note, I think I have an unhealthy obsession with pregnant ladies.
All I’m saying is I wish I had tried eating mashed potatoes with ecstasy instead of gravy at least once in my life.
Breaking up with her over a nice dinner is the best thing to do. Hear me out on this: we’re both dressed classy, there’s some wine, and it’s a Thursday night at the third nicest place in town. Sure, I could take her to the first or even the second nicest place in town but I may need those restaurants for future break-ups.
Amanda’s a nice girl so the last thing I can do for her is take her to some place we’ll both remember as “a nice time”.
It’s just that I don’t love her anymore. See, a couple of weeks ago we were in some post-coital position on my queen-sized bed and we were doing the typical sweet nothings whispering. And then she said something that made me wish for our relationship to land like a bad 9/11 joke— or an airplane on 9/11 for that matter:
“It’s just us against the world, Charlie,” she said.
And then I agreed with her— I don’t know why. The next sentence out of my mouth should have been “It’s over” or “I’m not into team sports”. Instead, I said, “I know baby. Just you and me.”
What a crock of shit, right? Us against the world? Come on. My friends don’t approve of her, sure, and neither do my parents. But those cunts are hardly “the world”. The whole “us against the world” comment would make me think that her friends and her parents don’t like me. I know better, though, because she has no friends and her parents are dead.
That conversation ruffled my feathers. The next morning she made me breakfast as if she didn’t know she had unwittingly ended the best thing going for her in her life. Me? I just wanted to get out of the house.
“Lets go see that new Ben Affleck movie,” I said. “I think it’s still in theaters.”
“He didn’t kill his wife,” Amanda said.
“Right,” I said, winking. “He didn’t kill his wife.”
“No. He seriously doesn’t kill her; it’s all a rouse.”
“Exactly. I want to see how he gets away with it.”
“There’s nothing to get away with,” Amanda says. She sounds pretty angry, but she’s still making me breakfast so I haven’t completely offended her sensibilities. She continues: “He didn’t kill his wife.”
“I catch your drift.”
“I don’t think you do. Anyways, I was hoping we could…”
Don’t remember what she said after that. What I do remember is I didn’t get to see the movie where Ben Affleck totally gets away with killing his totally hot wife.
What I do remember isn’t something she said but something terrible she did: Amanda made me ride to whatever it is we did on her motorcycle. I say it’s “terrible” even though one of my dreams was to have a girlfriend who rides a motorcycle. Until I met Amanda.
First of all: We live in a mountain town where it snows between November and April. Amanda seems to think this is the perfect place to ride her motorcycle around. She also claims to be a bad driver. She also thinks it’s cute to be a bad driver.
Being a bad driver is not cute. Being a supermodel in overalls, picking flowers with kittens, and blowing bubbles is cute. Pigtails are cute. Rabbits. Rabbit ears are cute. Being scraped off the side of the road is not cute— regardless of the involvement of pigtails, overalls, bunny ears, and the other Reader Rabbit memorabilia.
The last straw was— is— her memory. Amanda’s memory was— is— at best, the kind of memory you could ask of a geriatric gold fish. She can’t remember how we met. She doesn’t know my birthday. She doesn’t remember—or know— her favorite food items.
No, really. One time she asked me what her favorite food was. I thought it was a test, you know? This was before I realized her brain had more static than a radio. This was also before I realized I’m a terrible writer.
“What’s my favorite food?” she asked as we left a local sushi joint. Even though we just had sushi I knew that wasn’t the answer.
“Pizza,” I said.
“Really?” she said.
“Yeah. Is— was— that the wrong answer?”
“No, I guess not. I didn’t know the answer, actually— so I was asking you.”
“Oh, okay,” I said.
“Where did you park?”
“We took your motorcycle here.”
Amanda’s memory was— is— so poor that she even regularly forgets her rights and lefts. This sort of thing would make planning where our friends and family sit at our wedding an almost impossible task. Luckily, as I said before, she has no friends and her family is dead. The only impossible task that comes out of her directional forgetfulness is driving. And elevators, I guess. Those are ups and downs but it still may be difficult for her.
Yes, she was the first girl— or woman, rather, that I was giving serious thoughts to marry. Or at least accidentally impregnate and then later marry. Because Amanda was— and is— extremely attractive. We’re talking tall, skinny, a quarter Chinese, and breasts. She’s a solid 9/10— that one point subtracted because she’s a vegetarian who eats fish.
This break-up would have happened sooner but her birthday is in early December, Christmas just happened, and I wanted to have a guilt-free New Year. Now’s the time to get moving— lest we start talking about Valentine’s Day plans.
Reservations are at seven. I’m assuming it’ll all be over by 8:30, although I’ll probably take some extra time with the dessert of creme brulee whilst she’s crying in the bathroom. Then I’ll take her home, take myself home, and maybe catch up on some Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m like, 86 episodes in thanks to Amanda; it’s her favorite show.
What’s cool is if you name your dog “Bill Cosby” and you yell “NO BILL COSBY DON’T DO THAT” he will actually listen.
The hardest working glue in the industry is “crazy”. What does that say about us, man?
Yet we call measuring tape “tape”– and for what reason? It doesn’t even stick. If anything, measuring tape should be called crazy tape; then it would help explain why measuring tape is just so goddamn whack in the first place.
Come to think of it, I’d have to say the only crazy tape I’ve seen was something my mother and father once recorded. You know, after she died, I mean.
If I had to choose between being homeless or a vampire I would pick both; if somebody tried to stake me through the heart it wouldn’t work because home is where the heart is.
Isn’t the first person sent home on the show technically “The Biggest Loser”?
This Kickstarter project thing has gotten out of hand. Not because it’s a scam or it’s stupid– no, not at all. This Kickstarter thing has gotten out of hand because I’m not participating. Yet.
Some may say I’m late to the game but the people who are saying that can’t actually talk because they all have duct tapes over their mouths. And they’re in my trunk. And that trunk is at the bottom of a small pond. It’s actually more of a swamp but that’s not the point.
It’s going to be a coffee-table book filled with lesbians. All sorts of lesbians in various states of (un)dress. Variety will be appreciated. It’s going to be called “Women Sitting on Women’s Faces”. Because that’s the whole book– women will sit on other women’s faces.
Seriously, variety isn’t just appreciated; variety is endorsed. I want all kinds of women sitting on all kinds of womens’ faces. Whether it be blacks on whites, Asians on Mexicans, or a bunch of dirty crack-whores sharing all their dirty crack with me. I want it.
No. I don’t just want it. No. We want it. All of us.
That includes those conjoined twins, Brittany and Abigail. I want to see two women sitting on one of their faces. Hell, I want to see one woman sitting on both of their faces. That would be impressive. That would be Kickstarter-worthy.
Because this is Kickstarter, we have to think about the donation levels. Luckily for you, my dear reader, I’ve given this plenty of thought. Let’s proceed:
Level 1 Donation (10.00 USD): You get a PDF file of the book and I’ll email you some pussy shots from my personal collection. Unless you’re my ex-girlfriends. If you’re my ex-girlfriends then those pictures were deleted a long time ago just like I said they were.
Level 2 Donation (25.00 USD): You get the PDF, the emails, and I’ll thank you in person– you pick the time and place and I’ll be there. With a gun. We’re going to rob a convenience store in broad daylight.
Level 3 Donation (50.00 USD): PDF, emails, and a copy of the book– hardcover and all that shit. Plus, I’ll throw in signatures from all the little chinese kids who put it together, too.
Level 4 Donation (75.00 USD): PDF, emails, signed sweatshop edition, and you get to design a page. But we get to pick the women.
Level 5 Donation (100.00 USD): I’ll suck your cock.
This is what my mother had to say about Women Sitting On Womens’ Faces:
“My son is a pervert.”
She didn’t actually say that. Not because I didn’t tell her about Women Sitting On Womens’ Faces but because she’s dead. I keep her ashes in a Diet Dr. Pepper can next to my bed.
I found a butt-load of quarters in my car’s trunk. They can almost double the amount of money I have in my bank account. And I say “almost” because those quarters are for buying beer.
Also, you can fit a lot of quarters in a butt.
My parents– the ones that are alive, at least– want me to take more responsibility with my life. So the first thing I’m taking responsibility for is getting my math teacher pregnant. I may not have done it, sure, but I don’t think it’s illegal to take the blame. Her husband might not appreciate it, either, but this is my son we’re talking about.
Before Katy goes on her trip to San Fransisco or wherever, I’m going to shave off one of her eyebrows when she’s asleep to ensure she won’t cheat on me because nobody’s gonna sleep with a girl who only has one eyebrow.
And so what, that doesn’t make me a bad boyfriend. That makes her an insufferable bitch that is really starting to stick in my craw.
Insecurity is a big thing for me. I try to mask my own insecurities with fantasies to make myself feel better.
For instance: I like to imagine all my girlfriend’s co-workers are gay. And in the circus. The gay circus.
I bet the lions at the gay circus are gay, too.
I don’t want to start trouble but– Instigator? What does that mean, instigator? You think I’m looking to start shit?
I think I’m misjudged: I thought the shit already started when you put on that dress– not when I told you it makes you look fat.
You started that shit.
I’d like my pot dealer to walk in one day– knocking first, of course– after all the waiting and I’d like him to show up with some weed and just tell me “Man, this stuff will kill you”. It’s just that weed is so tame. It’s so boring and that’s why it sucks to get busted for it.
I want to smoke some shit where the cops don’t just give me a ticket– I want to smoke some of that felonious shit, ya hear me?
Maybe PCP is the right drug for me.
When dear American citizens confide in me– either in person or through my Facebook feed– that anybody would be a better President than “Barack Obama”, I let them in on a secret of mine: I’m voting for Casey Anthony in November too.
If voting is such a big deal– if you hold it as something you truly think everybody should be doing– should you really be saying things like “anybody, and ANYBODY would be a better President than Barack Obama”? If you truly believe this then why don’t you throw your vote to me? Write my name in.
If I’m elected as President of the United States I’ll make sure everybody’s dick is getting sucked. Hell, I’ll suck anyone and everyone’s dick that votes for me. I don’t even like sucking dick but if you put me in charge of the free world I want to prove to everybody that I can keep a promise– and dutifully so. That’s important these days.
My therapist calls this “gay-daydreaming”.
I am empathetic– almost severely. For instance, I saw a guy eating alone at Jack in the Box today. I sat across from him and told him I’d kill myself for the both of us tonight.
One day on the news there was this story about a guy who lives in a blue world. And all day and all night– er, sorry. That song’s been stuck in my head all day. And all night. And everything he sees is just blue, like him.
So they’re reporting this story on the news about this little boy who was crushed to death when a TV fell on him. A real human-being was bested by an object that does not, by nature, move. Even after it fell on the four year old it spent the next 100% of the next hour not moving. Spongebob did not make anybody laugh that day.
This got me thinking: what if during that news story was being broadcast another TV set to that channel fell on another small person?
I really want to see it and I know that is wrong.
I’d been driving around for at least an hour– and this place was only supposed to be 20 minutes away. Where was this girl? What was her name again? God, how could I forget, this was only yesterday.
First left after Figeuroa. Second right after Thomas St. Go to the end of the road and make a left, “My place is on the left”.
That’s what she said. But there’s no home to be found. Why don’t…why haven’t I called her again? My phone was sitting in the passenger seat with two frozen Hot Pockets and four boxes of Top Ramen. Radio reception was bad down here so I had long since given up on listening to any music– that’s right, there wasn’t a CD to be found in the car. These were terrible times.
Oh, yes– now I remember: I know why I don’t have her phone number. It’s because I’m a pussy. That definitely makes sense.
Ever since the end of the musical, Melissa and I made friends online. Her myspace had her AIM screenname on it, so I figured it was fair game to message her on my account. Of course, it had been a while since I had been on the account. Opening the ancient program proved to be a trip down memory lane: it was a treasure trove of disaster-like conversations I had had with the various women I never ever dated.
At some point, you know, you have have to assume that if your favorite place to talk to your future girlfriend is in a cemetery filled with all your other future girlfriends, you’re doing something wrong.
Finally I refuse to pull over but I still grab my phone off the passenger seat and sign on to AIM and message my friend Jay. “Can you do me a favor? Sign onto my AIM account. Here’s the password:” I told him what to do off the bat because if you want to get somebody to do something for you you just tell them what to do instead of just asking them to do a favor without giving them the first step. So Jay never had to choose whether or not he wanted to do me a favor– the first step was the hook that got him in.
So I text Jay and he says he’s in my AIM account. I text him again: “MSG the sn Doublemey and ask her to give me her address one more time because I can’t find the place. Thank her when she does it”. This whole dialogue took nearly 3 messages to get out because I think I swore more than I have presented for you here today.
And, as calculated, Jay did it for me. What a bro, right? He sent me the address: 1161 King Ct. Shit, man, I must have passed that 15 times by now. I was coming up again on King Court so I thanked Jay again (without pulling over) and prepared myself for something I’d failed to notice. Failing to notice things is a big thing for me: literally. One time I didn’t know that my ex-girlfriend had a penis. Longest relationship I’ve been in, too.
Pulling up I saw what I’d seen time and time before: A couple of trailers, some mailboxes, and trash everywhere. So I drove to the end of the block, seeing the same picture time and time again: All of it just a bunch of trailers, mailboxes, and trash. And then it hit me: Melissa lived– lives– in a trailer.
Oh my God.
I pulled over back at her place and we had some good times– ate a couple Hot Pockets, talked shit on people we knew, and went on a walk. But she lives in a trailer. There won’t be a second date.
I never delete pictures of me and my exes on facebook because I want my future ex-girlfriends to think that I’m on good terms with my past ex-girlfriends even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Could I ask her to marry me? Of course I could– I’m sure of it. I don’t know how sober I would have to be. But still, should I even be asking that question? Maybe there’s a better one, like “Why are we together?” or “What do you like about me?” or “Have you put on weight?”
Wait, sorry. Let me back up for a second; I think we’re really getting somewhere with this.
Convincing her to stay is out of the question; Maddie’s always been a free spirit and I’m not down for messing with free spirits. I don’t have anything clever to say about that because I really don’t want to get hurt. Of course, I want her to stay but I also want to be buried alive on Easter Island when I’m 37. Basically: I’ve learned that if I want something then it’s probably not good for me.
“Just tell her you don’t want her to leave,” Drew was telling me at the T-Club, a local dive.
“What?” I said.
Drew yelled over the music: “JUST TELL HER YOU DON’T WANT HER TO LEAVE!”
“I heard you the first time,” I said. I slammed the rest of my beer down and continued, “but it’s out of the question.”
Drew finished his beer. “Don’t you love her though?”
“Yeah I do, but think about the opportunity this affords me.”
We both got up and squeezed our way out of the crowded shit-hole. T-Club is the kind of bar you go to when you want to get drunk and not get bothered by anyone asking you if you’re driving home. Plus the beer is cheap; it’s great.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Drew said.
“Check this out: Maddie moves out of town in two and a half months. I get to stay. And nobody gets broken up with.”
“But the relationship ends.”
“Sure it does. But nobody has to get broken up with. Nobody has to do the actual breaking up. Two and a half months and the relationship is over.”
“Sounds kinda fucked.”
“No really, this expiration date is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“What about her?”
“Maddie. Your girlfriend. Drew headed for our cars so I followed.
“Oh I don’t care.” Drew turned around and cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, I do care but if you think of it like a crashing airplane…you know what I mean?”
“No clue,” he said.
“When the plane’s going down and they drop the oxygen masks,” I said, “you put yours on first. And then maybe help the little kid next to you.”
“What are you saying? You wouldn’t help the kid?”
“The plane’s going to crash anyway.”
I got home fine. All the lights were out which is good because that’s how I left them. My parents still weren’t– aren’t– back from their three month long vacation. Good, I thought. I’ll be really surprised if they stay gone for the whole three months.
So that’s where I sat with my original opening to the next blog. Or maybe that’s where I sit with it. My Girlfriend Is Out of Town is like a pie to me and my next project is also a pie but it’s a better pie. Sure, some of it is going to taste similar but goddamn it just go with me on this pie simile.
Check this out: I’m a vegetarian now; I only eat chips and coffee now and I feel great.
There was this yoga class I took the other day and the instructor asked us to sit on the ground. That shit was fucking bananas because the teacher tricked us into doing yoga from the start.
Shit, man, I’m the pinnacle of good health.
That was where I sat (or is it “sit”?) with the second opening of my next blog. My last few paragraphs have been kind of like a pie– kind of like my next project which is kind of like another pie. But better. Yeah, I know: some of the ingredients are the same but goddamn it I’m doing the pie thing again
What you previously read was the third opening of my next blog. Any and all instances of sitting have been entirely eliminated from the first sentence of this paragraph and its quality shows. This is a paragraph that is also entirely void of the word “pie” except for this instance that shows you just how strong-willed I am.
“This writing is going nowhere” is what I mean to say.
Forget your best friend; we’ll get back to him in Stage 5 (You, Your Friend, and the Future). Also, I guess we’re going to repeat the phrase “your best friend’s girlfriend” a couple hundred more times as is expected at this point of this endeavor. Also, it’ll be kind of hard to forget somebody you’ve made so many memories with.
Still, forget this buttfucker.
The FORGE Stage is all about your plan coming together, both as planned and on her face as planned. Now you’ll ignore phone calls from your best friend and you’re going to have to up your texting game with his ex. You still want to stay off of her facebook because displaying any sort of affection on a public forum right now is like twisting the knife before actually getting a stab in.
Text his ex or call her asking if she’s doing anything for lunch tomorrow. It doesn’t matter if she can do it or not—this lunch ain’t happenin’.
See, either she’ll say “yes” or she’ll say “no”. If she says “yes” then whoopty fuckin’ doo for you. But if she says “no” it’s either because of a scheduling conflict (in which case you should at least attempt to reschedule) or because she’s worried about what your best friend would think.
Now, should she be “OK” or “down” for lunch tomorrow, you gotta cancel it by 10:30 AM. Call her—don’t text (it’s evidence!) and tell that you feel pressured by Charlie to not go to lunch with her. She’ll interpret this as Charlie having told you not to have lunch with her even though you have cut off all contact with him. After all, what a motherfuck that Charlie is. Not a fan, at all.
All of this will increase her dislike for Charlie even more as it will seem he is continuing his attempts to control her life. And as we all know, the worse Charlie looks the better you look.
With lunch plans cancelled, you’re left with making your next move: you are going to orchestrate a “like old times” event with your best friend’s ex girlfriend. She’s going to miss all the fun times you used to have together so now’s the time to bring out your greatest hits of tactics—and break out the liquor and DVD’s. One Guide writer even swears that jacuzzis have magical properties during this stage. All of us think that, actually.
At the immediate outset of FORGE you will want your best friend’s ex-girlfriend to think you’re still in contact with him. But at some point she is going to find out you are no longer talking to him. Do your best to not lie about Charlie—that is, hanging out with him or talking about recent conversations you haven’t even had with him since you’re not supposed to be talking to him because we said so.
This doesn’t mean you can’t recall times when Charlie was being a complete douche bag or dimwit. His ex will probably talk about him and—thanks to your conditioning—none of her ex boyfriend babble will be very positive. So you’ll be able to talk shit on Charlie freely and give no frame of reference for all of Charlie’s follies; she can think they were recent if you let her. Not your fault if she does, after all.
But this can only last for so long. By the fourth time you’ve met with Charlie’s ex-girlfriend alone you will probably not want to bullshit your shit-slinging anymore. This does give you the opportunity to explain to her that you’ve burned an important bridge in your life too—don’t we have so much in common? “And it’s the same bridge, girl,” you’ll probably say.
By now she’s already thinking about dating you. Well, you did plant the seeds of doubt long ago but now they have fully sprouted and with those seeds of doubt came unwanted feelings for you. The feelings were only unwanted before because she was dating Charlie but now that those feelings have been cultured and manifested into something that—for her—it may be OK to actually act upon for once.
All of your hard work has involved you showing her you’re the best person for her to be dating. A lot of hard work a lot of guys would have to do to win her affection has already been done for you, by you, over the last 12 months.
She may still be having doubts, however, because of a sort of woman’s bro code sort of understandment. Women know that guys don’t like it when they sleep with our best friends. However, some women use this knowledge to spite their ex boyfriends and will sleep with their friends as a sort of act of revenge.
We’re going to tap into that well of hatred.
The best way to initiate hormones of hatred in your best friend’s ex-girlfriend and get her to at least consider sleeping with you as a sliver of revenge in the entire pie of your ensuing relationship with her:
She may still be depressed about the crash and burn nature of her relationship with Charlie. When she’s acting down tell her to do something that she always wanted to but couldn’t because of her controlling ex-boyfriend. Suggest painting or one of the arts, or exercise if she’s getting a tad portly. What’s important is you choose what that something is for her and you choose something that you can do or at least help her do. Again, painting, photography, and learning an instrument are the easiest activities to go with because the first two only take speaking confidently and having skimmed a couple Wikipedia pages on the subject. If this bitch wants to rock climb she can do that on some other sucker’s time. Red flag, motherfucker.
Another suggested activity that is especially effective is the quitting smoking maneuver. Basically, you get her to quit smoking and hate her old smoking self. You know, that self that used to date that controlling asshole Charlie. And you won’t even have to quit smoking because you never really have to quit if you’re a man. Drinking works the same way but women are more liable to break up with you for lying about drinking but that’s mostly because it’s harder to hide and enjoy getting away with drinking rather than smoking. That’s cigarettes, too, not crack.
After she has painted for the first time or she has uploaded her picture album to facebook for the first time or she played “Smoke on the Water”, tell her “[you] look so happy and, if you don’t mind [me/you] saying, you seem a lot better now that you’re doing what makes you happy, you know?” Saying “you know” is a weasel word-like phrase—that is, when you say “you know” to a person they are inclined to not ask too many questions because they are so eager to agree with somebody acknowledging that they at least know something for once—not matter what the knowledge is. You shoulda been using this since the ASSESS Stage, you know?
And when you say “better” in that all-star sentence up there…pause before you say it. The word itself isn’t the best choice to describe how she is doing and even she knows that. But she wants to feel better and your support of that is just as important as her own worm-like need for self-improvement.
This is going to be something she thinks about every time she paints a picture or takes a photo. Every time she loses ten pounds, fifteen pounds, or even thirty pounds. The weight lost could be endless!
If you manage to lay that one on her and it’s 4:30 in the afternoon then you’re in luck: time to suggest an early dinner together. “Why the hell not!” you will posit.
“Lets be adventurous for once,” they always say back.
Now here’s yet another chance for you to capitalize on the nonlinear aspects of The Guide. You can either choose to split up and get ready for the “nicer” (as you will explain) dinner or you can both hop in the car now and start your ride to your meal destination. This isn’t the time for you to try something new—but it is for her (as you’ve previously orchestrated before).
The best option when going together is to get her to drive so you can play passenger. Kind of dangerous if she had to lug her old trash around all the time but the pay-off greatly outweighs the risk. If you’re the passenger that means you won’t have to devote any of your brain power to make sure you don’t crash that faggot Jetta of yours. With all that extra brain power you’ll be able to make jokes and provide the paint for the picture perfect masterpiece you will paint on the inside of her eyelids.
You’re a much more charming and engaging person as a passenger, trust me.
Regardless of your status as the passenger or as the loser, my son, riding in her car with her is considered a critical hit.
Should you not end up in the car with her, agree to meet up at a three and a half star restaurant. Try to pick somewhere that she doesn’t go to often (ASSESS) and try to choose a place either you know well enough on your own or you know well enough because you scoped the place out. Once you’re there take the opportunity to be rude to your server—then apologize to your date but not to that slave who will bring you your food. This will show that you are willing to acknowledge your mistake as well as correct them for the person that matters most.
During dinner you are going to double-up on talking about money, her interests, and as little about your ex-best friend as you can possibly muster. Let her bring up Charlie; after all, Charlie has never hurt you. What a kindly social stepping stone, that Charlie.
Expert players already took one car to the restaurant—Expert players will also drink enough at the restaurant with their dates. No, we’re not going down date-rape road. What we are doing is ensuring you both end up at the same place tonight still possibly in a state of inebriation. The best place to end up is where your car isn’t. This may seem detrimental to getting everybody home but, we assure you: that’s the point.
Ending up back at your place is the best case scenario (with your car at her place). Next best case is being at your place and your car being there (that possibly puts you on the hook for getting her home later if you both sober up…so have liquors you’re ready to sacrifice at home). The next shitty-case scenario is being at her place with her car there as well. Then she could drive you back to your place and leave you with getting your car tomorrow. The absolute worst case leaves you with you and your car at her place because man, fuck driving.
Once back at your place it’s time to remind her of the “like old times” hang-out you had once before. “It was nice still spending time with you, watching movies and…painting with you really inspired me to make some necessary changes in my life”. Here you’ll be taking advantage of two positive moments involving you in her life and—if you’re lucky—there will be a mirror nearby to amplify the positivity in the room that should be coursing through her veins. Or maybe that’s the liquor.
Suggest putting something in the oven. Turn on a movie or television show that neither of you will have much interest in watching past the ten second mark. Do not pick That 70’s Show, Scrubs, or Spice World as a joke. These choices melt bitches’ brains: you’re now in a competition with Zach Braff and Wilder Valderamma. It’s an unwinnable competition and you can ask Oscar Pistorius what happens to you after you win an unwinnable competition.
Now, you know which light you look best in, so lower all of them. Make sure you set the timer on those Dino Nuggets. You don’t want to burn this place down. No, not yet, my friend.
Example dialogue: “I had such a good time with you today, cuidado because these Dino Nuggets are hot; they may burn the roof of your mouth. No, Charlie Sheen’s funny, I just think the whole quitting your job publicly thing and doing all those drugs with diseased porn stars was kinda gross. God, I love looking into your eyes.”
If you need a little help with getting this started…how did you make it this far? My God, you’ve cut the brakes on your best friend’s car, potentially shot at at least one other person, and you’ve been living a sham of a life for the past year. You can’t fucking move your leg next to hers or something, man? I mean, come on. We’ve made it this far for Christ’s sake—beyondwhat Christ would have ever done for a woman, by the way.
“Hey, you know what? I don’t think I actually have ever gone skinny-dipping before. Sure, I guess I could play a little guitar. I only know a little though.”
“Oh, this chinchilla? I’ve had it for years. His name is Pikachu. I know, they’re adorable but they take a lot of work. And they’re allergic to water. It’s just like the movie Gremlins, you’re right. I haven’t thought of that before. That’s hilarious. Lets go smoke some weed.”
And you’ll know you’ve succeeded once she excuses herself to the bathroom. Cha-ching. Now’s the time to switch on some Sinatra and turn down the tube—we’ll catch up with you two in the morning.
So high school graduation just happened in my small-town.
I’m excited for the kids, don’t get me wrong. I’m just less excited, you know, because I’m no longer banging a high schooler.
“Is this a date?” she said. And I wasn’t prepared for this question. I’ve got no lies in the chamber, ready to fire. So I told her the truth.
“Yes—” And I should have stopped there, but I didn’t. “Yes,” I said, “at least it is for me.”
“Okay,” she— the Angel— said. That’s all she said: Okay. She looked at her wasabi as if it would have given her another talking point or at least some sort of out.
I decided to break the silence. “Have you ever smoked crack before?” I asked.
“What?” she said.
“Crack-cocaine. Have you ever smoked it?”
“No. God no.”
That was a lie, but it made me comfortable having told a lie; I smoked crack cocaine out of an apple once. It was a one time thing— the apple part, I mean. I used to have a crack pipe. Stilldo, actually.
My thoughts of crack-smoking filled the silence currently enveloping our little table. The Angel must have gotten over it when she asked me what I was thinking about.
“Did you think this was a date?” I responded.
“Well I thought it was clear that I’m a lesbian.”
“I’m a lesbian, Charlie,” she reiterated.
Good Christ. What have I gotten myself into. I had no idea.
“I had no idea,” I said.
“I’ve only dated women the past three years,” she said.
“Yeah but…that still means you had 15 years of men before that. The statistics are still in my favor.”
“Statistically: yes, they are.
“What, do you want me to give men another chance?”
“No. I want you to give me my first chance.” Back to silence and wasabi-staring. Great. After about a minute, the Angel started again.
“I’m going to go now.” She stood up from the table and grabbed her purse.
“Aren’t you going to pay?” I said.
“This— you said it was a date. It’s on you.”
“But it’s clearly not a date. You should pay your share.”
“You said this was a date.”
“For me. But it isn’t— wasn’t— for you. So I think you should pay.”
The Angel sat back down and gave me a hard look. “Here’s the deal,” she said, “you tell me my name and I’ll pay for my half. Hell, I’ll pay for the whole meal.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said
“What’s ridiculous is the fact you don’t know my name yet here I am on a date with you.”
“So now it’s a date?”
“Tell me my name.”
“I know your name,” I said.
“Then what is it?” she asked.
She really got me there. Would she think it’s cute if I called her “the Angel”— like how you got to know her? I wracked my brain for the most popular female names I knew. All I could remember from the list I found on the internet in 2009 were the numbers 863 and 997— Keith and Robert, respectively.
“Robert,” I said. Best to just fail this one out the gate, I thought.
“Robert?” she raised her voice. People were now staring. “You don’t actually think my name is Robert, come on Charlie.” Okay, time to think fast: You’ve got this, Charlie.
“Roberta. Your name is Roberta.”
“No fucking way,” she said. “You actually don’t know my name?” She got back up and headed for the door, but not without stopping to look back at me and say one more thing.
“One more thing,” she called out, “You’ve got some serious self-esteem issues. I wouldn’t doubt for a second that you are gay, Charlie Brown.”
“I’m not gay!” I yelled back.
“I think you are, and honestly, I think that’s the only thing we have in common.” And with that final stab, she left the sushi place. People were clapping and cheering. Somebody was waving a foam finger that said “Number 1”.
I paid the bill and left and now I don’t eat sushi anymore.
So you wanna steal your best friend’s girlfriend? Reader, we’re in the same sinking boat but only tangentially speaking since I’ve already metaphorically gotten off that boat as well as gotten off on that boat—honk honk. This isn’t a guide to appropriate metaphors so consider that your first and only warning.
But what if your roommate is your best friend? What if she hates you? What if she is a classmate? What if they both are? Has it really been 12 years since 9/11? That’s so trippy, man.
So I’ve written this guide to stealing your best friend’s girlfriend for the reader looking for the support they need during these trying times. It’s not like some other guides that you’ll find littered on the internet that have Google priority over me; those guides don’t outline how muchpatience this is really going to take. Those lesser guides won’t tell you how much swaggeryou have to keep on your person at all times. But most importantly: those digital tomes cannot make you the guaranty that you are going to steal your best friend’s girlfriend. I can. You aregoing to steal her and I believe in you.
Achieving your goal is as easy as following my guide to a tee. There are going to be obstacles. I will do my best to identify these hurdles whether they be purely physical or merely moral— and then I’m going to teach you how to poach an egg.
That’s one of your tactics, by the way. Poaching eggs and sewing the seeds of doubt.
And this most excellent web-based stratagem of reference? It’s free of charge— like OJ Simpson in the nineties.
Additional information will be added to this online guide until all the tricks I have are divulged. I will do my best to explain the entirety of the guide as well as outline the changes that have been made to it along the way; Rules will be retconned, tactics will be be altered, and halters will be topped. And where is my medication?
Sojourner, you already know about the Patience, the Swagger, and the Guaranty. But what else?
Soon we will both dive into the four stages as well as shallow pools filled with clobbered puss. Here are the steps, here’s part of the plan, here’s a view of what’s to come:
Stage 1: ASSESS their relationship.Stage 2:Become a THORN in their relationship.Stage 3: DISSOLVE their relationship.Stage 4: FORGE a new relationshipStage 5:You, Your Friend, and the Future
I found it easier to remember the four steps as ASSESS, THORN, DISSOLVE, andFORGEbecause that’s easier to remember and step 5 is optional so fuck remembering that shit. Seriously, where are my goddamn meds?
Stealing Your Best Friend’s Girlfriend: A How To Guide is a plan split up into many steps although you may want to consider them parts because these aren’t steps with handicapped-accessible alternatives nearby.
Here are the four (or five but seriously, fuck Step 5) general steps to stealing your best friend’s girlfriend.
Stage 1, ASSESS: You will learn to- as well as- assess the aspects of your best friend’s relationship with his girlfriend that will best serve you on this holy journey by utilizing tactics as well as becoming one with the three pillars of stealing your best friend’s girlfriend:Patience,Swagger, and Guaranty.
Stage 2, THORN: A bevy of tactics used to become a thorn in your friend’s relationship will be presented. Tactics include a broad range of manipulative maneuvers depending on whether you believe sex is an act or a maneuver. You’ll learn how to take advantage of women that wear longs sleeves, stealing your best friend’s girlfriend when your best friend is also your roommate, and an extensive write-up about the dangers of saying “that’s punny”.
Stage 3, DISSOLVE: There isn’t much to learn about the DISSOLVE section- this is where your friend’s relationship crumbles into shambles. Somewhere around Step 3 you’ll hit The Event Horizon which is a fancy way of saying “there’s no turning back and this black hole is going to tear us apart”. Basically, start your engines.
Stage 4, FORGE: Your prize! In this section you will lock down your best friend’s (now ex) girlfriend. Most of the tactics involved in this step don’t actually involve locking her down although I am considering doing a BDSM version of this guide.
Stage 5, You, Your Friend, and the Future:(Editor’s note: There was nothing submitted for Stage 5)
Stealing Charlie’s girlfriend is easier than it looks. It’s just going to take a lot of hard work, tact, and boner jokes. But I know you can do this. I know you can do this because you’re reading this guide, you sad sack of shit. We got this. I already got this. Now it’s your turn. Lets get what’s deservedly yours.
Just don’t rape anybody. Please. I can’t handle another lawsuit this year. And rape isn’t even funny.
So I push you in the pool and you’re more worried about your eyebrows than your cell phone?
“I was born ready”
No, you were born in a flurry of amniotic fluids, feces, screaming, and tearing flesh with an umbilical cord wrapped around your neck. You were choking.
You almost drowned in a vagina two minutes into the whole race, Aiden.
Diamonds are forever. But so is styrofoam.
Guess which fits in my budget?
Girl you said you didn’t even want a ring.
I’m trying to find out if my girlfriend bought some new Uggs or if her cankles have gotten out of control.
Most people remember the first time they get behind the wheel. I don’t because I was drunk and hit somebody, but that’s what being 23 is all about, right?
My girlfriend and I have been talking about having kids. She said it’d be okay to name our kids “One”, “Two”, and “Four”. And our kids won’t be allowed to ask questions.
What I like about this note is that I get to imagine my kids going to school and– in the process of learning how to count– finding out their brother died.
I have a legitimate fear of stupid people. Is that legitimate?
I fear that my legitimate fear of stupid people is not legitimate, which is stupid.
We have to watch our political correctness at work. We’re not allowed to use offensive language like the words “retard” and “cunt” because some people have retarded cunts that take the short bus to school.
Don’t you hate it when your parents just call your gaming systems “Nintendo” no matter what? Mom, it’s a Super Nintendo.
“Stop squirting me with your water gun,” your mother says.
Mom– It’s a Super Soaker.
“Son,” your mother replies, “You’re super retarded.”
“No mom, it’s advanced autism.”
The girlfriend was screaming at me the other day because she couldn’t remember the “last time we had good sex”. So this is a shout out to sleeping pills.
They found 306 bones in the desert the other day.
Frankly, I’m not impressed; that’s only one and a half people. Maybe if it were 306 of the same type of bone or 306 bones from the same person I’d be more dazzled.
Please don’t introduce me to a girl and say she laughs at everything. I hate that. I’d rather meet a girl that cries at everything. During everything. Just a balling wretch of a person. At least I’d have something to work on.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m really good at something I’ve never tried doing, like carving toddler-sized coffins out of ivory. What a depressing job to be good at, though. Still, it’s better than being the guy who’s really good at picking up donkey shit with his mouth.
The story of Peter Pan is really the story of Captain Hook. Captain Hook is an abortion doctor punished in the afterlife to spend the rest of eternity battling the children he never let grow up.
Katy broke up with me. I should have known this was going to happen— there were so many hints, after all. Maybe I shouldn’t have chugged that bottle of tussen and smoked three bowls before I went over to her place.
Maybe it was the table settings. There were only five— enough for Katy, her mom, her dad, her sister Avery, and their little dog too.
Maybe it was the fact she didn’t get me anything from Argentina. Not even a t-shirt.
Maybe it was her off-hand comment about having a penis.
“I’ve never noticed this picture,” I said. She was leading me up to her room— my hopes were for the blowjob— when I saw a picture of a naked toddler on the wall.
“Who is that?”
“Oh,” she said, “That’s me when I was a little boy.”
That sound you heard was the bass being dropped.
“You were a little boy?”
“It’s nothing , don’t worry about it.”
She got into her room and I closed the door behind me. Blowjob time. Katy sat down on her bed and caught me up on her trip to Argentina. It was largely boring.
“But there’s something I need to tell you,” she said.
“You’re going to suck me off, right?”
“No, not that. Not that at all, Charlie.”
I was floored. No blowjob? I’ve been waiting for the Katy Special for forty days. Something was amiss.
“We need to talk.”
“Not this again,” I said.
“I went on a date in Argentina.”
“I knew that.”
The sound you just heard was the bass being picked back up and dropped again. Fuck. Katy cheated on me.
She began to explain that she was sent on a date— and she didn’t know it was a date— while in Argentina. Katy’s grandmother had set her up with an Argentinian guy because, apparently, her grandmother had not been informed that she had a boyfriend. By choice.
“Was it Alan Thickhole?” I asked, imagining the man had bought a ticket to Argentina just to swoop on my girl.
“Who? No, not Alan— wait, how do you know…?”
“I read your text messages.”
“You asshole!” she cried out. “Those are private!”
“You shouldn’t have left your phone on the table at Patsy’s then,” I said. I get it, by the way: I’m an asshole. But this is between me and my girlfriend so stay out of it. Ex-girlfriend, I mean. This is between me and my ex-girlfriend. Stay out of it.
Katy got up off her bed. “It’s over.”
“You’re not breaking up with me.”
“Oh I am. It’s over, Charlie. And I’m calling it for once. Not you.”
Which is bullshit, by the way. It’s always about me, all the time. But what she said next rocked me to my rotten core.
Katy, as you know, seems to inflate like a balloon when she gets angry. I mean, she gets dilapidated-barn size. And with her red hair she really does look like a dilapidated barn. The only problem with that simile is that it’s very hard to push a dilapidated barn down a hill— but Katy, not so much.
Anyways, she wasn’t growing large like she was angry. In fact, she seemed to be getting smaller and smaller with each and every word she said. I hadn’t noticed this before tonight.
Oh yes, I forgot: The next thing she said to me rocked me to my rotten core. Forgot to tell you what that was. Sorry about that.
“I’ve been reading your blog.”
“And I know you fucked one of the Mexican girls from the Panda Express.”
I started at Katy like a bull in a china shop: “I didn’t make love to a Mexican girl from the Panda Express.”
“So that’s what it is now,” she said, “It wasn’t making love. You were just fucking.”
“Of course it wasn’t making love. And we didn’t— we didn’t fuck either.”
“That’s not what your blog says.”
“That’s not what my blog says. Have you been talking to Chaz or something?”
“Are you trying to imply I’ve been fucking Chaz?”
“How ridiculous is that?”
“Well you just implied Alan Thickhole drove to Argentina for a date with me.”
“I never said he drove to Argentina. If anything he flew there.”
“That’s fucking preposterous, Charlie.”
Katy was shrinking quickly. She was now the size of a chihuahua and her voice was beginning to to sound like a small cartoon chipmunk’s. I knew things were going nowhere, so I decided to bring the ball back to my court.
“You had a penis?”
“We’re broken up. I don’t have to tell you about the penis.”
“I think I deserve to know about the penis.”
“It was my penis, not yours.”
“And?” It felt like there was an “and” that should have gone in there.
“And that’s between me and my boyfriend.”
“I’m dating Alan Thickhole, Charlie.”
“No fucking way. You’re dating me.”
“Not anymore. We just broke up.”
“You just broke up with me?”
“And now I’m dating Alan Thickhole.”
“Tell me about the penis.”
“I don’t have to tell you anything about my penis.”
“It’s not like having a tail. This is having a penis.”
Katy was now smaller than the indian in the cupboard. I picked her up off her bed and placed her in my palm.
“I could flush you down the toilet,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“And your voice has gotten so tiny, too.”
“Charlie, are you high?”
“You’re fucking buttered.”
“Who—” I said, “Who the hell says buttered?”
“You’re being an asshole now.”
“Do I look like a goddamn piece of toast to you?” I checked my arms to make sure that wasn’t the case. No, I was not a piece of bread.
“I can’t do this anymore Charlie,” she said. “Put me down.”
So I put her down.
“Open the door.”
So I opened the door.
“And go fuck yourself off a cliff.”
So I went ahead and did that. I left her up in her room, tinier than the penis she used to have. Actually, I just walked down the stairs and told her mom that the food smelled great.
“Staying for dinner?” she said.
“Nah, Katy and I just broke up,” I said.
“I could see that coming from a mile away.”
“Let alone 3,000 of them, right?”
“Is Avery home?”
“Stay away from my daughter.”
And that was that. Katy later texted me telling me how much of a dick face I was and I texted her saying, well… this is between me and my ex-girlfriend. Stay out of it.
Doctors are ingrates. Making you call them “doctor” for the duration of their lives as when they’ve died. What’s the point of putting “Doctor” on their graves if they’re no longer qualified to help the living?
I don’t know about you guys but when I hear sirens I hope they’re headed my way. A tinge of disappointment sets in when I find out it’s not my building that’s on fire. And why can’t more people have heart attacks around me?
So it’s dinner with Katy tonight. First time seeing each other since she got back. She’s planned dinner for 7pm tonight and welcomed me over at 6:30pm. The text:
Katy: Dinner’s at 7, so get here thirty minutes ahead of time. thx
And practically nothing else. So mysterious— but that just means she’s probably going to do something special for me. Maybe give me a blowjob while her parents are home or something.
Going to do my best not to bring up anything involving Morgan. I mean, it shouldn’t be hard to not say “Hey, I cheated on you,” but then again, I’m Charlie Brown; I make the easiest things in the world hard— sobriety notwithstanding.
I’m excited, though. Anxious, yes, but extremely excited. After all, I haven’t seen Katy in, oh I don’t know, 41 days. And she was supposed be gone for 90 but apparently Argentina has become so unsafe for such a hot young thing like her to hang ‘round that she got an early ticket back to these here United States.
Dinner’s going to be at her place. She told me we’re having steak— steak, I can’t believe it. I mean, we’re probably not having nine steaks like Chaz did for me on Mexican Mother’s Day…but what can I expect?
You know what I can expect? A gift from Argentina. I’ve been looking forward to this for quite a while now. I wonder what she got me. Hopefully some black market boner pills— not that I need them or anything; it would just be fun to take a few boner pills and call in a sick day at work because of my untamed erection. Like I said, I like making things hard.
Speaking of the office: you may be wondering what happened to Susan. Honestly, she hasn’t shown up to work since the incident where she tried to practically rape me. And I think this is an OK time to say that she practically raped me. Or tried raping me. Not that Katy is going to ever hear about that.
I’ll tell her about Phil, though. She deserves to know my involvement in his death, even though my involvement was, at best, minimal.
God, I wish Phil was still alive, though. I could have sold him some of the boner pills and then maybe he would have died from those instead of my last bottle of Robitussen. The man could have died of a hard dick instead of being surrounded by hundreds of plastic ones. That would have been the respectable way to go, Phil— God rest your filthy soul.
Man, I can’t wait to see her breasts again, too. May not be able to see them tonight but there’s always tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that day, too. And my phone, too— I forgot I have a picture of her tits somewhere on there. Lemme— just give me a second.
Yep. Still good.
For those in need of a recap: Katy is back in town tomorrow and Chaz is out of town in one month— with me following to leave for Possumcunt, Ohio two months afterward.
“I’m leaving early but the rent has been paid for the next three months,” Chaz told me. “So you basically have the place to yourself for two months after I’m gone. Consider it a parting farewell gift.”
Good. I didn’t say that part out loud but good, regardless. Chaz is a fucking tool. And he knows he’s expected to pay rent for the two months he isn’t going to be here even though he’s on the leash. Lease.
What wasn’t expected, however, was the feast Chaz had prepared for the evening.
“Dinner’s great,” I told Chaz.
Chaz has never cooked a meal like this before. And what was odd was, well, his girlfriend wasn’t here.
“It’s a shame Torrie wasn’t here for this.”
“I know what you’re saying, man.”
“This is the best Mexican Mother’s Day ever.” I took a bite of steak and savored it, as one should always do when having steak.
A pregnant pause filled the air.
“Where is Torrie?”
“My girlfriend is out of town”— Hey, that’s the name of this blog!
“Well it seems like you two have been getting along recently.”
“I haven’t heard crying in over two weeks.”
“Oh, you noticed that too?”Chaz slid the bong across the table. “Smoke up, son,” he said.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I said.
I took a bong rip as Chaz got up from the table. “There’s more in the kitchen, hold on.”
This is a good time to tell you that the meal was delicious. The meal was delicious.
Chaz came back with a sausage on a plate.
“This one’s all you, buddy,” he said.
“I smoked this sausage just for you, Charlie.”
“Well then it looks like I’m going to have to eat it.”
He set the plate down right in front of me. Then Chaz did a curious thing: he watched me eat the entire sausage. He didn’t consume any food while it happened. He didn’t blink once. It almost looked like he held his breath for three minutes. His gaze simply never broke that of the sausage’s— even though sausages don’t have eyes I hope you’re getting the point.
After I finished the smoked sausage he asked, “How was it?”
“It looked like a dick but it definitely didn’t taste like it.”
I slid the bong across the glass dining room table. “Your turn.”
Chaz took a hit.
“I cheated on Katy,” I said in the midst of his bong rip.
“I know,” he coughed. What. What?
“I said—,” he took another hit from the bong, “I know.”
“How could you— have you been reading my—” Chaz stopped me mid-sentence.
“I was at the party, Charlie. Everybody knows you fucked one of the Mexican girls from the Panda Express.”
“But I didn’t—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself, it’s OK.”
But there weren’t any Mexican girls from the Panda—”
“Stop, Charlie. You don’t have to lie to me.”
“I’m not lying to you. I didn’t have sex with one of the—”
“Calm down, pal. I’m not going to tell Katy, don’t worry.”
“You can’t tell her I had sex with a Mexican girl that works at the Panda Express because I didn’t have sex with a Mexican girl that works at the Panda Express.”
“I know, Charlie. Nobody did. That’s the story I’m sticking with.”
Arguing with Chaz was going to be pointless. Back to the steak dinner:
“It’s the least I could do,” he said to me in between bites of coffee steak and steak tar tar. The least he could’ve done was pay rent and give me back the money he stole, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. After all, he did make nine different types of steak for dinner tonight; might as well not let some of that animosity slip. Just for the evening.
“I’m a bit disappointed in the flat-iron. It’s tender but lacking in some taste— flavor, if you will,” he said.
I took a bite of the flat-iron and agreed with him. It was still good, but the taste of… game pervaded the piece. “It’s no big deal,” I said, “and how pissed can a guy be about a day where he hasn’t heard the cats whining.”
“Or my girlfriend,” he said. He took another bite of the flat-iron. “Decadent silence, my friend.”
“Roommate,” I corrected him. “We’re roommates, not friends.” That wasn’t really accurate since the guy was terrible at being both. Chaz let that one slide for some reason. But he was a great cook. At least he had that going for him.
“Roommate, friend, chinchilla, cat. What’s the difference, right Charlie?” He took a bite of rib-eye— at least, I think it was rib-eye. Looked a little thin for rib-eye but it definitely tasted delish; no A-1 required.
“When’s the big move-out?” I said.
“There’ll be no evidence I was even here by next Friday,” he said. I switched plates to one with veal on it. At least, it tasted like veal.
“Yeah,” he said, “If I don’t end up with that place in Santa Ana.” This was the first I’d heard about a possible move to Santa Ana. He chomped on some quarter-house— this thing was fucking lung-sized, it was so goddamn big. And he made two! “I’m looking at something studio apartment-sized, if not a bit smaller,” he said with his mouth still full of meat.
The lights cut out.
“There goes the power,” he said, “But at least we still have cable.”
I was floored. Chaz may have prepared an epicurean’s delight for dinner but he hadn’t paid the fucking power bill? Come on.
“Dude, you used our electric money for cable?”
“Your electric money. For cable.”
“We can’t even watch TV if we don’t have power, Hannibal.”
“Hey, Hannibal here made you a fucking delicatessen epicurean’s delight for dinner, you ungrateful fuck.” He must have had an angry look on his face but I couldn’t be sure because he didn’t pay the electric bill.
Sent from my iPhone.
My inner-womb detests “balloon artists” that tell me they can make anything I can think of out of balloons. I always say “show me Inception“. What are you going to do now, balloon man? Are you going to make a balloon in a balloon inside another balloon or are you going to plant the idea of which balloon I want in a balloon and then make a balloon of that and then make a balloon of the balloon I didn’t want but you wanted me to want or are you not getting a tip.
Replace “back injury” with “black guy” and all situations revolving spinal displacement suddenly turn into issues of race.