Being Poor Is Absolutely The Worst Thing Ever
“Yo! How long you gonna be in there, dog?”
I sighed. It’s bad enough that, since September of last year, I’ve lost my job, my fortune, and my steady supply of high-grade prescription painkillers. Even worse that I spent four months in a state penitentiary for financial crimes that I assure you I did not commit. And downright abominable that I’ve developed a seemingly incurable case of venereal warts that make my John Boehner look like a goddamn pinecone every time a pretty girl walks by.
But the absolute worst part is that, as part of my parole conditions, I have to spend the next half year living in a halfway house. Specifically, the Blessed Virgin Mother of Christ’s Center for Sober Living and Bible Study, which is in a bad part of downtown between an abortion clinic and an abandoned Piggly Wiggly. It was there, in the house’s second floor bathroom, that I was trying to take my morning constitutional when I was rudely interrupted by the question that began this post.
“Who wants to know?” I replied.
“Dude who’s gotta shit.”
“Well, ‘dude who’s gotta shit,’ it’ll be at least an hour before I’m finished. I suggest you take your business elsewhere if you don’t think you can wait that long.”
“Yo, fuck that,” said the voice, followed by the sound of a booted foot kicking the door. “I gots to go. Who that in there?”
“Me? Three-Fingers Pete. You know, the skinny Italian fellow who lives on the first floor.”
“You ain’t Pete. Pete ain’t sound like you at all. You that fancy fat motherfucker who rooming with Little Mack, ain’t you?”
“No.”
“Stop fucking lying, man!” More kicking at the door and a few fist pounds before the door flew inwards. The invader and I were immediately at each other’s throats, and it took a team of orderlies to finally tear us apart.
Anyhow, that was my morning. And given that it’s my first day at the halfway house, I can only assume that it will get worse from here. I’ll try to update this blog from time to time now that I’m a free man again, but don’t count on it. In the meantime, I’m off to make an alcoholic beverage that I learned about in prison called “pruno” in hopes that it will make me drunk enough that I can actually get a solid night’s sleep for a change. Toodle-oo.
More OxyContin Please
Now. Or I swear to christ I’ll kill every hooker in this cabana.
That is all.
My Son Is An Idiot
“Montgomery?” I said to my butler shortly after returning from work this afternoon. “Why is there a hirsute Asian lad reading Jughead comic books at the dining room table?”
“Wot wot?” Montgomery replied, sticking his head out from the pantry. “An Asian lad? You mean Kang?”
“Who?”
“Kang, guv’nor.”
“Who?”
“Your adopted son?”
“Oh, right. That Kang. Never mind then.”
“Cheerio, m’lord. And d’ye be wanting beef, chicken or fish for tonight’s repast?”
“All three,” I said. “See if you can find someway to merge them together.”
“Pardon?”
“You know. Like a turducken.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You there!” I said, walking back into the dining room. “What’s the meaning of impregnating one of the maids before galavanting off to summer camp?”
“Screw you Mister Father,” Kang hissed, flicking cigarette ash in my general direction. “Me teenage boy. Me get boners all the time. World owes me some place to put them.”
I harrumphed, but it was difficult to argue with his line of reasoning. “Be that as it may, the abortion cost $100. It will, of course, be deducted from your allowance.”
“Whatever, tubby belly man.”
“Tubby belly man?! That tears it! You go to your room this instant!”
“Good,” he said, gathering his comics and rising. “Me tired of hearing your voice anyhow.”
“Well I’m tired of you hearing it too! Now get out of here. And keep your genitals out of my maids, you freeloader!”
So it goes. Kids, eh? Oh well, that one will be 18 in a year and a half, at which point he’ll promptly find himself waiting in whatever sort of line it is that indigent foreigners wait in. As for me, I’m off to the Emporium to have my way with a hired sex partner or three. I ate a lot of Mexican today and my bowels are already feeling quite quivery, so some lucky young woman may very well receive a classic Cleveland Steamer in the near future. In fact, I would bank on it. Good night.
Nothing Good Can Come Of This
“By Her Majesty the Queen!” exclaimed my butler, Montgomery. “Where did that come from?”
“What, this?” I said, referring to the nearly 2-foot-long slimy white thing cupped in my left hand. “Straight out of my nose. Pretty cool, eh?”
“Good lord,” he said. “You do know that’s a tapeworm, right?”
“What?” I said.
“A tapeworm. Wot wot.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, quite positive. I saw loads of them during the Falklands campaign. Usually coming out of the natives’ anuses, however. Never heard of one coming out of a nose before. Pip pip.”
“Jesus.”
“Indeed.”
With that, I hightailed it over to Doc Steinbrau’s offices, where I was given a battery of tests and medicines. Hopefully he’ll call soon with an update. A man in my position certainly can’t have tapeworms dropping out of his nose during business meetings, after all. Wish me luck.
Sweet Christ It’s Preposterously Hot
“Cashtushy!” I barked into the intercom on my desk at the offices of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs. “Come in here. I need you.”
The door to my office flew open, and my personal secretary entered. “Yes, Mr. Carver? What can I… Mother of God what is that stench?!?”
“Hmm?” I said, staring openly at her heaving bosom. “Oh, that’s probably me. I work up quite a sweat coming back from lunch during these summer months. It’s hot as balls out there right now, you know.”
“No, that’s not B.O.,” she insisted, eyes wide with what might have actually been fear. “That’s…”
“Yes?”
“Did you..?”
“Did I what?”
“Um.”
“Confound it, Cashtushy!” I said, pounding my fist on the desk. “Out with it!”
“Did you have… an accident?” she asked, blushing fiercely.
“What kind of accident? A car accident?”
“Geez,” she scowled. “No. The other kind.”
“Unexpected pregnancy?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“You know.”
“No I don’t.”
“Okay, fine.”
“Yes?”
“Did you mess your pants?”
I smiled broadly.
“Indeed I did, my dear. That’s actually why I called you in here — I’m going to need some cleaning supplies. And something to wrap myself in for the ride home. Maybe a tablecloth from the break room? Anyhow, please make this your top priority. That will be all.”
She left immediately, but that was an hour ago and I’ve begun to suspect that she has no plans to return. Oh well. As my father often said, “A man who relies on a woman is a goddamn moron.” So if she still isn’t back by 5, I’ll turn my drapes into a makeshift toga and head home. Certainly won’t be the first time, nor will it be the last.
Goldline International
Purdue Pharma
