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...

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...

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...

Old Craigslist posting, I just thought this was kind of funny...

Here's the original post:
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I have a huge bathroom.
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I am a female in my mid 60's and I am looking for a room mate. Times are tight and I need some extra money.
I am willing to rent out my bathroom in my 1 bedroom east village home.

My bathroom is large. You can easily put a twin air mattress in there. I only ask that when I need to use the bathroom, you or your air mattress are not in it.

I do ask that when you are in the apartment, you confine yourself to the bathroom. I do not feel comfortable with a stranger walking around my living room. This might change as I get to know you better.
You may have guest over as long as they are cnfined to the bathroom as well. This might seem a bit odd but please remember the rent is $400 and the bathroom is large.
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Now, here's my interpretation:
I have a huge bathroom.
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I am a (mentally unstable) female in my mid 60's and I am looking for a room mate(prisoner/sex slave). Times are tight and I need some extra money. (Heroin ain't getting any cheaper ya know!)
I am willing to rent out my bathroom in my 1 bedroom east village home. Also the cabinet under the kitchen sink, as soon as the eviction proceedings for the current tenant are finalized.
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My bathroom is large. So large that the neighbors will never hear your screams. You can easily put a twin air mattress in there. Or forty six dead cats, neatly stacked. I only ask that when I need to use the bathroom, you or your air mattress are not in it. I masturbate frequently, so I'm gonna be in there A LOT.
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I do ask that when you are in the apartment, you avoid direct eye contact and confine yourself to the bathroom. If you do not confine yourself to the bathroom, I will confine you there myself. I do not feel comfortable with a stranger walking around my living room while I'm doing my Pilates. It's MY fucking living room, you stay your ass in the bathroom damnit, unless I need to use it, in which case you may wait on the fire escape. This might change as I get to know you better and adjust to my new meds.
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You may have guests over as long as they are confined to the bathroom as well and are between the ages of 12 and 14. This might seem a bit odd but please remember the rent is A REAL BARGAIN at $400 (rent subject to change without notice) and the bathroom is large. Weirdos and creeps need not apply.
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* cats are OK - purrr

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part two

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part two
-A Mid-morning Tale of a Hungover and Still Hungry Degenerate
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Your alarm wakes you up at ten a.m. It's been just over two hours since you and Wal-Mart girl fell asleep on your bed, your Spongebob blanket is still slightly moist from the sweat of your coke-fueled sex and smells like a combination of bodily fluids and cheap whiskey. Why the hell did she set the alarm you wonder, as you lie there listening to the shrill beeping that seems to be piercing your brain and causes your head to throb dully with that familiar pain that comes from a night of excessive debauchery. It had to be her, you haven't set the alarm since you were fired from your last job three months ago.
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After fleeing into the night together, the two of you jumping into your car and speeding away so fast you would have made the Duke boys of Hazzard County proud, you drove to a deserted construction site and snorted some of her blow off the dusty dashboard of your Caprice Classic. You laugh hysterically about how you punched out the stock boy, and the getaway you had just made, talking loudly to be heard over the classic rock station blaring out of the radio, neither of you even for a moment considering turning it down.
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She offered to take you up on your request to buy breakfast but thanks to the cocaine you were flying high, and no longer hungry, so you stopped at an all night gas station where she ran in and grabbed a case of beer. It was after two and not yet six but the bored looking cashier just wanted to get back to his copy of Rolling Stone and sold her the beer without batting an eye. You were half afraid she'd try and steal something and force you to beat another hasty retreat, but apparently she'd had enough of that for one night.
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You went to your apartment, cracked open a couple of cold PBR's and she cut up the rest of her stash into lines on your coffee table after first wiping up some of the ashes and marijuana particles that liberally covered the table's surface area with a fast food napkin she pulled from the depths of her shoplifting coat.
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You got high together, and took turns playing Youtube songs for each other on your laptop until she finally said, "Are we gonna fuck or what?" So you fucked, and over the course of the next couple hours you fucked several more times, until the coke was long gone and you both started coming down, exhausted from all the physical exertion.
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And now here you both are, lying in this filthy bed together, you with a raging hangover made infinitely worse by the high-pitched, Banshee like beep-beep of that goddamned alarm, while she sleeps on, oblivious... Fuck That.
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"Hey, wake up!" you elbow her sharply in the side and she barely stirs. "Hey!" you yell louder, shaking her by the shoulders. "What?" she mumbles sleepily. Her morning breath is atrocious, which should come as no surprise considering the filthy things she did with her mouth just a few short hours ago. "Why the fuck did you set my alarm clock?" you ask, making no attempt to disguise your irritation. "Oh shit, I gotta go to work!" she says, and immediately gets out of bed and begins hunting for her clothes, which are strewn out all over the bedroom. Moving quickly, she's dressed in no time. "It's been fun." she says, and without another word she's out the door and gone, leaving the alarm to continue it's battle cry on the nightstand.
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You can stand it no longer, you reach across the bed and yank the cord out of the wall, then sling the fucking thing out the bedroom door and into the hallway, where it hits the wall with a resounding crash. At this point you'd like nothing more than to fall back asleep for ten or twelve hours, but you soon realize that's not going to happen.
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Now that you're no longer intoxicated your hunger is back, and it's back with a vengeance. You realize it's been two days since you've last eaten. This poses a problem because you have no food of any kind in the house and it's still three more days until that unemployment check hits your mailbox. Luckily you've been in this predicament before and know just what to do. It's just past ten, so you've got a little less than an hour to make it happen.
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With a groan you drag your carcass out of bed and over to the closet, where you pull out the only thing hanging therein, a pinstriped suit that's seen better days. It's threadbare and could use a good cleaning but should be more more than adequate for the task at hand.
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You dress as quickly as you can, which in your condition (Dead Dogshit) is just slightly faster than a snail's pace. In the car, you pull a clip-on tie out of the glove compartment and put it on before starting the engine and driving away.
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By the time you pull into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and park, it's a quarter to eleven. You're pushing it, but should have just enough time. You walk into the lobby, past the front desk, and into the dining area, where you grab two styrofoam plates and load them up with the hotel's free breakfast. Sweet rolls, fruit, cereal, sausage patties, a waffle, the whole works. You set these down at a table in the corner then make two more trips for beverages, three cups of coffee and two cartons of orange juice.
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Twenty minutes later, your ravenous hunger thoroughly satisfied, you're feeling a million times better. Still not quite human perhaps, but much, much better. You're debating on whether or not you have room for one more cinnamon roll and fantasizing about a threesome with Wal-Mart girl and the hotel maid wiping down tables across from you, when a voice breaks into your reverie. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
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It's the hotel manager, Roger according to his name tag, and he looks anything but happy to see you. "Pardon me?" you ask, trying to play it cool. "You're stealing food, and I'm afraid I simply can not allow that." His voice is so stern you would think you were stealing the food right out of the mouths of his children. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken sir, I'm a guest here." You hope he doesn't ask what room number you're staying in, or worse yet, to see your room key.
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"Bullshit!" he's furious now, face beet red, a vein in his temple throbbing. "I let you get by with it the first few times, but now you come in here looking like a complete derelict, eat enough food to feed a family of four, and eyeball rape one of my maids, who also happens to be my favorite neice! I'm calling the police!"
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You'd forgotten that your face was recently used as a punching bag, while you were getting dressed you hadn't bothered to take a look in a mirror you were too focused on the primary objective of getting some food in your stomach. Also you smell like a rutting pig, and you're sweating booze out of every pore. Ah fuck, here we go again, you think, then make a mad dash for the door.
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He wasn't expecting you to run, and you've got a good lead on him by the time you hit the parking lot. Jumping behind the wheel you can't help but laugh a little at once again finding yourself in this sort of predicament, but the laughter stops real quick. The car won't start.
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TO BE CONTINUED...

For Pamela!

I have no idea how this is going to turn out but I promised her something weird and rambling tonight, so I'll give it my best shot. Pay no attention to anything I'm about to write, it's all complete and utter nonsense I assure you my furry little friends! Just recycled jokes (recycling is good for the environment damnit!)and social commentary from the mind of a heartbroken and slightly cynical lunatic with way too much nicotine, sugar, and caffeine in his system. Just be thankful that's ALL it is this time!
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I've got the headphones blasting out the funky hip-hop beats for inspiration, and I'm enjoying yet another DELICIOUS Pepsi and Reese's flavored ice cream soda. If I keep on drinking these things I believe I really could give up the liquor. Who knows, I might even put on some weight, apparently I have to gain fifty pounds or Pam will never date me. Says her. Of all the reasons not to date me, and Satan knows there are plenty of those, it's a little bit of body mass that comes between us? Damn my metabolism! Slow Down! Ha! Like I wanna date ANYBODY anyway. Nowhere near ready for all that again. How big do I have to be for "friends with benefits" what's the weight requirements for that? I'll start eating right fucking now, I swear!
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There was a time, not so very long ago, when I could walk around inside a crowded store, and the hot high school chicks would smile at me and check me out. Now, they just kind of "keep an eye on me." Back then I was too timid to do anything, and now that I'm brimming with confidence in my boyish good looks and silly/smart charm suddenly I'm the creepy old guy? Damn, it's like you follow one girl home in your car, and you're a creepy stalker for life... Pretty soon if I want to get laid I'll have to whore myself out on Craigslist to horny retirees and terminal cancer patients looking for one last roll in the hay.
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Speaking of hay, what the FUCK am I doing out here in the boondocks, caring for farm animals and picking the last of the fall harvest from the garden? Green Acres is NOT the place to be, I don't care what the admitedly catchy song tells you. Meanwhile, back in the Bay Area, all this cool shit is going down, Burning Man parties and gatherings, concerts and plays... and I'm forced to live vicariously through friends and internet friends.
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In other news, it seems that A-1 steak sauce will make you more attractive to some women, so guys, throw out that goddamn Axe body spray! That shit always smelled funky to me anyway, although I must confess I'm guilty of using it on rare occassions, usually to cover up the smell of marijuana smoke around someone's parents or spouse. I generally prefer to just use a good antiperspirant and let my bodies natural pheremones do the work. I do have a soft spot for mens Nautica but I haven't worn any in a long time.
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But I digress. I was going to tell you the story about the shaved poodle, a pissed off upstairs neighbor, a bathtub full of cottage cheese, and a stick of dynamite, but I just don't feel up to it. Besides, I'm pretty sure the judge never lifted that gag order so I better not. Another time perhaps...
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Man, this is turning out to be harder than I thought. Usually I can fill a page with nonsense in just a matter of minutes but this has taken the better part of an hour. Granted I have been switching back and forth to YouTube after every song. I never could perform under pressure, I get as nervous as a virgin in the back seat of a car on Prom night. Maybe if I had an actual topic? Current events it is then!
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*Families urge Iran to release U.S. hikers*
"It's high time Iran put an end to this, showed compassion and let them come home," said Cindy Hickey, Shane Bauer's mother
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Yeah, that'll happen Mom! Iran didn't listen to the U.S. when we asked them to stop with the nuclear shit, but you think if YOU just ask nicely they'll let your son out of their prison? It's going to take a lot of ass kissing and probably a former president, or at least the Reverend Jesse Jackson. I'll bet Oprah could get him out!
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Alright, screw current events, there's never any good news anyway. Actually I suppose that's enough gibberish for tonight. If you're still reading this, you REALLY need some kind of hobby, stamp collecting, scrimshaw, anything! That's all folks, except for one last thing. "I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.”
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Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow!

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part one

It's sixteen minutes after three in the morning and you've just been thrown out of the bar after you realized that once again you have miscounted the number of beers you drank and now you don't have enough money to pay your tab. You apologized profusely and gave the cute blonde bartender all of the money in your wallet but it wasn't enough to prevent the meathead bouncer from blacking your eye before he threw you out the door and into the parking lot, where you landed in a cold puddle of muddy water and motor oil.
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Pissed off and hungry, you drive to the twenty-four hour Super Wal-Mart. Your intention is to shoplift something to eat, a deli sandwich, or maybe one of those really big microwaveable burritos, but your soggy and oil-stained clothes and your swollen purple shiner make this task exceptionally difficult, even at this late hour. You've drawn the attention of one of the stock boys, a pimply-faced young man who looks as if he's got something to prove to the world, or at least his shift manager. He's following you.
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You wander the aisles aimlessly in an attempt to lose him, but he stays right on your ass. You're beginning to think you might have to detour to the restrooms where you can put some cold paper towels on your eye and hopefully shake him off in the process, when you come upon the girl in the arts and crafts aisle.
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She's pretty, hot even, (at least by your minimal standards) and because she's looking at paint-by-number sets and velvet felt tip marker posters at just after four in the morning it's a safe bet she's tweaked out of her mind, which means you might be able to score in one way or the other.
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"How would you like to buy me a nice big Waffle House breakfast?" you ask her as you walk up. "I'll bet I'm a lot more fun than arts and crafts." "I doubt it." she replies, checking you out and taking in the whole picture. Your soiled clothes, black eye, and slightly nervous grin.
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Deciding you look relatively harmless she decides to toy with you a bit. "If I buy you breakfast, what are you gonna do for me, huh?" "I'm sure we can work something out." you say.
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Just then she notices the stock boy, who's been lurking at the end of the aisle, watching this pathetic scene unfold. "I gotta go." she says, suddenly uneasy. "What's the rush?" you ask. You reach out to stop her as she begins to quickly walk away and end up with a handful of her coat, which pulls back. A jumbo pack of markers and a few paintbrushes spill out and hit the floor.
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"I knew it!" cries the pimply-faced boy triumphantly, as if it was her he was after all along. He heads down the aisle towards the two of you, almost skipping in his exuberance. "Stay right there!" he orders in his best I'm-in-charge-here voice.
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Without thinking about what you're doing you give him a hard right hook to his greasy chin, with all your anger at the meathead bouncer (who was just too damn big to hit) behind it, and he goes down hard.
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"Run!" you yell, but she's already headed for the door.
TO BE CONTINUED...