Thursday, December 31, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eighteen, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eighteen, Nothing Will Ever Be The Same Again
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61A75cXaM9I&feature=related
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You hand shakes so badly you drop your phone before you can get it back into your pocket. What the fuck have you gone and gotten yourself into this time? This is beyond huge, this is fucking Universe shattering, and you have no idea how to deal with it. You can't be a father, you can barely take care of yourself for fuck's sake. You have no business trying to raise a child. Bringing another life into this fucked up world of pain, of hate, of ignorance... WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
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But the thought of abortion never enters your mind. Not this time. Not with her. You want the kid, and that scares you even more. You are not ready for this. Not now. Not ever you would have said just a week ago. Shit, an hour ago even. You never wanted to be a father. You don't even like kids, not even when you yourself was one. Your mind goes back to that night in the car, when you looked down into that vile puddle of puke in your lap and noticed that little white pill. You thought you recognized it for what it must have been, a birth control pill, but the implications of what that could mean for you both never sank in. Until now. Fuck, a baby man! Your baby. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
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Maybe it isn't yours though, who knows who else Wal-Mart girl (Karen?) could have been fucking. But that's complete bullshit and you know it. You feel it. And the really fucked up thing is you've been feeling it all along, you just refused to admit it to yourself. But the time for running and hiding is gone and over with. All the alcohol and drugs on the planet won't save you. There are no answers to be had in bottles and baggies. There will be no hiding from this particular problem. Like it or not you're just going to have to face the music on this one. Grow the fuck up champ. Be a man and take your medicine, as your own father used to say, often right before he beat the shit out of you. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
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You gotta get your shit together, for real this time, and fast. But how, and then what? Get married? Get a haircut and get a real job? You could go back to school, trade in your ideals for a small cubicle in a faceless tower of steel and glass, recycled air, artificial light and artificial people, Garfield and Cathy comic strips taped to the walls, family portraits on the desks? You can't live like that, you'd never survive. By the second week, you'd be ready to show up for work with a loaded, fully automatic AK-47 and put everyone out of their misery, saving that last bullet for yourself of course.
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You're not cut out for the nine to five grind, you never have been, and you never will be. You're just a dormouse in the Rat Race of life, you're a pussycat in a dog-eat-dog world, in the time of chimpanzees, you were a monkey. Selling out goes against the one principle you've always held near and dear. You are not one of them. Are you? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO?
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TO BE CONTINUED...

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seventeen, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seventeen, Chickenwing Flies The Coop
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwMg1ym2xqE&feature=related
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At first you think you may have dialed the wrong number by mistake, because it's not Wal-Mart girl who answers the phone, it's Chickenwing. "Don't hang up!" he yells, then starts to cry. "Man, I'm so sorry about everything... I didn't think you would care, usually you don't seem to give a fuck about anything. That was the first time a girl ever agreed to do that with me, and I didn't even get to finish!" He's crying harder now. "Those fucking biker guys slapped her and when I tried to stop them, they beat the shit outta me! They trashed my place and they broke my computer! They took all my dope, which turned out to be a good thing, because then the cops showed up. They found some pipes and stuff and took them away but they didn't charge me with anything, I guess they felt sorry for me because of what those guys did to my face... I thought they were going to kill me!"
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There's the sound of sniffling while he tries to get it together. "Anyway, I can't fucking live like this anymore dude. My mom said she would pay for rehab if I went for at least ninety days, so I'm leaving tomorrow. The only reason I'm here at Karen's is because she said she'd help me pack up my place and move my stuff to a storage unit. I'm really sorry man... Are we still friends?"
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There's no way you can stay mad at this blubbering pile of blubber, not after that sob story. Besides, it was just a blowjob right? Hell, if you had known he'd never had one, you might have tried to talk Wal-Mart girl into yourself, or at least paid one of your hooker acquaintences to go down on the poor bastard. Christ, he was over thirty and never had head before? Also he was right when he said you usually didn't give a fuck about anything. How was he to know that this time it would be any different.
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"Sure man, we're still friends I guess. Bros before Hos right? I'm sorry I got your ass kicked before you could thoroughly enjoy your first experience with fellatio. Those dudes were looking for me you know?" "Yeah," he answers, "Karen told me about it after the cops left and she came downstairs from her place. She ran off while they were stomping the shit out of me, but I don't blame her. She was actually the one who called the cops, she said her gun only had one bullet left in it and there were three guys so she called the police instead of shooting them like she really wanted to. I think she was serious dude!"
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"She was totally serious. That bitch doesn't fuck around Chickenwing, she's pretty hardcore!" "Holy shit, you really like her don't you? I mean like for real?" He's stopped crying and now he sounds like the old Chickenwing again. "You should probably talk to her man, she's been really worried about you! She couldn't reach you on the phone, and she even went to your house a couple times, but you weren't there." "Alright," you say, "let me talk to her then. I guess I'll see you when you get of rehab man. Maybe we can get good and fucked up for old times sake? Take care of yourself." "Yeah I will. You too. Later dude."
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"Where the fuck have you been hiding?" It's Wal-Mart girl, and she doesn't sound very happy to hear from you, just really pissed off. "I was starting to think you were dead, why the hell did you wait until now to call? You're not still pissed because I gave Derek a little head for some blow are you? Because you and I were never official or anything which means I can suck any dick I want to!" She has a point, but you are still a little pissed at her. "Fine, okay, but did you have to suck Chickenwing's dick, of all the people in the world you gotta choose my best friend, a guy with a serious weight problem and a physical deformity? Hey, why don't you come on over here, there's a midget porn star you can suck off!"
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"Oh fuck you" she says, "I would have been more than happy to only go down on you, if you would have just said something that last night we were together. But all you said was don't set any alarms and wake you up in the morning when I left! And speaking of wake-up calls, we need to talk. In person." "I don't think that's such a good idea," you say, even though you really want to see her, "I still have to deal with the bikers from Hell, plus I gotta find a new place to live. Also, I'm working, sort of, so I'm going to be pretty busy for awhile... maybe I could call you in a couple days, we could set something up." You're dying to see her again, but you're afraid too. You're not used to this love stuff, and it frightens you.
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"I'm fucking pregnant you asshole!" she screams, and then the line goes dead as she hangs up the phone.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Monday, December 28, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part sixteen, Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part sixteen, You Get a Job (Sort Of!)
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3SpplmyVNX8&feature=related
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The world is an unusual place to find yourself living in at times, and sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction.
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It turns out that your midget friend, whose name is Oscar, is an adult film star. He told you this the day after you first met him in the bar and he'd told you what you should do about your newfound feelings for Wal-Mart girl. If only you could remember what he said. You remember asking him, but everything after that is a hazy blur. You'd awakened the next afternoon on a strange couch in a strange place, to the mouthwatering smell of frying bacon.
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"Good morning Sleepyhead!" said the dwarf working the stove with the aid of a small stepladder, "Sleep well? I know I always sleep like a baby after a night of good sex!" "Good sex?" you ask, "I don't see any girls around..." "Of course not, why would you?" It takes a moment for you to realize what he's implying and for it to fully soak into your brain amongst the chemicals that haven't quite vacated your gray matter from the night before. "You mean we...? But I'm not..." You can't bring yourself to finish the sentence.
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"We certainly did, but don't dwell on it too much. I make porno for a living, I have to fuck guys all the time. Doesn't mean you're queer or nothin... lotsa people are curious about what it would be like to get boned by a little person!"
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You feel sick, but then you look at him at he gives you a sly little wink. He's just yanking your chain, thank Christ! "Oh, you're fucking with me, man you really had me going there!" He gives you the wink again, but says nothing, and now you're not so sure. But you're afraid to just ask outright, so you let it go and choose to believe he was just making a joke and he didn't plow your virgin asshole while you were in some sort of mushroom coma.
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That was three days ago. You haven't been home since. First gay experience or not, Oscar is a really cool guy, he got you a gig holding a boom mic on the set of his latest film. Who knew that midget clown porn actually exists, you'd always thought it was an urban myth. You make a hundred bucks a day holding the microphone and occasionally moving some lighting around, and after work you and Oscar would hit the Yuppie bars, he liked to go to the more ritzy joints because he said people gave him less shit there about being a little person. You like them because no one there wants to kill you, and the forty year old divorcees don't mind slumming if it means they can get stuffed with young cock. You're happy to oblige.
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Little though he might be, Oscar could party like nobody's business. He drove his specially modified minivan with one baby arm and the other was constantly holding a joint or cigarette, or dipping into a bag of white powder for what he called a "toot-sweet." He could drink a twelve pack of Heineken and still drive you both home without swerving too badly. Thankfully he never tries anything sexual with you, so you're pretty sure he was just fucking with you that day. Then again he could just be too tired from fucking delicious porn stars all day and drinking and drugging all night...
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You know you can't keep this up forever, eventually you'll have to go back to your apartment, if nothing else to pack up what little shit there is worth keeping. Also you're going to have to deal with the angry biker, Wal-Mart girl and Chickenwing at some point. Twice you've caught yourself dialing her number while you were fucked up, and twice you lost your nerve and hung up before she could answer. Well, no time like the fucking present. What the hell, you're reasonably sober at the moment. You dial the number and this time you stay on the line until a voice answers.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Robot PSA!

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fifteen copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fifteen, chatting with a midget while tripping on mushrooms
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B4pIxnuUG1k
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When you walk out of the bathroom, it's a whole new universe. Holy fuck, those mushrooms must be super potent if you're already starting to feel them. Maybe you shouldn't have eaten so many. Fuck it. You take a seat at the bar and order a pitcher of beer. Sitting on the stool next to you watching a soccer game on the flat-screen behind the bar is a small child, a little boy about five or so.
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"Hey kid, aren't you a little young to be in here?" you ask. The kid turns away from the game, and you see that he's not a kid at all. He's a midget. A dwarf. A little person. "I'm no kid fuckwad I'm old enough to be your daddy. Hell I might actually be your daddy, what's your mother's name?" He laughs a little at that, then asks, "Aren't you a little poor to be hanging out and drinking in this rich folks dive?" His voice is the kind of rough that only comes from years of Whiskey and cigarettes. "Yes I am, but this seemed like a good place to hide out for awhile. Sorry about the mixup, how about I buy you a drink?" You've never talked to a midget before, you've got a million questions. But he's got questions of his own.
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"A drink would be great, this is a bar after all. Jack Daniels, no ice. Hiding out is no kind of way to deal with your problems man, they're still be there waiting for you when you leave, don't you know that? What did you do that made you seek refuge in this hellhole anyway?" You order his drink as you think about how to answer this without telling the midget the ugly truth. But you're really starting to trip now, the neon behind the bar is unnaturally bright and giving off a slightly sinister vibe. It's fucking up your concentration.
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You take a drink of your beer to fortify yourself and say, "I fell in love with a late-night shoplifter who saved my life after I spurted cum all over the face of this bigass scary biker dude in a bar I went to after I got out of the hospital for overdosing on meth and coke that she gave me. Actually she only gave me the coke, the meth was Chickenwing's, that fat piece of shit, I went to his house today to pay him back the twenty bucks, and she was slurping on his uncircumcised dick like it was a fucking Rocket Pop! He's the only friend I got and he's trying to steal my girl, and the fucking biker guy and his goddamn buddies want to kill me, and I can't go home!"
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"Wow, slow down dude. I don't think I caught all that..." The midget looks confused, so you take a deep breath, light a cigarette, and start over. You end up telling him the whole sad story, from the beginning up until now, and he listens attentively, nodding in all the right places and throwing in the occasional, "Holy shit!" and, "No fucking way!" Either he's a really good listener, or you're just really high. Probably both. It feels good to talk to someone, but you can't look him directly in the face anymore. Not because you're embarrassed by the bizarre but true story you've just told him, but because his face is beginning to morph into that of a baby. A baby with a full beard showing streaks of gray, who drinks like a fish and cusses like a sailor with Tourette's Syndrome. Oh Christ, are you high!
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The bartender asks if you'd like another pitcher, even thought the first one is barely half gone, but you're afraid to speak to her right now, afraid you'll blurt out some embarrassing moments from your childhood or the world's lamest pick up line perhaps, so you just nod. She brings the pitcher and another Whiskey for your vertically challenged friend and you pay her. "Hey thanks man, you're alright. How ya holding up?" asks the midget. "I'm fucking tripping balls and you keep changing into a bearded baby, but I'm alright. So what do you think I should do?" He talks. You listen.
TO BE CONTINUED...

X-mas








Saturday, December 19, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fourteen copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part fourteen, The Worst Day Since Yesterday
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDSud7vAH_0
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You shouldn't give a shit, but you do. You shouldn't be jealous and hurt, but you are. You realize that somewhere between Wal-Mart and the golf course you started to fall for this girl who just a second ago was going down on the deformed tub of lard who also happens to be your only real friend. You feel betrayed, and you feel pissed off.
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"What the fuck?" you ask, trying to keep your voice under control and not quite managing it. "What?" says Chickenwing innocently. "She wanted me to give her some coke so we made an arrangement. It's not like you guys are a couple or anything. Anyway, can't you fucking knock?" "Can't you lock the door asshole?" you reply, reaching behind you and locking the deadbolt to demonstrate. You're walking across the living room to kick his teeth out when there's a pounding at the door. Whoever it is most assuredly can knock, and isn't afraid to do so. A loud voice calls out, "Open this goddamn door NOW or I'll kick the fucker in!"
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You recognize the voice immediately, it's the biker you shared the intimate moment with at Ronnie's Roadhouse. Your walk becomes a run as your plans abruptly change. Instead of going over to the couch you go straight into the bathroom and start to climb out the narrow window. For a brief moment you feel bad about leaving Wal-Mart girl behind, but fuck it, she deserves what she gets. Chickenwing too. Those two assholes deserve each other, you think to yourself.
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The biker makes good on his threat to kick in the door, right as you're in the middle of climbing out the window. You hear Wal-Mart girl yell, "What the hell do you think you're..." and then a a loud slapping sound that most likely means biker dude just gave her five across the face. Then you're out the window and running for your life.
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You don't know where to go, but you know you don't want to go home. Chickenwing is probably telling the guy everything he knows about you at this very moment, he'll know you didn't move out of the apartment and he and his biker buddies will go back there. You can't call the police obviously, not as long as Detective Blake is still an employee of the department. You could go to your parent's place, but you'd rather get killed by a crazed motorcycle enthusiast than have to endure that kind of slow torture.
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You don't know what the fuck to do, so you decide to have a good strong drink and think about it some more. You ride the bus across town to this little yuppie dive bar. Finnegan's Irish Pub it's called, but there isn't a true Irishman in the place, just preppy college kids and a few middle management types in bad suits. No chance anyone will come looking for you here, normally you wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
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You go into the restroom to take a piss, and there's a college kid at the sink washing his hands and his face under the tap continuously. "Oh man, water feels SOOO good when you're shroomin!" he says, smiling the smile of the truly FUBAR. You smile back as you reach for your wallet and ask him if he's got anymore mushrooms he might like to get rid of. He does. You slip him a fifty and he feeds you several large caps and a generous handful of stems that you wash down with water from the sink.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part thirteen copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part thirteen, Weirdness
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GU-CrC7sUBA
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The next morning, feeling surprisingly good considering all the alcohol you'd consumed, you decide to take the bus over to Chickenwing's place and pay him back the twenty bucks you owe him, knowing he'll spend it on drugs and share them with you.
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You stop at the corner market for a pack of smokes on your way to the bus stop. In line ahead of you is a homeless man from your neighborhood who sometimes hits you up for spare change. (You usually give him a quarter if you have it.) With help from the cashier, he's busily sorting a big handful of pennies into stacks of fifteen cents each. After they complete each new stack, the homeless man turns away from the counter, walks over to the candy aisle, and grabs one lolipop. Then he returns to the counter, sets down the lolipop, and resumes counting pennies. This goes on for what seems like an eternity.
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Neither the cashier nor the homeless man appear to be aware of your existence, they go about their work with almost Zen-like precision. You feel like this should piss you off, normally you can't stand to be ignored, but you find this whole scene oddly fascinating. What could this guy possibly want all with all of those Tootsie Pops? Is he going to use candy to kick an alcohol or drug addiction? Good for him. You want to offer to buy the man the entire box of lolipops, but feel like if you speak you'll somehow break the magic spell that's been cast over this dingy little liquor store in midtown.
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At last the pile of pennies is all counted, and you're not a bit surprised to see that there was no leftover pennies. The perfect little moment is over. The cashier throws the suckers in a paper bag and without a word the homeless guy takes it from him and walks out. The cashier stares after him, dazed, and it takes a moment for him to finally notice you. "What can I do for you?" he asks, like a man trying to shake of a particularly disturbing dream. Feeling a little dazed yourself, you get your smokes, and walk to the bus stop. The homeless man, who would ordinarily have been waiting outside the store for you, is nowhere to be found.
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The strange sensation that fell over you while watching the bizarre happenings in the store persist while you're riding the bus. Across from you sits a big black kid, typical gangsta type, baggy clothes and a flashy chain. There's a scar on his face that runs in a zig zag from below his left eye to his chin. Ordinarily the type of person to make you nervous, but not so much today. He's crying. Silently, but the tears are rolling down his scarred face one after another and show no signs of stopping.
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You don't want him to catch you staring so you look ahead of you. There's an old asian man in a badly wrinkled suit reading a newspaper. He gets off at the next stop. When he stands up the sunlight coming through the window falls on his shirt and you can clearly see the black bra he's wearing underneath. What the fuck is going on in this city today? Have we all gone mad?
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You can't wait to tell Chickenwing about all of the strange shit you've witnessed today, so instead of knocking you just walk right in, and shit suddenly gets a lot weirder. Chickenwing is sitting on his couch naked, and on her knees in front of him, doing what she apparently does best, is Wal-Mart girl.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, the Movie Trailer!

Animated Excerpt from Tales of a Drunken Degenerate chapter four!
Never coming to a theater near you!

Monday, December 14, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate part twelve, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twelve, "Nobody's Fault But Mine"
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eb9agQrObSU
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You wake up in your apartment alone. Wal-Mart girl is gone but at least she didn't set any alarms this time. Fast learner that one. Someone is pounding on your door like they're trying to break it down. Climbing out of bed with a groan, you walk naked to the front door and peer out the peephole. It's your landlord. You open the door wide enough to poke your head out.
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"What the fuck do you want?" you ask, politely enough. "I want you out of here, that's what the fuck I want!" Your landlord, Ernie, is a balding middle aged man who has a habit of calling you kid and whose face has a tendency to get red when he's worked up about something. It's the color of a stop sign right now. "First some detective comes around asking all sorts of questions about your personal life, like I would know or give a shit, and then this morning a couple of bikers come charging into my office demanding to know which apartment was yours."
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Oh shit. "What did you tell them?" "I told em you moved out last month, I'm not a fucking scumbag. They were obviously looking to kick your ass, and while I'm not totally opposed to that, I can't have no trouble here. Which is why you gotta go. I can overlook the constant reek of pot smoke comin outta your place, and the loud music, and even that time you vandalized the coke machine and stole everything but the diet 7-up, but I draw the line at cops and pissed off bikers. What'd you do to them anyway?" "I shot my load into one of their faces." "Jesus Christ! That's the kind of shit I'm talking about, what the fuck is the matter with you kid?" "I don't know" you answer truthfully, "but you can't just kick me out, I actually paid my rent on time for once!" "Tough shit kid. You got thirty days to get the fuck out, and don't expect your deposit back either, fuckin place looks like a bomb went off in there! See ya around kid." He hands you an eviction notice and walks away. "Thirty days!" he calls over his shoulder.
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Well that's just great, just what the fuck you needed to hear. No way you can afford to move right now. Shit, you don't even have a car anymore. Stressed out, you get dressed and then search the apartment for contraband, and after half an hour of sifting through random piles of stuff, come up with enough weed to roll a small joint, three bottles of liquor containing about a swallow each, a Valium, and a small piece of rock cocaine, the origins of which are unknown. You drink the liquor first, using the last swallow to wash down the valium. Then you fashion a makeshift pipe out of a beer can and cigarette ashes, and smoke the one hit of mystery crack. By the time the joint has burned halfway down, you're feeling much better about things. Your situation hasn't improved one iota, but you feel better about it nonetheless. There's a knock at your door, not the merciless pounding of Ernie, a sharp and insistent rapping. You check the peephole. It's your father. Fuck.
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"Hey Pop!" you say in your phony I'M-FINE/YOU'RE-FINE voice. "How they hangin old man?" "Cut the shit." your dear old dad says, looking like he'd like to hit you for old times sake, but knowing you'd knock him on his old ass. "I didn't want to come here, your mother insisted on it. She wants to know why you left the hospital, and why you didn't come to the house to see her after you did. It's the drugs isn't it?" "No dad, it's not the drugs... I, I just felt better and wanted to get out of there, that's all." "Horseshit. We know you're on dope. You been on dope for most of your pathetic life and I refuse to take the blame for it." As if you ever blamed him for anything besides being as asshole. "You're a loser son, and it's nobody's fault but your own. Call your mother." He walks out without saying goodbye. "Nice to see you too Pop!" you yell as the door slams hard enough to rattle it's hinges. All of a sudden you feel like shit again.
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After being both evicted by your landlord and called a loser by your father on the same day, sadly not the first time this has happened, you don't feel like doing much. Your latest unemployment check is in the mailbox so you walk to the bank to cash it, then pick up a pizza, a bottle of whiskey, a case of beer, and some cigarettes, and go back home. You take the phone off the hook. You close the blinds. You watch bad TV and drink until until you pass out.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Santa Claus is Coming, and He's Had Enough of Your Shit!



http://www.jokesunlimited.com/christmas_elf_name.php
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NnnmnY_TGo
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Once upon a time at the North Pole, there lived an elf named Beaker Sparkly-toes. Beaker had a very important job in Santa's magical workshop, he was in charge of fixing all of the machines the elves used to make the toys. He was proud of his job and he worked very hard. Whenever a machine would break down Beaker would work as fast as he could to get it up and running again so that there would always be plenty of toys for the good girls and boys on Christmas morning.
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One day there was a problem with the conveyor belts on the Tickle Me Elmo production line and Beaker was called to fix them. This was a really big deal because almost all of the children wanted Tickle Me Elmos that year and the elves needed to work day and night if they were ever going to be able to make enough. It was up to Beaker to save Christmas.
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He worked harder and faster than he ever had before. "Go Beaker, go!" shouted the elves, "You can do it!" And then they all began to sing! Tools and spare parts were flying everywhere, Beaker was determined not to let Santa and the little children of the world down.
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But Beaker was working so fast and hard, that he became a little bit careless. He accidentally crossed some wires, which caused the machine to start up while he was still inside the conveyor belts. By the time the other elves were able to hear his pitiful screams for help over the sound of their merry singing, and somebody found and pressed the emergency cutoff switch, Beaker had lost both of his arms and one of his eyes. He would have surely died if not for Santa's magic healing powers.
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That year there was a terrible shortage of Tickle Me Elmos, and a lot of kids had to settle for Grover or Bert and Ernie, and they cried themselves to sleep on Christmas night because they thought they had been naughty and that Santa Claus didn't love them anymore.
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When Beaker awoke from his coma, he felt horrible. Not because he no longer had any arms and was horribly disfigured, but because he had ruined Christmas. But then Santa paid him a visit. He told Beaker that it was not his fault, it was just an accident, and that he still loved him. Beaker thought there was a funny look on his face when he said it, but he told himself it was just because he wasn't used to only seeing out of one eye. Then Santa told Beaker that since he could no longer fix the machines, and everyone knows that all good elves must work, he had a very special job just for him.
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He brought Beaker to the reindeer barn and told him that it was his job to keep an eye out for the Abominable Snowman. If he came near the barn to try and eat the reindeer, he was to use his feet to call Elf security on his walkie-talkie immediately. All he had to do was keep watch and not fall asleep. "You can do it Beaker, I know you can!" said Santa.
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So Beaker was left all alone in the barn with the reindeer. It was chilly in there and smelled like reindeer poop, but Beaker was glad to be able to do his part. He tried making conversation with the reindeer, but they weren't as forgiving as Santa Claus, not even Rudolph, who should have remembered what it was like to be an outcast.
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There was nothing for Beaker to do but think, the Abominable Snowman hadn't been seen in decades. The more he thought, the worse he felt. He had ruined Christmas, lost both of his arms and one of his eyes, and everyone hated him. Soon he was sobbing uncontrollably. He cried and cried for hours, and the tears coming from his missing eye's socket were pus yellow and runny. He cried so much for so long that he became exhausted, and against his will he did the one thing he was not supposed to do, he fell fast asleep.
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When Beaker woke up, Santa Claus was standing over him, and he didn't look happy. "Oh Beaker," said Santa, "I told you not to fall asleep. While you were napping the Abominable Snowman came into the barn and he took Blitzen away." He shook his head sadly, sighing, "My poor Blitzen..." Beaker looked over to Blitzen's stall and saw that it was true. A trail of blood led from the empty stall to the open barn door. Beaker began to cry again.
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"Now, now, Beaker, don't cry. Santa still loves you." said Santa, and this time Beaker was sure he had a funny look on his face when he said it. "But I'm very disappointed in you Beaker. Since you can't do this very special job like I asked you to, I'm going to have to give you a different job, because everyone knows that all good elves must work. Come with me now Beaker." Santa led Beaker out of the barn and into the woods. Beaker didn't know what kind of job he was going to get now, but he swore that he would work hard and never let Santa down again. I'll make him proud of me, he promised himself as he followed Santa deeper into the woods.
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In the Great Hall, all of the other elves were enjoying a rare break from making toys. They were drinking spiced cider and singing merry songs. From somewhere nearby in the woods outside the Great Hall, they all clearly heard the sound of the gunshot.

Friday, December 11, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eleven, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day


Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eleven, Love in all the Wrong Places.
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You're feeling pretty good after the food and the beer and the narrow escape from certain death. You really thought you were a dead man back there, and that scared the shit out of you. So maybe you don't want to kill yourself after all. Good to know.
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"I owe you one baby, you fucking saved my life back there you psycho bitch. No shit." You reach over and give her right breast an affectionate squeeze. "When I saw you were gone I thought for sure that you'd run out on me and left me all alone." "Shit no" she says, smiling at you, "What kind of a shoplifting, coke snorting, gun toting whore do you think I am anyway?" She pulls into the deserted parking lot of a nearby grocery store. "What are you stopping here for?" you ask. "You said you owe me one right? Well it's time to pay up sucka." She puts the car in park and then reaches over to touch your naughty place.
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"I'm sorry baby but I don't think my magnificent dong is ready for a repeat performance quite yet. It's still a little sore." A lot sore is more like it. "No worries, I'll just suck your cock then." This chick seems to really love giving you head, and after saving your ass the way she did, you're in no position to argue. "You smoke this" she says, handing you a joint she pulls out of the ashtray, "and let me do my thing."
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You fire up the jay and she starts to do her thing. It hurts a little, so while you're perfectly able to maintain an erection, you have time to smoke the joint down to a tiny roach, and you're not even close to cumming. You are totally baked however, and feeling a rather giddy so you decide to have a little fun with Wal-Mart girl and play some Tonsil Ball. Tonsil Ball is played by thrusting your hips when a girl is going down on you to see how far back in her throat you can get your shaft. She of course eventually gags and gets pissed off, at which point you apologize profusely and then do it again a few seconds later.
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You give her an experimental little stab, and she remains unfazed. You try it again a few seconds later, putting a little more hip thrust into it. This time she looks up at you and rolls her eyes before continuing her work. Again you give her just a bit more, and this time she gags a little, but keeps going. So you go for the deep throat, thinking she can handle it, and she gags and then proceeds to spew the bulk of her stomach contents onto your cock and balls. Your lap is now a warm puddle of regurgitation; cheap booze and greasy food and a little white thing you're pretty sure is a partially dissolved birth control pill. She sits up, still heaving, and a fresh stream of vomitus hits you in the chest with enough force to splash up onto your face. A drop goes into your mouth, and that sets you off, you hurl up the burger, fries, and beer, and add it to the mix.
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She's crying, but you're in no mood to comfort her just now, despite the fact that this is all your doing. You get out of the car and rip the hospital gown off, using the back to wipe off your face. You feel a little better. "It's okay." you tell her, "move over and let me drive, we'll go to my house and get cleaned up." You're less than half way to your house and you start to suspect you may not be able to make it there without tossing your cookies again, the smell is horrifyingly putrid, even with the windows down. You're passing the public golf course when you have an idea. You pull over and park on the side of the road. "Come on" you say to her, getting out of the car, "follow me." She does, reluctantly.
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There's no fence around this particular golf course, and the sprinklers are on. You lead her out onto the grass where she strips down. The two of you rinse off under the industrial sprinkler head, it's cold and there's so much water pressure it's actually a little painful, but neither of you complains.
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Looking at her, standing there naked on the 8th green, you realize that she really is quite beautiful. She shivers, cold, and you go to her and put your arms around her. She responds, and then the two of you are kissing passionately, tasting each others digestive fluids and loving it. You lower her to the grass and proceed to make love to her. Real love. It lasts a long time, because every thirty seconds or so the sprinkler comes back around again and shoots a stream of icy cold water straight into your ass.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part ten, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part ten, Roadhouse Blues
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LwfmfMBLZiM
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In a scene straight out of a bad Hollywood movie, the music abruptly cuts off, and there are several agonizing seconds of complete silence. Then all hell breaks loose.
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"You're fucking DEAD!" screams the huge biker, as he's wiping off his face with a bar napkin. Several of his equally large and frightening biker buddies gather around to back him up. Even on your best day, you wouldn't stand a chance of beating them in a fight, and this is far from your best day. In your current condition you'd be lucky to survive the first crushing blow from his ham sized fist.
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You better try to talk your way out of this, and right now. Come on man, time to be charming. An angry mob is slowly making it's way up the stairs with every intention of stomping your guts out. "Hey, hold on just a second!" you say, holding up your arms, and to your immense relief, they hesitate. You grab your beer off the table and drain the glass. Here we go.
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"Listen guys, I've had an unbelievably shitty week. I'm not looking for trouble here, I just needed some beer and a bite to eat, that's all. I have been thrown in jail, I overdosed and apparently died, I just got out of the hospital today..." you gesture to your gown and hospital wristband. "And this asshole Detective I made punch me in the face so he'd have to let me out of jail seriously fucked up my car and then dropped an enormous deuce in the backseat! This young lady..." you turn to point to Wal-Mart girl, but she seems to have mysteriously disappeared, "she was kind enough to offer me some snatch, she thought I might feel better if I got my rocks off. I am SO sorry about what happened. It was not my intention to cum all over you fine folks, especially YOU good sir, I, uh, only meant to unload on her back but she moved... If it's any consolation, my wang feels like it's on fucking fire right now! If could go back and change things I would kick her out from under the table the second she started to blow me!"
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Swing and a miss. They are not swayed by your reasoning, and resume their Death March up the stairs. So this is how it's going to end. Beaten to extinction in a barroom brawl, wearing a hospital gown. They are almost to the top of the stairs when Wal-Mart girl reappears, holding her purse and digging around in it's contents frantically. She finds what she's looking for and pulls out a small revolver. *POW!*
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She's fired a round into the ceiling. "Everybody back the fuck up RIGHT NOW!" she screams. "Me and my man here are walking out the front door, and I swear to Satan I'll put a bullet between the eyes of anyone who tries to stop us!" She makes her way slowly to the door, keeping her gun pointed at the gentleman who received the complimentary facial, and you're right behind her, in a state of shock but grateful to still be all in one piece.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nine copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nine, "My Shit's Fucked Up."
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2aUJF3gdog
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You're standing at a gas station pay phone a few blocks from the hospital. You're barefoot and wearing a hospital gown, skinny ass flapping in the wind for all to see, and your dick is swollen painfully from where you ripped out the catheter. You need help, but you realize you don't have a friend in this world, except maybe for that fat piece of shit Chickenwing. After a moment of indecision you dial his number, collect of course.
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Twenty minutes later his beat up Nissan Sentra pulls into the gas station and you jump in the passenger seat. "Wanna go back to my house? I just got a really big bag of some killer shit!" Killer shit is right, you think. You almost fucking died and all this douchebag cares about is getting home to his pipe and his porn. This guy is your best fucking friend!
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"No, you're taking me to get my car." you say, in a tone that leaves no room for argument or discussion. The last thing you need is another crystal meth binge at Chickenwing's Porn Palace, not now, no way are you coming back from another one of those grand adventures. You figure you'll go to your favorite bar and grill, or at least your favorite where you don't owe a huge tab, nurse a few beers and hopefully get someone to buy you some food. Ronnie's Roadhouse is just the place to figure out where you go from here.
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You arrive at the police impound lot about thirty minutes before closing time. You don't have the piece of paper the dickhead detective gave you, and the guy working the desk is an asshole and tries to charge you six hundred dollars to get your car back. You tell him that you highly doubt your car is even worth six hundred bucks, and ask him to call Detective Blake at the station. He tells you to go fuck yourself, and you lose it. You push his desk over on it's side towards him, then slap him four or five times in quick succession. "Now do as I say and call the fucking cops already!" you tell him. He calls. "Alright Fuckhead, they said you can have your piece of shit car!"
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Five minutes to closing time, and you are finally allowed out on the lot. There's a rather unpleasant surprise waiting for you. The windows on both sides of your car have been smashed. All of the tires have been flattened. There's dents all around it, and there is trash all over the inside. Also, sort of the coup de grace if you will, someone (you suspect Detective Blake himself), has taken an extremely large shit right in the middle of the back seat. Sighing, you remove your Miles Davis CD from the player that was remarkably left untouched, and get back into Chickenwing's car.
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"Where's your ride?" he asks. He's been snorting lines of crystal off his dashboard while he waited for you. "Chickenwing, I don't have a car anymore" you say, "take me to Ronnie's Roadhouse and let me borrow twenty bucks you fat tweaker, or I'll never fucking talk to you again."
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Ronnie's is a two story redneck biker bar with a small cafe upstairs. The place is fairly crowded for the middle of the week, but apparently they're all here to drink and dance, because the cafe is deserted. You sit down at a table in your hospital gown, and you have the entire upstairs to yourself for almost half an hour before a bored looking waitress shows up to take your order. It's Wal-Mart girl. Somehow, you are not surprised.
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You order a burger and fries and a pitcher of beer, and when she comes back from putting your order in, you tell her about how you escaped from the hospital, including how you stupidly ripped out your catheter like you did, and how your car was completely destroyed.
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"You poor baby!" she exclaims. "Your shit's fucked up!" she says, lifting up your gown to take a peek. "Let me make you feel better." She gets down on her knees under your table and goes to work. At first you're afraid getting sucked off will hurt too much, but it's only slightly painful, and feeling better every second. Soon, you're at full mast, and you decide there's a better place to put your cock than down this bitch's throat.
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You bend her over the balcony and take her from behind. You can see the people downstairs, at the bar and on the dance floor, and they can see you, but only from the waist up. It looks like the two of you are up there dancing to the music, instead of fucking like a couple of Jackrabbits.
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You start to feel like you're about to cum, so you decide to pull out and bust your nut on her back. But as soon as she feels that you're no longer inside her she turns around. "Put in back in!" she moans, right as you climax. It hurts like hell when you blow your load, and it shoots out, up and over the railing of the balcony, landing on the crowd below.
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Most of your jizz hits the face of a really large biker dude who was dancing with his old lady. "What the fuck?!?" he yells, glaring up at you with murder in his eyes, and suddenly everyone is looking up at you.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Brains!

I found a date through zombie harmony - one of the best free dating sites for zombies
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Monday, December 7, 2009

The Death of the English Language and Any Real Communication


lol, omfg, lmfao, rofl, brb, idk, etc...
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What the fuck? What have we all become? Evolved, some might say, but they sure as shit better not say it to me or I'll knock their fucking teeth out so they have a reason to sound so fucking stupid. Every time you use one of the moronic abbreviations above or any of the countless others, you contribute to the seemingly endless dumbing down of America, and put yet another nail in the coffin of the English language. And it's not just the sheeple, it's educated and sophisticated people as well, because this sickness has spread faster than the latest H1N1 outbreak. I'm not the first asshole to complain about it either, there are hordes of Grammar Nazis out there who are far more militant than I.
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In fact, this rant was inspired by an episode of the Showtime series Californication entitled LOL, and I couldn't help but wonder; how many of the cast and crew of that show use that three letter abomination on a daily basis? How many of you reading this are just as bad? How many of you actually laugh out loud every time you hit those three keys? Is it really that much of pain in the ass to actually type in "Be right back?" That took me less than three seconds, and while not everyone can type as fast as me, most fifteen year old girls can send a text to their best friend forever telling her that Brandon TOTALLY smiled at her in the hall at school today he is soooo cute, and by the way, your hair looked really good today, in that amount of time. What's the big rush girls? Slow down you have your entire lives to talk about meaningless bullshit!
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I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes, I too am guilty of this most heinous of literary sins, at least to a small degree. I will occasionally use "OK" or I might say "Back in a sec" instead of "Please pardon me briefly, I shall return momentarily." But I NEVER sink to the level of bastardization that has become commonplace on the screens of nearly every cell phone and computer screen in the country. It's gotten so bad that I've heard "lol" and even "rofl" in actual face to face conversations. I somehow managed to avoid puking my guts out, but only by the narrowest of margins.
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It was bad enough when two people with less than nothing to say to each other would pollute the air with the sounds of their instantly forgettable chit chat, but now we don't even care enough to make actual words come out of our throat holes. Just as long as some sort of sound is produced to fill the silence. We might just as well be two radios tuned to different stations, facing each other and blaring away loudly, that would accomplish the same amount of communication as two people with no interest in really conversing making small talk.
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I still know what you're thinking, and once again the answer is yes. I have had more than my fair share of those riveting and deeply fascinating conversations about the weather, a sport I know and care nothing about, or the price of beans in Boston. But for many years now, I have only kept up the charade when to do otherwise by telling them to fuck off would hurt the feelings of someone I care about. If a random stranger, on a bus or train say, tries to engage me in a pointless, "I'm afraid of silence!" conversation I immediately begin asking personal questions, revealing the most intimate details about myself, and delving as deep as I can into whatever aspect of their life I believe will offend them the most. I have fun with them until they either loosen up and we start to REALLY talk, or they leave me the fuck alone and go about their business, leaving me to go about mine.
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Sunday, December 6, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eight, Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part eight, "I Think We're Alone Now"
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3eMyAbg6CWQ
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Alone with your thoughts. The very place you have always hated to be and avoided at any cost. Totally alone. Just you and you and you... And this time there's no bottle or bag to save you from yourself. You're pretty sure there's a mild sedative of some kind in the bag of fluids that's slowly dripping down into the I.V. in your arm, but it only seems to be amplifying the negative effect of your complete and total isolation. There's no retreat. There's no escape. There is however, surrender, and because you're helpless to do otherwise, you give in to it, hating yourself for it all the while.
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Your mother does not come back. You half expected her to, but it seems that this time she was serious. Her words float back into your mind, unbidden and unwanted. What the fuck does she know anyway? All the people that love you? No one gives a shit about you! Your father? What a fucking joke! He wouldn't even get you out of jail this last time, he just slammed down the phone and left you to rot in that stinking cage... he could have easily afforded the bail, he had piles of money socked away. All he's ever done is criticize you and tell you you were no good. As a kid he used to get drunk sometimes and verbally abuse you just so you would cry and he would have a reason to hit you. Your mom could have probably stopped it with a word, but instead she just turned a blind eye.
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Later, when you were alone in your room crying, she would comfort you and tell about how he really loved you, he was just under a lot pressure. Pressure from what, she never said, but it sure wasn't sexual frustration, later you would hear them having sex through the paper thin walls and feel sick to your stomach.
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You have no real friends, nothing even resembling a career, you're too afraid to let anyone get close enough to you to forge any kind of lasting relationship, and you have long since killed off any aspirations. Hopes and Dreams are dead and buried. Fucking and getting high are all you have, all you know, and seem to be the only thing you have ever been any good at.
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You're not trying to kill yourself, you're just doing what it is that you do best, because that's all you know how to do. If you must be a no good piece of shit why not be the best no good piece of shit you can be? But you don't really want to die. Do you?
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You realize that you don't know the truthful answer to this question, and it scares you. Fuck this, you've had enough of this pity party, thank you very much. Sitting up in bed, you pull the I.V. out of your arm and the catheter out of your dick, which forces you to let loose with a blood-curdling scream. After looking around the room for your clothes and not finding them, you walk out the door. Running away from this hospital, this place of forced isolation and Death. Running away from yourself.

I am a Pirate!

Saturday, December 5, 2009

YouTube Comments, A Study in Human Behaviour



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BoiWonda4u (2 minutes ago) Show Hide
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Reply | Spam
Shut cho soft ass up bitch u sound stupid u fucking idiot. emotional slut bag bitch ass hoe. the fuck up round here.
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aubrey716 (34 minutes ago) Show Hide
Marked as spam
Reply | Spam
this song breaks my heart. i feel like it plays the deepest emotions of my heart into words..i miss you rene..
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YouTube Comments...
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What purpose do they serve exactly? Why do we care whether someone did or didn't like a particular song or video clip? Are we that desperate for affection, that we seek it out from total strangers, in the form of the anonymous clicking on a "thumbs up" button? Why this innate need for others to agree with our point of view?
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Also, if you read enough YouTube comments, you start to notice the trends. Spamming and shameless self promotion of course, but also people craving human contact and people with underlying issues that sometimes make their way into their comments. I've seen many references to divorce, suicide, drug use, sex, even a mention of someone being abused as a child, and none of these were in relation to the content these people were supposed to be commenting on. I'm guilty of this strange phenomenon myself, I once wrote a deeply personal verse to the instrumental version of Paper Planes by M.I.A. and posted it as a comment. You see a lot of would-be rappers posting verses in place of comments.
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Then there are the ones who appear to sign in to YouTube soley to attempt to pick "comment fights", saying anything to get a rise out of someone else so they can flame that person again. I've seen some of these get really nasty and offensive, two people who don't know each other getting very personal.
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Occassionally, you will see the YouTube equivalent of an online chat that has just sort of spontaneously erupted, and more often than not it has nothing to do with the content of the related YouTube file. Are we really that pathetic? The answer is YES.

I'm a Douchebag!


I befriended someone online, we made plans to hang out at the Atlanta Decompression party. I ended up not being able to make it. I get an email saying hey where were you, what happened, etc. I really meant to reply but it got pushed to the back burner. So did the next one. Today I get one that says fine if you don't want to be friends I'll erase you from my contact list, have a nice life. This person seemed really cool, and I didn't mean to intentionally ignore them. You shouldn't treat people that way. Like the title says, "I'm a Douchebag!" I will try to work on this. That is all.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seven, copyright 2009 Robert J. Day


Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part seven, A Near Life Experience
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You can tell by the smells (rubbing alcohol with just a hint of Death) and sounds (the hushed voices of nurses and doctors and the intermittent beeping of some sort of machine) that you're in a hospital. For some reason you're unable to open your eyes or make a sound, but aside from that strange sensation you feel fine, you not in any pain that you're aware of. You keep trying to speak, to call out to the darkness and ask where you are and what the hell happened, but the effort is making you very confused and tired, so you finally give up and just lie there. Maybe you sleep a little, it's hard to tell, but eventually you hear a familiar voice.
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It's your mother. "Wake up son." she whispers, and you can feel her hand in yours, warm and reassuring. "Wake up. It's time for my baby boy to wake up now. Wake up and look at me." She sounds scared. It's freaking you out a little, so you struggle against the darkness, and only fall deeper into the bottomless pool of black that surrounds you. You decide it's not so bad here the nothingness. For in a world of nothing; there can be neither pain nor sorrow. You give in and let it take you.
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Just when it seems that you're crossing over into some new place, the universe is suddenly filled with bright light, and you feel pain like an electric shock traveling from your chest through your whole body. You can see now, and while you're not yet ready to speak, you hear yourself gasping for air, as you breathe in lungfuls of canned oxygen through the plastic mask covering your mouth. You're alive again, but you're not really sure how you feel about that.
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You see your mother come back into the room after they wheel away the cart that holds the shocking machine. She's been crying. You manage to reach out to her, weakly, and once again you can feel her hand in yours, only this time it feels cold and clammy. You want to tell her not to worry, that everything will be okay, but your words come out all wrong, you're speaking some kind of gibberish, like they zapped you all the way back to when you were two. Then it's black again, but not the same all-encompassing nothingness of before, you've merely fallen asleep, exhausted.
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Some time later you wake up. Your mom is still holding your hand, asleep in a chair next to your bed. Even deep in her slumber, she can somehow sense that you're awake, and she opens her eyes. After several failed attempts, you manage to croak out "Hi mom" and she starts to cry again. "I'm okay." you say, and she cries harder. Her tears of sadness and grief or whatever abruptly become tears of anger.
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"You are NOT okay!" she's yelling now. "You fucking died, and I had to sit here and watch it happen! I've been watching you slowly kill yourself for years! You died, right here in front of me! I can NOT do this shit anymore! I WON'T! It's not fair to me and it's not fair to your father, or to any of the people that love you! I don't know why you're so determined to end your life with drinking and drugs, but I can't be a witness to your suicide anymore!" She gets up and walks out the door. You want to call out to her and tell her not to go, to come back, but you just can't find the words. You're left all alone, with just your thoughts for company.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part six Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part six, Downward Spiral of a Drugged Out Degenerate
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As you make your way to the fridge for something to drink, you see that Chickenwing was lying about not having any dope, there's an enormous pile of crystal meth on the triple beam scale on his coffee table, next to a good sized bag of pot. "What the fuck?" you ask, pointing.
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"Alright fine, I was holding out. I just didn't want any company." (In other words, he was right in the midst of a dope-fueled wankathon.) "Hey, that's my last beer asshole!" "That's what you get for lying. Now load up the pipes, I need to get fucked up in the worst kind of way." He follows orders, breaking out his homemade meth bong, and filling it with strawberry kool-aid as you chug the beer. "You wanna hit this first or smoke weed?" "Both." you answer, reaching for the bag to roll a joint. You tell him about your adventures of the past two days while you begin the process of getting thoroughly annihilated.
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A speedfreak is out walking one fine evening... He finds what looks like a homeless person lying in the street, helps him up, and gives him a cigarette. The homeless guy says, "Dude, I'm a genie. And since you were so kind to me, I'll give you three wishes." Of course the Tweaker immediately says, "I want a big bag of meth!" The genie says,"Okay no problem!" POOF, the bag appears! They prepare some thick long white lines, load up the trusty pipe, and share it between the two of them. The next morning the genie asks "What's the second wish?", "I want TWO big bags of meth", says the speedfreak. "Okay," says the genie. POOF! And they prepare it and snort it and smoke it all up between the two of them. The genie asks, "And the third wish?" "I want FOUR big bags of meth!" POOF!! So, they prepare lots of really big lines and smoke lots and lots of really big pipeloads, and once again share it between the two of them. Much later the genie gets up and says, "Okay, it's time for me to go." The genie takes a couple of steps, pauses, turns around and says, "Okay, just one more wish."
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Sometime later, possibly as long as a week but at least three or four days, you have no way of knowing for sure, you're shaken awake after briefly passing out in the recliner. It's Wal-Mart girl doing the shaking, which makes no sense because you're pretty sure you never left Chickenwing's place. Nope, this is his smelly chair all right, in the corner of his filthy living room. What the hell is she doing here?
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You vaguely remember a guy you never met before stopping by at some point. Somehow, you had managed to talk him out of two hits of acid and a tab of ecstasy, putting the bill on Chickenwing's tab, probably not the smartest idea after smoking ice continuously for days on end, but at that point you were way beyond caring, you just wanted a different kind of buzz. But you don't remember any other visitors over the course of this latest massive drug binge, it was just you and Chickenwing, the radio, the overflowing ashtrays, and the steadily declining mountain of crystal meth on the table. If it wasn't for the whole shaking you awake thing, you could almost convince yourself that she was just another weird hallucination, but hallucinations can't touch you, you know this much. So just where the fuck did this bitch come from, and more importantly, why was she once again fucking up your sleepytime?
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"Just where the fuck did this bitch come from?" Chickenwing has just now appeared in his bedroom doorway, looking about like you feel. "Karen? She's my upstairs neighbor. Why, do you guys know each other?" "In a manner of speaking." Karen pipes up, looking at you curiously. "Bet you thought you'd never see me again huh? How have you been?" "Lousy." you answer, standing up on legs that aren't quite steady from too many drugs and not enough food. "I need a shower." Without another word you strip off your clothes as you walk towards the bathroom, then climb into the shower and stand under the warm water for half an hour or so until you start to feel like you may be able to face the world again.
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When you emerge from the bathroom, naked except for the towel around your neck, Karen (she will always be Wal-Mart girl to you, never Karen) is cutting up lines of Bolivian Marching Powder on a mirror. From the looks of them, they've already had a couple each while you were showering. Fuck it, you think to yourself, may as well go for broke. You put your pants on and join them, snorting up line after line, until suddenly everything goes black.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part five Copyright 2009 Robert J. Day


Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part five, "Ain't no thing but a Chickenwing!"
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After breaking your nose, the fat detective finally told you what you were doing in the interrogation room. Video surveillance footage from the Super Wal-Mart showed a young woman and a man who looked remarkably like you fleeing into the night after the girl was caught shoplifting and the guy punched an employee in the face and laid him out.
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Detective Blake's intention had been to get you to confess to the previous night's incident and thus allow him the honor of adding an assault charge to your lengthy, if rather unimpressive criminal record. But he'd fucked up when he lost his temper and broken your nose, and he knew it. What's more, he knew that you knew it as well. Once you've stopped the worst of the bleeding with the handful of Kleenex he'd begrudgingly provided you, you suggest that the two of you make a little deal, and he's understandably quite receptive to your proposition.
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You walk out the front doors a free man less than an hour later, all records of your latest stay on a one-way trip to the paper shredder, and your nose freshly bandaged by the jail's nurse.
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Your car is still in the police impound lot, but you've got a letter releasing it to you free of charge in your pocket. Unfortunately, that letter and a cigarette lighter are the only things in your pocket, you're flat broke. You decide to walk to your friend Chickenwing's house, a couple of miles away but still a hell of a lot closer than the impound lot.
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Chickenwing, whose real name is Derek, got his name because he was born with a physical deformity that caused one of his arms to be much smaller and more crooked than the other. You'd first met several years ago at a dealer friend's house. He was one of those unfortunate souls that will put up with almost anything just to have a "friend" to hang out with. Besides being cursed with the poultrylike limb, he was also morbidly obese, none of which mattered to you. What mattered was that he had an enormous drug habit and willingly shared his drugs, and would occasionally let you borrow a few bucks if you asked nice enough.
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You arrive at the door to his apartment in one of the more rundown complexes downtown sweaty and out of breath from the hike. You knock loudly, and when a minute passes with no response, knock louder still. "Just a minute!" comes through the door.
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This means Chickenwing is in the middle of enjoying his unbelievably extensive porn collection and wants to finish his business before answering the door, and this is by no means the first time you've been forced to wait outside. Chickenwing is a man who takes his masturbation VERY seriously, (something the two of you have in common) a pervert of the highest order, regardless of who may be waiting outside.
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When he finally opens the door, he's even more sweaty and out of breath than you were when you first arrived. "What the fuck do you want? I don't have any dope, and I don't get paid until next Friday!" He goes to close the door and finds your foot is already inside. "Let me in Chickenwing, you Dirty Nigger!" you cry with a silly grin.
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"What the fuck happened to your nose?" Curious now, he opens the door and grants you entrance into his disgusting palace of self-pleasure.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part four


Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part four, A Blast From The Past Comes Back To Bite You In The Ass
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The guard leads you down a hallway to an interrogation room, where he unlocks the door and unceremoniously shoves you in. A disgustingly obese man in a suit almost as bad as yours is sitting behind the table. He motions for you to sit down in the other chair across from him. "Detective Blake I presume?" You make no attempt to shake hands, and neither does he. "You mind telling what this about?" you ask, knowing there's no way in hell you're going to get a straight answer. It's much too early in the game.
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"How about if you tell me." Typical cop response, like you're just going to break down right there and confess to murder. Maybe tell him about all those bodies buried under your house. What a fucking joke this guy is. You decide you might as well try and have a little fun with him.
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"Well, it could be about a lot of shit, but I'm not about to just start spilling my guts to you. Shouldn't my lawyer be present for any questioning?" As if you have a lawyer. "Fuck your lawyer punk, when I get through with you, you're gonna need a fuckin priest." You say nothing, just stare blankly into his eyes. He drops his gaze first.
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"Fine" he says, switching tactics, "if that's how you wanna play it." He pulls a thick manila folder out of a scuffed leather briefcase. "You know what this is?" You have a pretty good idea, so you give him your most charming aren't-I-so-cute smile. "Pictures of that threesome I had with your wife and teenage daughter?"
"You just better watch that mouth Mr. Comedian, or it's gonna wind up missin a few teeth. It's your criminal record. Let's take a gander, shall we?" "Sure, I could use a few laughs right about now." He opens the folder and begins to read.
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"Drug possession, drug possession, drug possession, drunk and disorderly times five, public intoxication times eight, and drug possession with intent to distribute..." Your smile widens the tiniest bit. "What can I say, I like to party and I'm really good at it." "Sure ya are, you're a regular party boy ain't ya? Reckless endangerment..."
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"Hey" you say, losing the smile for now, feigning indignance, "they KNEW it was a fucking flamethrowing fire cannon, they should have stayed the fuck back like I told them to and they'd still have their eyebrows!" "Sure kid, whatever you say. What's the deal with this public nudity charge?" "If you could have seen that girl, you would have went skinny dipping with her too!" "I'm a happily married man amigo, and I don't fuck around on my wife, I'm not a piece of shit like you! Alright, let's move on." He shuffles some papers around, apparently looking for something in particular.
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"Bestiality? No shit? What kind of a sick fuck are you?" Remembering the incident, you can't help but smile again. "I was just messing around with my buddy's cat for a laugh while we were all drunk one night. How was I supposed to know those pictures would end up on Facebook? Those charges were eventually dropped, it should say so right there on that paper." You lean over the table a little to take a look and he moves the sheet of paper to the bottom of the pile and pushes you back down in the chair. "Sit your ass back down!"
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"Here's one that wasn't dropped. Assault and Battery. On a sixty-seven year old woman?" "Okay, that one I was in the wrong, my bad, but that old bitch was just begging to have her ass kicked, she's lucky all I did was backhand her. Just because you're old does NOT mean you can just do whatever the fuck you want! Anyway that got settled out of court." Your father had paid the old woman ten thousand dollars to testify at your trial on your behalf, since the District Attorney insisted on moving forward with prosecution.
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"Okay tough guy, last one. Explain this pimping and pandering charge." He looks oddly pleased with himself. "All I did was introduce my mom to a few lonely guys I know. I though they'd hit it off, my parent's divorce was really tough on her. If she made a few bucks, that's HER business. Too bad you're married, she's got a thing for fat slobs on a power trip..."
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The last part was a total lie, the pimping charge had been the real deal, just you and some morally challenged girls you knew trying to make a few extra bucks on Craigslist, but you're determined to get a rise out of this prick if it's the last thing you do.
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It works, the next thing you know you're lying on the cold vinyl flooring of the interrogation room, and blood is pouring out of your freshly broken nose.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part three



Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part three, Further Degeneration of a Drunken Degenerate
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Jail. It's been awhile since the last time you were a guest of the county. You'd briefly considered fleeing on foot but you knew they would get you eventually, the hotel manager saw you get into the car and even though you no longer resided at the address the DMV had on file, your current address was easily obtainable from the unemployment office.
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So instead of running, what you did was lock your door, flip the manager a bird, and reach into the ashtray for the half a joint you'd left in there the night before. No since letting it go to waste, as the police would almost certainly search your vehicle. Besides, nothing makes a difficult situation a little easier to bear than sweet Mary Jane. The dickhead manager was standing in front of the car, unaware of the fact that you're a sitting duck. He pulls out his cellphone, and dials a number. You can just make out his side of the conversation as you fire up the joint and take a long drag.
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"Hello? Yes, I'd like to report a theft please. My name is Roger Stanson, I'm the manager of the Holiday Inn down on Bradshaw Boulevard... A guy came in here this morning and stole a bunch of food from our complimentary breakfast bar. No, he's not a guest, I just told you, he was stealing!" A pause. "No, he tried to run, I'm standing in front of his car out in the parking lot right now, please send an officer immediately, I'm pretty sure he's smoking dope!" You smile and hold the joint out towards him, like you're offering him a toke. "Yes, I will, please hurry."
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He hangs up and returns the phone to his pocket. "You're in a lot of trouble now buddy!" he says, "The cops are on their way! Yes siree Bob, a LOT of trouble..." There's more, but you were tired of listening to his self righteous and sanctimonious bullshit, and turned on the radio to drown him out. The weed had started to do it's thing, and combined with the sounds of Miles Davis blasting out of your one working speaker, you felt pretty good, all things considered.
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You had enough time to finish the joint and two cigarettes before the law shows up. You're a bit surprised to see a state patrol car pull into the lot instead of the sheriff's cruiser you were expecting but a pig is a pig, in your humble opinion. You're tapping your fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music when the officer, after exchanging a few words with the manager, (who looks like he just received an unexpected and really good blow job) walks up to your window.
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"Get out of the car and put your hands on the hood!" he ordered. You chose to ignore him and turned the music up a little louder instead. It was your favorite Miles Davis tune, and you had no intention of exiting the vehicle until the songs completion. But the cop would have none of that. He drew his gun and said, "OUT! Now Asshole!" So you shrugged your shoulders and with a sigh, did as you were told. You were immediately cuffed and shoved into the back of the patrol car. After searching your car and coming up empty except for a nearly empty pack of rolling papers and an old issue of Barely Legal, which he kept, the pig took fuckhead Roger's statement and carted you off to jail.
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By the time you were finished with the usual rigamarole of the booking process, the strip search, fingerprinting, and paperwork, and were at last allowed your phone call, it was early afternoon. You called your father, and got as far as "I'm in jail, and..." before he slammed the phone down.
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So now here you are, in the grimy holding cell that reeks of piss, body odor, and cheap disinfectant cleanser. You've got the place all to yourself for the moment, it's just you, the stainless steel toilet/sink combo, standard issue inmate mat and scratchy and stained green blanket. There's a phone on the wall that only calls bailbondsmen, useless to you with no collateral of any kind and a negative bank balance. Your laptop is stolen and the title of your shitheap of a car you pawned last week for the price of a couple lapdances from your favorite stripper, Bliss, who refuses to fuck you for any price but will tolerate the occassional groping because she says you're a nice guy.
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The situation looks pretty bleak. You'll most likely be here until you go in front of the judge, who, at your last court appearance, promised to make an example out of you the next time you set foot in his courtroom for any reason. You figure it will be anywhere from three days to a week until your number comes up for court. Nothing to do but wait it out and hope like hell his honor dies from a stroke in the meantime. You lie down on the mat, balling up the filthy blanket for a pillow, breathing in the built-in smell of the countless farts of all the losers who came before you, and just as you begin to nod off the cell door opens and a voice calls out your name. "Get your ass out here, Detective Blake wants a word with you!"
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TO BE CONTINUED...