Note to self 162: 11/19/2001
Bob
From the Future showed up and was planning to take me back
in time to see the first Thanksgiving or something in order
to learn the importance of sharing and freedom and turkey.
Instead, I tricked him into sending me to the late 1800s.
I brought with me an high definition TV, a DVD player,
and a ton of special effects-driven movies. I just wanted
to fuck with their minds a bit.
I
got an audience with President James A. Garfield and played
some of my late 20th Century movies for him. I convinced
him that the "moving pictures" on the flat screen
were part of a documentary on human history in the future
and I told him to do his best to help prevent these "scientific
atrocities" before they happened. You should have
seen his face :). Especially after I showed him Jurassic
Park and told him that dinosaur cloning was a piece
of cake in my time and that many escapee thunder lizards
still roam free in the great American wilderness and in
the California Territory where they eat all the expansionists
with impunity. Then I showed him Independence Day and
convinced him that the Alien War came damn close to making
humans extinct in the universe (and right after we had
just recovered from Judgement Day and Skynet's forces from Terminators
I and II) . But after that I let him see some Star
Trek movies just to let him know that our future was
going to be okay (he was a little confused about the whole "time
traveling whale collecting documentary", but I just
brushed it off and told him that that one was made by a
Vulcan, and that we're still trying to figure them out).
In the end I think he was most impressed and scared of
the original Star Wars trilogy. I tried to explain
that they were not future events, but that they happened
a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away, but he couldn't
even understand the concept of "the force", so
I just let it go.
After
I got back to my own time I found out that history had
changed and that instead of President Garfield becoming
our nation's greatest leader of all time (winning an unprecedented
6 terms), he was killed in his first year in office and
something called World War II had occurred in the 1940s.
That Hitler guy sounds like a total asshole.
Note to self 161: 11/11/2001
Last
night Chi-Chi, the Wolfman, the Skipper, Jen, Robot Pedro
and I went to Luigi's Pizzeria for some damn fine Italian
cuisine. Everything was going fine until the Skipper made
a comment about how "Evil cum-sucking robots are the
cause of all the shittiness in the world today. Arrrrgh!" Robot
Pedro didn't think that that was the case (even though
he was the one who burned the Skipper's boat "The
Gingivitis" down to its keel last week) and he tried
to express his own opinion by attempting to remove the
Skipper's trademarked beard with a pizza slicer. The Wolfman
took the opportunity to bite Robot Pedro's left arm off
and use it like a mace against our waitress who was taking
her sweet-ass time with our order. Bottles and pizza pies
started flying and Chi-Chi used the commotion to sneek
behind the counter and start pillaging the keg of Peroni
Lager. I snuck underneath a booth with Jen and didn't see
exactly what happened next, but the Wolfman told me that
some guy's baby threw a bag of Cheerios on top of our meatsa
meatsa pizza after parts of the Skipper's facial hair landed
on their food. The dude didn't even apologize, so Robot
Pedro, the Skipper and the Wolfman teamed up and stuffed
the asshole into a delivery box and shoved him in the oven.
Then they got drunk and forgot about him until the fire
spilled out of the kitchen and we were forced to flee the
crime scene. That kid with the Cheerios was still bitchin'
as we bolted. He'll probably grow up to be another annoying
Gilbert Gottfried.
Note
to self 160: 10/29/2001
On
Saturday the MegaPlayboy, Jaime and Dan, Meredith, and I went
over to Carl's place to watch the UGA vs. UF football game.
Everything started out nice with Carl cooking each of us a
17 once T-bone steak, potato wedges, a salad and stuff, but
then we made the mistake of force feeding him lots of Killian's
Irish Red as he tried to cut up some spuds for a potato salad.
He was so plowed that he ended up slicing off 4 of his fingers
and 2 toes in the course of 10 minutes during halftime. He
kept bleeding all over the food and all, but he claimed that
he was just fine and that all he needed was a good "head-clearing
bleed" to make him feel all right... Plus nobody wanted
to miss the second half kick-off to drive him to the emergency
room. After the game we found him in a puddle of his own crimson
life fluid and thought it might be best to let a physician
take a look at his sorry ass. But once again none of us liked
the idea of going to the hospital (did you see that episode
of Buffy the Vampire Slayer where that invisible demon
killed kids in the children's ward?!?! Holy shit! I'm still
a child at heart. What if it tried to get me too? My weekend
would be shot!), so we took his pale body to Doctor Dave's
shady clinic instead. The good doc said that Carl had been
clinically dead for around 50 minutes by the time we got him
to the operating table, but after giving Doc Dave enough money
he agreed to give resuscitation a shot (Don't worry, we only
pay Dr. Dave in Monopoly money now since that one time he
reattached the MegaPlayboy's penis by using Juicy Fruit and
scented candle wax. We would never throw away our hard
earned cash towards a cause that would more than likely cause
our friend to be brought back as a living dead hell demon
who would also more than likely prefer eating our brains than
a Chinese buffet). So after about 20 minutes of creepy sounds
from the operating room (sounds like a jackhammer sloshing
in Vaseline, a buzzsaw on a melon, and Doctor Dave yelling
"Who's your daddy?!?!" over and over most everybody
snuck away in shame. When Doctor Dave finally brought Carl
out into the waiting room I was the only one left. I took
the big lug back to his place and then ran home as fast as
I could to watch that creepy hospital episode of Buffy
again (I had been thinking about how cool it was the whole
time I was waiting for Carl to be brought back to life). This
morning I ran into Carl at the office and he wasn't looking
that good. He kept mumbling something about "being dragged
away from light" and the unprecedented pleasure of an
angelic gang bang that he must get back to or something. He
didn't seem to be completely there. Also, since we never brought
Carl's fingers or toes with us to the doc's place I noticed
that they had been replaced with hotdogs and Slim Jims.
Note
to self 159: 10/15/2001
Well,
I started out trying to do something good, but of course with
The Skipper involved my intentions totally backfired and many
kittens and sea otters died. See, it all started when The
Skipper came back from his travels abroad a few weeks ago.
His driver's license had expired back in '94 and I had somehow
been volunteered to be the scurvy bastard's chauffeur to every
place he had to go and all the bars he had to plunder. So
in order to free myself of the chains of automobile slavery
that I had been tangled into I took the crusty one to the
DMV so that he could battle the angry fat women behind the
counter for the chance to honor himself with a "land
lubber's vehicle license". Since he had not been behind
the wheel of a car in so long those horse wankers made the
good Skipper take a bunch remedial driver's ed. classes with
a bunch of 16-year-olds. That situation would have been pretty
funny had The Skipper not threatened my life with his hook
(not to confuse you, but The Skipper doesn't have a hook for
a hand, he just carries numerous sharp weapons around with
him so that he can "cut" or "gouge" anything
that he desires when the mood strikes him) and ordered me
to stay and wait for him "in case he had to bleed a few
of the little ones in the oft chance that they might get even
more annoying than they were at the beginning of class"
and he "might be in need of a hasty getaway. Arrrrrrrrrr!"
In order to kill some time I went into the class too. All
they did was watch a bunch of movies like Blood on the
Highway, Blinker of Death, and I Swear, Officer,
I Did Not Know I Was Intoxicated. The Skipper thought
that that last one was the most entertaining. He kept laughing
like a barbarian and slapping his knee in joy whenever a true
life testimonial came on. When little Billy explained how
he got arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol
he broke down in tears and told us how his life was ruined
and how he should have known better. Well The Skipper actually
fell out of his chair he was "Arrrrrrrr!"-ing so
loud and violently. He then got up in front of the class,
killed the teacher (after calling him a "poofter")
and taught the kids all of the things that little Billy did
wrong.
- First
of all his tolerance level was apparently pitiful. Before
you try to outrun the police after a night of getting
plowed you must make sure that the G-forces of a turn
at 75mph won't make you vomit all over the steering wheel
making it all slippery.
- Secondly,
Billy's friends were not encouraging him as he drove away
from the pigs. One needs constant encouragement from one's
amigos in order to keep up the will and mind set of a
high speed chase on slick roads at night without headlights.
It's easy to lose interest in the chase when you're by
yourself.
- And
most importantly was the fact that little Billy apparently
cried when the officers pulled him over. The Skipper made
all of the teenagers in the class promise him that if
the cops ever did get them to pull over for a D.U.I. that
they would run or fight with all of their might while
one of their friends videotaped everything (in case the
pigs won and it all had to go to court, or just for friendly
viewing later on so that they could see just how cool
they looked when they followed The Skipper's advice).
After
that The Skipper took everybody behind the counter and gave
them all driver's licenses that said each of them was at least
26 and a war veteran.
Note
to self 158: 10/04/2001
The
War of the Thermostat
is now over. It was basically just one long, drawn-out battle,
but it left its scars on all those involved like a bad case
of the chicken pox. It all began a few weeks ago when it was
averaging around 90 degrees outside during the day. The main
office thermostat was set at a comfortable 73. Well, it was
until Angry Amy decided that 73 was too cold for her, so she
cranked the thing up to 82 degrees. In case you were wondering,
that is very fucking hot. Anything above 77 inside is considered
"beyond warm". Anyway, she cranked it up and I immediately
cranked it back down to 73, but our air system is screwed
up and so it took it down to 69 instead. That was basically
the "Assassination of Arch-Duke Ferdinand" of the
War of the Thermostat. For two weeks after than incident we
kept flipping the air up and down between 88 and 62 degrees.
The casualties were staggering. Many innocent bystanders were
caught in the cross fire as they didn't know whether to bundle
up or wear shorts or simply get naked. I actually killed two
people with a stapler too... but that's a different story.
So,
after those two weeks I decided to go beyond the trench warfare
tactics that Angry Amy and I had found ourselves stuck in.
I got a lock box installed over the wall-mounted temperature
gauge. And I kept the key. Normally it would have been a brilliant
tactical maneuver, but I forgot that Angry Amy can get VERY
angry when provoked. And I didn't just provoke her, I pushed
her off of the cliffs of sanity straight into the jungles
of ire... And I smiled and waved to her as she plummeted.
Well, the next day I found that she had ripped the box from
the wall and smashed it into my computer monitor along with
turning the entire office into a sauna by leaving the dial
at 95 degrees Fahrenheit.
Finally,
I ended up being the level headed one as I got the building
planners to come upstairs and find out what could be done
about the temperature for each room. It turned out that the
main thermostat that we were fighting over didn't even control
either of our rooms directly. I really share my air conditioning
with the old guy next door who likes it really cold, and Angry
Amy found out that her boss controls her temp... Unfortunately
for Amy her boss likes it colder than I did. After all was
said and done and the Peace Treaty had been signed, I kinda
felt sorry for Angry Amy and the fact that I had Robot Pedro
crush her car into a 2 foot cube. It was a nice car too.
Note
to self 157: 09/24/2001
Damn
you, Chi-Chi!! Damn you to HELL!!!!!
Now to explain my uncontrollable outburst. Last Friday night
Chi-Chi had me meet him at his favorite tavern in Atlanta
(well, one of 53 that can be considered his favorite).
It was an okay place with some really hot waitresses and I'd
tell you the name of it if I could remember it. I don't even
recall how I got there or back. Anyway, we planned to meet
up at this tavern, have a few drinks, then go to see Nicole
Kidman in that haunted house movie The Others. But,
as I usually find out when plans mix with alcohol and my friends,
the original idea got scrapped in order to make room for more
drinking time. We both started out on strict beer intakes
and by ruining each other's jokes by telling the punchlines
to ones we've already heard (which is all of them by now...
I really need to find some more dirty joke websites). Within
the first hour though our good intentions of not mixing vodka
and beer were thwarted when the cute blonde bartender-girl
gave us each a complimentary "purple hooter" shot.
That
was the beginning of the end. By 2 o'clock in the morning
I was starting to feel not so manly, so we left. Unfortunately
we just went to another of Chi-Chi's favorite bars. There
I was forced to prove my fake alcoholism by downing 10 shots
of tequila in half an hour or lose face in front of a bunch
of strangers. By the time I was on number 7, "the Skipper"
popped up out of nowhere, punched me in the stomach a few
times, pissed on my shoes and called me a baby for complaining
about my water logged moccasins. Normally I would have carved
off a person's face with a lime-peeler if he had broken my
concentration at such a crucial point like that, but it was
the Skipper.... And you don't fuck with the Skipper.
Actually, I was wondering just what the Skipper was doing
there. Last I heard he was getting monkeys addicted to tobacco
in the jungles of Africa. I don't remember if it was some
kind of scientific experiment or what, but his "Gorilla
Research" in the Congo got a mention in National Geographic
as being the only place in the world with chain smoking silverbacks,
and orangutans with throat goiters the size of softballs.
Oh
yeah, after my tenth shot of tequila I got up on the bar,
did my Pee-Wee Herman dance, and puked all over Chi-Chi and
the hot and sexy barmaids in a spew that would do Linda Blair
proud.
Note
to self 156: 09/11/2001
12:20PM
Horrified.
I am simply horrified. As you already know by now, terrorists
have flown two giant jet planes into the World Trade Towers,
one into the Pentagon, one into the ground South of Pittsburg,
and supposedly set off numerous explosions all over D.C. and
Manhattan. The Trade Towers have fallen. Thousands of people
died. The West side of the Pentagon is rubble. Every single
American is confused, scared and PISSED THE FUCK OFF. And
you want to know what's the second worst thing about this
(after the death and destruction of course)? People in the
Middle East are DANCING IN THE GODDAMN STREETS. They are dancing
for joy. They think that by killing 20,000+ Americans they
will be happier and live lives that don't include sleeping
in dirt, eating crap from the dumpster and getting stepped
and shat upon by their own leaders who don't give a fuck if
they die of starvation and/or disease in the rat filled gutters.
They think that by killing innocent Americans they will be
raised above their toilet bowl existence.
You
know what I wish?.... besides those fuckers not crashing four
planes.... I wish that I could line all those camel-raping,
turban-wearing, dancing shit heads up and challenge each of
them to a fight: Man to man. But in order for those sister-sodomizing
bastards to understand the hell they've forced upon us, I
would be allowed to weild a machette and a machine gun (with
unlimited ammo) and each of them would only get one small
furry woodland animal to use as a weapon. And when I got my
hands on Bin Laden himself I would first strangle him with
his own tableclothed turban, then I would wipe that shit eating
grin off his face with a few gallons of hydrocloric acid.
Then when he was good and bleached white (with a blonde dye
job) I'd drop him in the middle of one of his terrorist training
camps with lots of tatoos on him saying "I'm gay"
and "The Al Qaeda Sucks Floppy Donkey Dick".
Note
to self 155: 09/10/2001
It
all started last week when I noticed that the news in the
morning sucked and that I'd seen all the cartoons that are
on between 7 and 8am at least 30 times. That's when I found
out that Saved By The Bell is on TBS at 7:35! Yeah,
I know that my old doctor said that my addiction to that show
would never end unless I kept away from those Bayside kids
as if they were the plague... But I had forgotten just how
hot Kelly, Jessie and Lisa were! By Friday morning I was beyond
OD-ing on Kelly's pom-poms and I began foaming at the mouth.
That's when Clarice dragged me over to Dr. Daves shady clinic
to try and cure me.... again. By the time the doc was free
to see me I was still a bit high off of Zack's charsima and
Jessie's feminism, and I think I made a decision that I may
regret later. In my Belled up delirium I requested
that Dr. Dave give me an "on the spot" face transplant
so that I could look just like Screech and be a real ladies'
hombre. He fucked up though and I ended up with a mirror image
of Mr. Belding on my puss. Clarice said it was sexy, but the
balding thing is gunna take a bit to get used to. I just pray
to God that California Dreams doesn't take Saved's
time slot any time soon. Or even worse, Charles in Charge!
I went cold turkey from that years ago and am still suffering
from the DTs.
Note
to self 154: 09/04/2001
For
my birthday this past weekend the Wolfman took me to downtown
Atlanta for the yearly sci-fi convention, DragonCon. At first
I thought that we were going in order to actually try and
get into the whole fiasco and become geeky freaks who
only come out to interact with the rest of humanity once a
year at such retarded festivities that feature guests such
as "That guy that got killed in the original Star
Trek episode 51" and "The woman in the Matrix
who walked past the camera in the background at 1 hour and
13 minutes into the movie". Thankfully the Wolfman had
a better idea. We went to beat the living shit out of those
losers. Either physically or mentally (the Wolfman is the
master of mental rapings). When we first got there we were
totally embarrased about the situation we had gotten ourselves
into. We were the only ones not in a faggy Klingon or Storm
Trooper costumes and we would only refer to ourselves with
our real names (and not shit like "Urrgak Kreslovor the
Mighty" or "Trooper designate #452 of Branch Ass-Fucker
Alpha"). We stood out like a politician in Washington
with a heart of gold that simply warms the human spirit. Despite
our amazing fitness advantage (we could actually run, kick,
punch and head-butt without dropping dead on the spot of a
coronary), we were in fear for our lives. The Wolfman and
I were outnumbered 30,000 to 2. But we had a mission, and
we were no pansies (well, I know that the Wolfman ain't).
We started out by setting up a booth for "$1 Kisses Given
by Seven of Nine" which really only lined up the grown
bed-wetters so that we could hit them in the face with a steel
replica of the Babylon 5 ship several times each. What
was great about that idea was that despite the fact that the
star-spankers in the line could clearly see that Jeri Ryan
was not really in our booth (the Wolfman stole a cardboard
cut out of the beautiful and breastiful actress from the dealers'
room), and the fact that we were smashing in skulls of their
fellow X-Files-loving hard-ups in plain view they kept
on coming! Some even got in line 4 to 5 times in the
vain hope that Jeri would actually show up later and give
them a dollar's worth of lovin'. By around 8pm that night
both the Wolfman and I were pretty tired after smashing all
of those acne smothered heads in (we got around 7,000 by that
point), and we decided to go another route. So we just barred
up all the doors to the hotel from the outside and set the
whole place on fire. The news didn't even cover it because
it would have meant giving those fat fucks some sympathy.
Man, what a happy b-day!
Note
to self 153: 08/20/2001
I
had nothing better to do on Friday, so the Megaplayboy easily
talked me into going with him to the Atlanta Motor Dragway
to watch him race his Audi Quatro A4 against people with faster
cars. Knowing how sweet it was going to be after his crushing
defeats at the wheels of Geos and trucks, I invited Chi-Chi
and Robot Pedro to tag along too (Robot Pedro didn't have
to pay admission since we hid him in the trunk... He fucked
up the Megaplayboy's first two runs too, cause we forgot to
get him out and he weighs like 3,000 lbs). After Chi-Chi,
Robot Pedro and I got settled in the stands we realized how
shit-watching boring drag racing truly is. Cars move
up to the line. Green light. They race. 10-19 seconds later
more cars line up. Multiply that by 1,345 times and you basically
have our night up until 10PM. At that time Chi-Chi and I lost
track of Robot Pedro. Normally we wouldn't care too much about
something that trivial, but we learned the hard way that leaving
Robot Pedro alone when there are lots of machines and things
that can go "BOOM!" lying around is almost always
a bad idea. So we split up to find the cum guzzling cyborg.
I had only made it to the snack bar for the fifth time when
I heard an awful sound that made me queazy and fear for my
life. It was Chi-Chi on the loud speakers and he was reciting
the "Wassuuuuuuuuuup" Bud commercials. I wanted
to beat the tar out of him, but I had to wait in line. There
were people with crowbars ahead of me. Right before it was
my turn to crunch his noggin in, I saw Robot Pedro back in
the bleachers. He was sneaking up on this annoying fat fuck
who through out the entire night had pissed off the entire
audience by shouting out "YEAH, Goddammit, YEAAAAH!"
whenever a car would rev its engine... Which was every 6.4
seconds. Nobody tried to stop Robot Pedro and his metal-footed
clog dance on the chubby asshole's head drew the biggest applause
of the evening. At the end of the races, the Megaplayboy was
pissed that we missed him "Destroying that lame dingle-berry
wannabe ass fuckin' turtle-pluckin' minivan" on his last
drag. We would have laughed at him but he was our ride home.
Note
to self 152: 08/13/2001
This
past weekend the Wolfman, Carl and I took my 4 month old nephew
out on the town to teach the little guy how to do all the
things that will one day make a man out of him. First we drove
him to the red light district and showed him how to pick out
the hooker with the least amount of venereal diseases just
by looking in her mouth (that was the Wolfman's specialty).
Then we went to the Sea-Wench Pub and taught him the proper
way to pour a pint of Guinness and how to chug a bottle of
the disgusting Tsing Tao while pretending that its foul stench
doesn't make you want to vomit your tequila and Jell-O shots
back up (that was my specialty). Then we let Carl educate
the little guy on how to correctly beat the living shit out
of a drunk frat boy by only using your fists and steel toed
boots. It seemed that Carl wasn't too happy with his training
and results the first 14 times, but the 15th wanker with a
baseball cap turned backwards apparently got his face smashed
in the most ideal of ways known to man. We dropped wee Jack
off back at his parents at around 3AM, and then we had to
head back to the bar to help the owner re-plaster the walls
and glue a bunch of chairs and stools back together after
Carl's lesson had pretty much demolished the place. If we
didn't, we would probably never be allowed back in ever again.
And while I do realize that there are 42 bars in a one mile
radius of the Sea-Wench Pub, none of them have a jukebox with
AC-DC's Stiff Upper Lip in it dammit! So in the end
it turned out that we all got edumacated that night.... I
guess.
Note
to self 151: 08/03/2001
Hong
Kong kicks ass!! My friend Mara lives there and she's my supplier
when it comes to bootleg movies, music and video games. Apparently
there are tons of companies in HK and Taiwan who can make
DVDs and CDs at around -$.02 per disc and then pass the savings
on to consumers who don't like to pay a lot for stuff. Most
of the anime DVDs (with English subtitles... however horribly
mangled) she gets me only cost around $4 US! In Japan they
cost around $50 - $80! And since the Chinese and Taiwanese
don't give a shit about copyrights and other annoying "international
laws" they don't pay the greedy makers of the products
that they borrow from. Only problem is US Customs apparently
doesn't like foreign products cause they keep trying to seize
my packages. Now they usually just look for my name and address
since they know that most of my shipments from Hong Kong are
items that break their "laws" supposedly just by
existing. I get a lot of Hollywood movies from Mara too, seeing
as the underground market on the otherside of the world knows
how to get things out on quality DVD fast! For instance, I
already have the Lord of the Rings trilogy in director's
cut form with commentary by Peter Jackson himself on disc.
The Balrog looks damn fine if I do say so myself. Most people
have to wait until next summer to see Spiderman the
movie, but not me. I got the two disc Special Edition Taiwanese
set last week. As for Die Hard IV: Die Hardest, well,
Bruce Willis hasn't even signed on for it yet but some HK
guys have already gotten it pressed and it just arrived in
my mailbox today. Can't wait to check that one out. Macaulay
Culkin plays Samuel L. Jackson's part.
Note
to self 150: 07/25/2001
I
fucking HATE pigs!!! Yesterday, on the way back from the Sea-Wench
Pub with my buddy Bob From the Future (who was still hanging
around town after he came back from the future to warn me
about my Firestone tires that were about to blow up and kill
a baby seal... which they did), I was pulled over by a rookie
cop who had to make his monthly quota for speeding tickets
and moving violations. First of all, I was pissed that I was
stopped by this ass. I had come to a complete pause before
making a right turn on D.W. Brooks Drive. I know that
I did because the old guy that I stopped the Rossmobile on
top of gave me an audio count of how many seconds I was there.
Three full seconds. The second thing that I didn't like about
the police man flagging me down was that Bob From the Future
had a buttload of high tech weaponry and explosives with him
in the car that he didn't have licenses for in the year 2001.
Hell, he probably didn't have any legal permits for them in
his own time either. Sooooo, long story short, Bob From the
Future found that he had to vaporize the inquisitive piggy
when he saw the nuclear bazooka in the back seat sticking
out from under some empty beer cans. Then we had to set the
cruiser on fire and dump it in Shawnee's Swamp a few miles
out of town. We did keep the videotape that recorded the whole
incident from the cop's dashboard though. It makes for good
memories and it's great for impressing the ladies.
Note
to self 149: 07/23/2001
I
had just gotten back from vacation in Hawaii (where my departure
time was 11 o'clock at night next Thursday) and was suffering
from the bends and horrible jet lag when my sister asked me
to help her and her fiancee move into their new apartment.
I asked if they would have a keg there and they assured me
that they already had one filled with Asahi chilled in the
bath tub. So I went over and I brought Chi-Chi, Carl and Bob
From the Future with me (I brought Bob because I thought he
might have some kind of futuristic ray gun that could make
couches and dressers levitate or something... alas the bastard
didn't... but he did manage to figure out that throwing things
from the window was a lot easier than taking the stairs).
Bob From the Future was made to sit in "time out"
for a few hours after a table he hurled from the third floor
apartment landed on an old lady and her dog. When we heard
that it landed on an old woman we were initially very pissed
thinking that the cops would come and all, but when we lifted
the coffee table up and noticed that she was still breathing,
but her pooch wasn't we gave him a high five and just made
him face a corner and think about how he almost ruined a perfectly
good piece of furniture with "old people slime".
Dog slime can easily be washed off though, and plus dogs kinda
suck.
Anyway,
after banging my shins and having heavy shit dropped on my
newly tanned feet all day long I was really tired and ready
to relax. It was at that point though that my sister Jaime
and her boy toy, Dan, tried to push us out of their new place
without any kind of beer payment. But Carl stuck his foot
in the door and then bashed it in with Chi-Chi's head to let
us back inside and hopefully allow us to reach the keg we
were promised as compensation for our help and all the suffering
we endured (and caused). That is when they laughed nervously
and explained how they were "joking" about the keg
and stuff and that they thought that we would just help them
move out of the goodness of our collective hearts. They thought
wrong. After hearing the news Chi-Chi got pissed and started
chanting like a cannibal chief about to kill some international
explorers in rage. Then he relieved himself in the corner
as he repeated "Death by Chi-Chi!" over and over.
Carl just began smashing things and punching holes in the
walls with his fists and his head. Bob From the Future and
I looted the place and made off with a bunch of jazz CDs and
old My Little Pony and Jem and the Holigrams
toys that he said would be priceless in the near future after
the stock market dies and humanity is forced to use plastic
girls' toys from the 1980s as currency until George W. Bush
IV becomes president of the world and brings universal tranquility
in the first 2 months of his reign.
Afterwards I went to Doctor Dave's shady clinic and had him
operate on my bruised legs and toes. Now I have chimpanzee
feet. They're pretty sweet!
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