Tales of a Drunken Degenerate Chapter 28, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

You spend the next two days in a Vicodin-induced haze, lying on the couch in the living room, watching old movies, smoking grass, and greedily consuming the meals Oscar cooks for you. Little by little, you start to feel like yourself again. On the third day, you decide you’re ready to face Wal-Mart girl and tell her how you feel, that you want to be a family. You, her, and baby makes three.
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The shitheap you’d driven to go and try to pay off the bikers went missing in action the same time you did, so Oscar agrees to drive you over to Karen’s apartment. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining brightly and there’s just the right amount of a breeze blowing to make the weather perfect.
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Sitting in the passenger seat of the van you roll down your window and ask Oscar about something that’s been bugging you. “Hey man, how come you’re doing all this anyway? You really went out of your way to help me. Letting me stay at your place, getting me a job and then loaning me the two grand, and now taking time off of work to take care of my broke up ass. What gives Oscar?”
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Oscar seems uncomfortable with your words, and he’s quiet for a good long while, seemingly trying to find the right words. You notice his usually rock steady hands tremble the tiniest bit as he lights a cigarette. “Look kid” he finally says, “I have almost a million and a half in the bank. I own my house outright, and six more nicer ones that I rent out. Money isn’t a problem for me, in other words. Money I got. What I don’t have is many real friends. Most people look at me like I’m some kind of freak who belongs in a sideshow somewhere. Hell, maybe I am, I dunno…
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I started doing porn because I was a twenty-three year old virgin and I wasn’t sure I would ever get laid. Even the people who don’t look down on me, no pun intended, still treat me differently. But not you. And as long as that never changes we are friends you and I, and anything I have is yours. Now shut the fuck up a minute, and start thinking about what you’re going to say to the coke-snorting, shoplifting, gun-toting, Nymphomaniac who is currently carrying your demon spawn, cause we’re here. You want me to wait?” Oscar asks, as he pulls into a vacant parking spot. “No it’s cool” you say, “I’ll see you at the house later. Thanks man. For everything.”

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 27, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

“So can somebody tell me what the fuck happened? I mean, I know my side of the story, but how did we all end up here?” The three of you are sitting around Oscar’s kitchen table, cold bottles of Heineken in front of you, and the awkward and emotional moment from before safely behind you.
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Oscar tells you about how he became suspicious when you never returned to the house and how, in desperation, he finally approached Detective Blake for help. “I guess I felt bad about hitting you, and about what happened to car, even though like I told ya before it wasn’t me that did it. Oscar here told me that you were a decent guy, deep down, and that you were in the process of getting your shit together.” The detective smiled. “Eventually he made me believe him. Anyway, how could I pass up the chance to finally nail those fucking scumbags?”
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“Did you nail them?” asks Oscar. Leaning back in his chair he lights a join he’s pulled from his cigarette pack. He inhales deeply, then to your surprise he offers the joint to the cop. What’s even more surprising is that Blake takes an even bigger hit than Oscar had and then passes the joint to you before saying, “You bet your sawed-off ass I did. Nailed ‘em to the fucking wall, every last one of ‘em. Kidnapping, attempted murder, plus drug trafficking and a shitload of gun charges. It turns out that the safe in the bike shop was chock full of crystal meth and stolen firearms. Of course, I’m going to need you to testify amigo… Can I count on you?”
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Normally, what the cop is asking you would go against all that you hold dear, but those biker thugs took great pleasure in torturing you and would surely have killed you over what amounted to nothing more than a stupid accident. “Yes sir,” you say, looking him dead in the eye, “completely.”
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Oscar fills you in on the rest of the story while you smoke the rest of the joint. He tells you about how Detective Blake was able to lead most of the gang away, disguised as an Aztec Warrior, and how he was then able to take out Roach and Crowbar, using a flash bang grenade Blake had “borrowed” from the local SWAT team, and his own taser.
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“I been dying to try that thing out on some poor bastard ever since I bought it” he said, pulling out and brandishing it at an invisible foe, “strongest one on the market, guaranteed to knock a Rhino flat on it’s ass!”
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“What was up with the dude with the video camera in the car out front?” you ask. “Oh, he was just one of the cameramen from work, I paid him to stake out the place. Figured they might hold off on killing you if they thought there was an investigator or reporter snooping around. Cameras have a tendency to make people nervous.”
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“Probably kept me from taking a bullet or two” said Detective Blake, “good call on having him follow me. You should have seen the way those bastards scattered when I pulled into the lot at the station. Between me and your camera guy, we were able to tell enough lies to finally get a warrant. I rounded up a few of the men from SWAT and we went back to the clubhouse and took ’em down. It was fucking beautiful I’m telling ya!”
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“So what happens now?” you ask. “Now you heal up as best ya can and when it comes time for those jokers to go to trial I’ll let you know. If you have any problems before then, anyone tries to persuade you not to testify, you let me know. In the meantime, I have got to find the sick son of a bitch that’s running around killing kids. Business as usual.”
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He finishes his beer in one long swallow. He’s clearly stoned, looking less like a hard ass now and more like a bear that’s recently awakened from hibernation. “Damn, that is some Primo shit Oscar. I’ll be calling you for a bag of that real soon. On the house of course. “Of course officer” says Oscar. He flips the cop a bird, grinning widely.
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“Be seeing ya” says Detective Randy Blake, saver of your ass and your new buddy. He shakes hands with you both and then he’s out the door.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 26, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

Once again, Oscar’s connections in the adult film industry have proven useful to you. Besides the director who had given your first real job in nearly a year, and the costume designer who made Detective Blake’s Aztec Warrior colors, he also knew a doctor who was willing to make discreet house calls.
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The old sawbones was in his mid seventies, and had the shaky hands and permanently bloodshot eyes of the alcoholic who long ago passed the point of no return. Aside from regularly testing Oscar and his co-workers for sexually transmitted diseases, he would occasionally be called on by certain less than reputable characters to discretely remove a bullet or stitch up a particularly nasty knife wound.
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In spite of his shaky hands he does an excellent job of patching you up and cleaning your many cuts and abrasions. You’d suffered a severe concussion, a pair of cracked ribs; and a cut over your right eye required eleven stitches, ensuring that you would soon have a gnarly looking new scar to add to your collection. As if you weren’t already ugly enough. Four stitches took care of your split lip, and the rest of the damage was just scrapes and bruises. From head to toe, but you still feel extremely lucky to be alive.
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Randy Blake shows up right as the old doctor was finishing up.“Thanks Doc” you say, meaning both thanks for fixing you up and for the bottle of Vicodin he’s just handed you. “Be careful with those” says the doctor. “In the shape you’re in if you take too many and pass out you might never wake up” he says, his tone of voice indicating he could really care less either way. Oscar hands him an envelope, presumably with cash inside, and without another word the drunken doc is gone, nodding curtly to the portly detective on his way out.
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There is a long moment of awkward silence, no one knowing quite what to say, so you do what you always do in these types of situations, you make a bad joke. “If you’re here to break my nose again Detective, do me a huge favor and come back tomorrow okay?”
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No one laughs, and realizing that you sound like an ungrateful asshole and acting on instinct, you cross the room and wrap your arms around the big cop, pulling him into a hug that makes your broken ribs scream. Caught off guard, Detective Blake returns the embrace very briefly and then steps back. To your complete and utter astonishment, he looks a little misty-eyed.

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 25, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

It takes a moment for you to realize that the gunshots you just heard are most likely a good thing and not the sound of your impending doom. Understandable considering the fucked up condition you’re in.
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“Sonuvabitch!” you hear someone yell, “It’s one of the fuckin Aztecs! Goddamn Spic shot out the front windows of the shop!”
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“Let’s get the greasy fucker!” shouted someone else, “Keep your weapons put away until we’re out of sight of that dickhead with the camera outside! Roach, Crowbar, you guys keep an eye on our little friend in the chair, the rest of you mount up and let’s ride. Move it!”
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You hear the sound of a bunch of Harleys firing up and taking off. Shit. Looks like the Calvary isn’t here to rescue you after all. What the fuck? Well, maybe someone else heard the shots and the cops are on their way.
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Then again, in this neighborhood it’s more likely they would mind their own business, such business consisting of pimping or selling narcotics. You’re starting to slowly realize that you are going to die without ever seeing your firstborn child. What a shitty way to go.
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Just then there’s a loud bang that makes your ears ring painfully and a flash of light so bright it penetrates the pitch black behind the tape over your eyes. Very slowly, the ringing in your ears subsides and then someone is unwrapping the layers of duct tape that bind you to the chair. Your eyes are uncovered, but they are so full of dried and crusted blood that you can’t see a damn thing.
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“Who’s there?” you ask, your voice a dry croak that you barely recognize as your own. There’s no reply, but a few seconds later a splash of icy cold water hits you in the face, then another. Your vision clears, and standing in front of is Oscar, the midget porn star who may or may not have plowed your virgin ass while you were whacked out of your gourd on magic mushrooms. He’s smiling a little, holding a paper cone from a water cooler in each hand. You have never been happier to see someone in your entire life. Behind him, two men are laid out on the concrete floor of the garage, Roach and Crowbar presumably.
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“Hiya kid!” says Oscar, “man, you look like some dead dogshit! Excuse me for a moment…” One of the guys on the floor has gotten up onto his hands and knees, groaning with the effort. Oscar drops the paper cups, and pulls a stun gun from a pocket then gives the guy an unhealthy blast to the back of the neck, then a zap to the genitals, for good measure.
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“I’d much rather put a bullet in the back of their skulls, but I promised Blake there wouldn’t be any killing, and I’m a man of my word.”
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Blake? As in Detective Blake, the man who’d broken your nose and then shit all over your car after tearing it apart? What the hell did he have to do with any of this, and how the fuck does Oscar know about him?
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It’s all too much to try and wrap your bruised and battered head around at the moment, so you let it go for the moment, and Oscar continues.
“We gotta get the fuck outta Dodge my friend. I got the van outside, can you walk?”
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“Hell yes” you say, and to your surprise it turns out to be true.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Chapter 24, Copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

At first, while sitting behind his desk and listening to the bearded midget explain his plan to free his friend from the bloodthirsty outlaw biker gang, Detective Blake was skeptical, to say the least. But the more the little man talked the more he began to believe it was just crazy enough to work. The charismatic dwarf was nothing if not persuasive.
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Essentially, the plan was for Blake, disguised as a member of a rival gang, to pull up in front of the clubhouse on a motorcycle borrowed from the police impound lot and shoot out a window or two before taking off, leading the bikers away from the clubhouse and giving the midget a chance to slip inside and free his pal in the process.
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“You really think all of ‘em are gonna chase after me, just one guy?” Blake had asked incredulously. “Besides, I don’t look anything like a badass biker type.”
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“Not yet you don’t,” said Oscar with an evil grin. “But I happen to know an excellent costume designer with a lot of free time on her hands. And no, I don’t think they’re going to leave my boy all by his lonesome, they’ll almost certainly post a guard or two to keep an eye on him. You just let me worry about that, I can handle whoever is inside the building.”
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Something about the way he said this, an undercurrent of ice cold confidence in his tone, left the detective with the certainty that the dwarf was speaking the truth. He could, indeed, handle anyone left behind, but Blake hadn’t like the idea of a shitload of pissed off criminals using his ass for target practice, and said as much.
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“Not to worry, I got a man posted outside with a camcorder, they won’t risk taking shots at you with my guy filming them, and they won’t shoot him because they think he’s a cop. Pretty funny considering that you really are a cop. Anyway, they’re crazy, not stupid. Just to be on the safe side though you’ll be wearing a Kevlar vest under your fake biker colors, and you’ll ride straight back here to the police station. My guy will follow you in his car, rolling tape all the way. By the time they figure out that they’ve been tricked, I’ll already have been in and out. We’ll meet up at my place later for a beer and you can take my friend’s statement, provided he’s in good enough shape to talk. You and your cop buddies can go back to the clubhouse with a warrant and bust the whole gang.”
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Somewhat reluctantly, Blake had nodded. “Alright, let’s do it. But what if your boy ain’t there?” “Trust me, he’s there. I’m sure of it.”
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-three, copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-three, Thank You For Not Smoking
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You're still alive, and you're still in the garage, but that's about all you know. Well that, and you're experiencing more pain than you'd previously believed was possible. Your eyes are covered by what feels like duct tape and your sense of time is all fucked up from being beaten unconscious so many times. You sitting in a chair of some kind, held to it with what is almost surely more of the same duct tape that's covering your eyes and your mouth. From time to time, someone would pull the tape off your mouth, more often than not taking a little skin in the process, and ask you questions; most of which you didn't know the answer to.
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At first you tried to be brave, so when you were asked a question you couldn't answer like, "Why the fuck is that midget still hanging around outside our shop?" You just said whatever came into your head, such as, "Hell if I know, maybe he's got a thing for bikers. You know, a lot of people have wondered what it's like to get fucked by a dwarf. That doesn't make you gay. Just like accidentally taking another guy's load in your face doesn't make you gay. Or does it?"
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But hearing the sound of your ribs cracking and the ringing in your ears from constant blows to the head with what could only be a crowbar or the business end of a tire iron can really dampen a man's spirits. So can pissing all over yourself when holding it in is no longer a viable option. The last time you'd blacked out, they woke you up by pouring gasoline all over you. Then someone walked around you, flicking a lighter but thankfully never actually lighting you up. Every time you heard the scrape of the flint you were sure that you were about to die a horrible death. Eventually you couldn't help it, you cried. They laughed.
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At least they hadn't taped your ears closed as well. In between marathon beating sessions, you could hear the bikers talking to each other. Apparently, the guy who'd clubbed you over the head was the brother of the guy you'd given the unwanted facial to. The only reason you're still alive is because Oscar showed up asking questions before they had a chance to kill you . Unlike you, Oscar hadn't been stupid enough to come alone, and whoever was with him stayed in the car with a video camera. This was at least two days ago, maybe more, but from what you could gather, someone has been watching the place ever since. The two brothers still wanted you dead but the rest of the club didn't seem to be willing to risk it without knowing more, so they had to settle for taking turns beating you into oblivion. As long as they didn't beat him to death, the club didn't seem to have any problems with this, in fact a few of them took a few shots themselves, just for fun.
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Now two of them are talking, and you hear one of them mention the police coming to the door earlier. He's not happy about this. "I say we sneak this fucker outta here after dark somehow and leave his body in a fuckin ditch somewhere." "Sure Fuckhead, and just how are we gonna do that when there's only one way out and it's being watched day and night, huh?" asks the other one. "Hell, I dunno... but we gotta do somethin, and we gotta do it now. That cop comes back with a warrant and we are totally fucked man. Holy shit, what was that?!" Gunshots. Coming from outside.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, Part Twenty-two, copyright 2010 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-two, An Unholy Alliance
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Detective Randy Blake, at just over three hundred pounds, was undeniably a large man. What most people wouldn't have guessed about him was that his heart was just as large as the rest of his parts. By all outward appearances he was a tough as nails cop with zero tolerance for bullshit and a short fuse. But appearances can be deceiving. Detective Blake was a man who cared.
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So when the midget with the gray beard marched into his office demanding to know the whereabouts of his friend who'd been missing for two days, standing on a chair and shaking a finger in his face for emphasis, Randy couldn't help but feel a small twinge of guilt for whatever small part his actions may have played in the event's that had undoubtedly transpired. And he was sure that whatever else those events might have been, they were in no way pleasant for the missing man in question.
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Sure, he'd told the guy that he hoped him and the biker killed each other, but that was just part of his badass cop routine, nothing more. In truth he'd wanted to help the man because he felt bad about hitting him, and about what happened to his car. Not that he had anything to do with that, at least not directly. Some fellow detectives, thinking they were doing him a favor, had trashed the man's car (and shit in the backseat apparently) to get back at him for making Detective Blake, and thus the entire department, look like regular practitioners of police brutality. Which of course most of them were.
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"YOU told him where the clubhouse was!" Oscar exclaimed wildly. "Not only that, you gave him a fucking car to get there in! And now, thanks to you, he hasn't been home in two days and the clubhouse is locked up tighter than the knees of fifteen year old Amish girl! If anything happens to my friend I'll hold you personally responsible. And trust me, you don't want that."
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In spite of the man's diminuitive stature, Randy was inclined to believe him. There was something about the dwarf that commanded respect, fear even. And he did feel responsible. "Alright, calm down, I'll do what I can to help ya." said Detective Blake. "But without enough evidence to take to a judge and get a warrant, I don't know how to get inside the clubhouse to take a look around. Anything we do has to be in a strictly unoffical capacity. If shit gets really bad I can call for backup but otherwise we're on our own here. You get me?"
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"Fine, good." said Oscar. "We don't need the cops for this shit anyway. I got a plan, I just need another guy to pull it off. Someone who won't lose their head if all Hell breaks loose, which it probably will. Here's what we do..."
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He began to talk. Randy listened.
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TO BE CONTINUED...

CALIFORNIA RESIDENTS, DO NOT SUPPORT MEASURE AB 390!

Why I Oppose the “Tax & Regulate” Marijuana Initiative By: Dennis Peron
Three Fatal Flaws
1. One ounce limit? 25 sq. foot per building garden size limit? Imagine a law to “tax and regulate” alcohol
that only allows for possession of up to one bottle of wine imprisoning those who exceed that amount,
be it two bottles or a small collection of choice vintages. These limits guarantee confusion, harassment
and black marketeering forevermore. We don’t control alcohol by imposing a 25 sq. foot limit on grape
vines. But one extra gram or sq. foot of pot means jail and even worse; this initiative specifies that if
accused of having too much cannabis the burden of proof is on you, not the state.
2. Singling out those who want to use marijuana for a huge excise tax is just plain unfair. It maintains
cannabis as the most expensive, blatantly overpriced product on the market thus forcing most people
to choose cheaper, more dangerous drugs with huge externalized costs to society as a whole.
3. Sending teenagers to state prison for three years for pot is evil. This initiative mandates that 18, 19,
and twenty year old minors serve three to seven year terms in California state prison for the crime of
passing each other a joint or selling one another a small amount. Under this law if a 21 year old person
passes a joint to a 20 year old he or she goes to county jail for six months. Likewise this measure has no
exceptions for parents in their own homes from the “smoking cannabis in any space while minors are
present” prohibition. We don’t lock up parents for having a glass of wine with dinner and we certainly
don’t tell the kids to leave the house for the purpose of consuming any other substance so why start
with cannabis?
This initiative is bad for parents, students and ultimately the effort to get the state to stop ruining lives
enforcing these draconian pot laws. Initiatives create permanent statutes. This one with its petty restrictions
for personal users, prohibitive unfair taxes, and mandatory state prison sentences for teen agers need be
nipped in the bud. We will campaign and vote against it should its proponents succeed in purchasing the
necessary number of signatures to put it on the 2010 ballot. The tax revenue it will supposedly generate is a
mere smokescreen for the kids it will regulate into three, five and seven year state prison sentences.
Perpetuating and increasing the hundred million plus tax dollars per year the state already spends
policing this harmless plant is wrong yet that is exactly what this proposition does. Surely we can do better
than this. How about just legalizing it, getting the state off pot to save lives and real money across the
board? Please consider how you can help expose and defeat this misleading “tax and regulate” initiative.

Dennis Peron, Author of Proposition 215, the Compassionate Use Act of 1996.
3745 17th street, SFCA 94114 (415) 864 – 1961 cozycastrocottage@yahoo.com
Read the “tax and regulate marijuana” initiative at:
http://ag.ca.gov/cms_attachments/initiatives/pdfs/i821_initiative_09-0024_amdt_1-s.pdf
September 22, 2009

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-one, copyright 2010 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty-one, Please Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hCiaNKJslU&feature=related
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Before you confront the homicidal biker gang, you figure you'd better confront the homicidal soon-to-be mother of your child. Let her know that you're okay with the whole being a daddy thing. That you want to be with her, spend your lives together, hell maybe even have another rugrat or two someday. If only you knew how to tell her this. You've never been in love before, never even wanted to be. You'd almost rather square off with the biker dudes, at least fighting isn't complicated. Probably hurts less than this love stuff too. Yeah, that's the way to go, take care of the bikers first, then deal with being a responsible dad. Tomorrow.
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The clubhouse for what the "Whiskey Marauders" motorcycle club is a large building, a former warehouse with blacked out windows in the seedy part of town. Half of the building acts as a motorcycle repair shop and is open to the public so this is where you decide to go to have your little chat. You park your new shitheap along the street outside, and put the .45 that Oscar gave you in the back of the waistband of your jeans. Just in case. In your front pocket is two thousand dollars that Oscar loaned you after you'd refused to allow him to come along. More like he forced it on you. "Just pay me back when you can." he'd said, "Walk right up to the guy, look him in the eye, slap the cash in his hand, and tell him you don't want anymore trouble outta him or his boys." You hate the thought of having to pay this asshole when the money would be better spent on the baby that's on the way, but it's better than getting dead.
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There's about a dozen bikes parked outside the shop, so it's a good bet that you'll find your guy here. Now that you're actually here, standing outside the door, you hesitate. You smoke a cigarette while you give yourself a little pep talk. Come on man, you got this. He can't still be wanting to kill you can he? Sure, you blew your load on his face but he's a biker for fuck's sake, I'm sure he's done much nastier things involving someone else's bodily fluid. Sure, he'll be pissed at first but two grand gratis would calm anybody down. Just apologize profusely, be honest about what happened. Keep it real man. Then pay him off and exit gracefully. No fuss, no muss.
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Resolve stiffened, you walk through the door. The shop is surprisingly clean and professional looking, but the gentleman behind the counter is anything but. He warily watches your approach with bloodshot eyes full of an almost animal-like cruelty. But you're on a mission, and not even this scary looking gorilla is going to stop you from completing it. You march right up to the counter and say, "I'm looking for one of your buddies, we have unfinished business."
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The gorilla just stares menacingly at you, so you continue, "I don't know his name but maybe you could ask the guys in the clubhouse. Just say it's the guy from Ronnie's Roadhouse." He appears to be giving serious thought and consideration to your request, then without warning he reaches across the counter and shoves you, hard. It catches you off balance, and you fly backwards and land on your ass. You quickly jump to your feet and as you're doing so the gun falls out of your pants and hits the floor with a thump. Gorilla's eyes widen, displaying even more of his enlarged and irritated blood vessels. "Hold on, I can explain" you say, "I'm just here to talk and pay the guy some mon-" *WHAM* someone hits you in the back in the back of the head with something heavy, and the lights go out.
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty, copyright 2010, Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part twenty, "A Man's Gotta Do..."
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6xfpaxBHI8
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"You trashed my car pig. I want you to replace it." Detective Blake does not appear happy to see you again. "Fuck off! I don't know what the fuck you're talkin about but if you don't get your ugly ass outta here right fuckin now, I'm gonna bust ya for obstruction of justice, interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty, and anything else I can think of!" You have no intention of letting him scare you off that easily. "You smashed up my car, filled it full of garbage, and took a shit in the backseat. That last part was a nice touch, but not necessary for me to get the message. But now I got some psycho bikers I gotta deal with, and I need a ride around Detective Blake." "Are you high? You are, I can tell, your eyes are as red as a fuckin stop sign! I don't know who did that to your car but it wasn't me. You have my condolences on the loss of that fine automobile, but that's not my problem punk. What is my problem is trying to catch this child killer that's on the loose before anymore kids end up in small body bags. I don't have time to fuck with ya. Wait, is this about the guy that got a face full of your cum down at Ronnie's Roadhouse?" "How do you know about that?" you ask, pissed off a little that he's smiling now. "What, you think your little girlfriend can discharge a firearm in a public place and no one from the department is going to hear about it? Nobody wanted to press charges or else we woulda already hauled your asses in. I guess the bikers want to deal with you themselves huh?"
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"From what I hear they want me dead." you say. He smiles again. "Well no big loss there. But I've been trying to get something on those guys for a long time, so I tell ya what I'll do, you go down to impound, and I'll have them give ya a loaner. That way when those bikers kill your pansy ass I can bust em for murder." "You're too kind." you say sarcastically. "I hope you kill each other, save me a lot of paperwork." He grabs a cigar from the dashboard and lights up, blowing the smoke through the open window and into your face. "Now get outta here or I really will bust you. I'm workin here and you could blow my cover. We really need to catch this sick bastard... FYI, the bikers got a little clubhouse down on Second street, it's a red brick building, lotsa bikes out front."
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You walk back across the lot, to where Oscar is waiting in the van, smoking another joint. "What was that all about?" he asks in between drags. "That was the cop who fucked up my car." you answer. "Holy shit!" he throws the joint out the window and begins frantically trying to fan the smoke out. "Don't worry about him, he's got much bigger fish to fry." you tell him, "No pun intended." "Fuck you!" says Oscar good-naturedly. "Anyway," you say, "how about taking me over to the police impound lot? I just won a brand new car!"
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Your brand new car turns out to be an even bigger piece of shit than your old one, which shouldn't even be possible. It seems that when your good friend Detective Blake called the lot he told them to give you the worst car there that still ran. It's a Buick Skylark so rusted out you can hardly tell what color it's supposed to be, there's no key, just a screwdriver jammed into the ignition, and the seats have all been slashed, probably from where the cops were looking for dope. But at least it does run. At least for now. You follow Oscar home, letting out immense clouds of black smoke from your tailpipe the entire way, and the two of you sit on the porch drinking beer while you try to come up with a plan.
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You decide to just go down to their clubhouse and see where it goes from there. They want to kick your ass or make you pay them some money, or both, but surely they won't risk killing you over a little semen, certainly not on their home turf. "I don't know why you're so dead set on doing this alone." says Oscar. "You sure as hell ain't no superhero and those dudes ain't nothin nice." "It's not your problem Oscar, it's mine and I'll deal with it. No reason for you to get involved. Besides, I'm just going to talk to them and get them off my case, I'm not going there to kick any ass." "Good thing. You'd better stick to taking it in the ass, I think you do that so much sweeter." Horrified, you look at him, and he gives you that sly little wink that may or may not mean he's just fucking with you. You're still too afraid of what the answer might be to just ask him outright, so you quickly change the subject. "If they want to bloody me up a little, I can deal with that. But just in case shit does go bad man, you wouldn't happen to have an unregistered gun lying around would you?"
TO BE CONTINUED...

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nineteen, copyright 2010 Robert J. Day

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part nineteen, Growing Up is Hard to Do
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inpKD4vXxZ4
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"Oscar!" you shout, "Come here quick!" "What is it?" asks the dwarf, coming into the living room from the kitchen where he'd been sitting at the table rolling joints for later. "Hey, you don't look so good dude, who died?" "Me. Wal-Mart girl is fucking pregnant!" You still can't believe it. "Hey, calm down, it's not the end of the world. I know a great clinic, real cheap, they saved my ass when I knocked up this one bitch I did a film with, fuckin lying scank said she was on that birth control shot..." "What? No, no, she's gonna have it, and I'm going to be there to help her raise it! Which means I gotta get my shit together fast. Get the van, I need to go buy some supplies." You've got eighty-six dollars, that should be enough to pick up some baby essentials.
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"Ah come on man, I thought we were gonna hit the tittie bars tonight! If I got drunk enough, I was gonna show you how I can work the pole, funniest shit you ever saw in your life!" He grabs a nearby floor lamp and demonstrates, gyrating wildly and shaking his miniscule ass. "Fuck that" you say, "no more bars for me, and no more drugs either, except for pot of course, can't quit that. Well no more drugs after the baby comes anyway, and I definitely gotta cut back before that, I'm going to need all the money I can get, rugmonkeys ain't cheap. If you won't take me I'll catch the bus I don't give a shit."
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"Fuck you, I'll go with you. Tittie bars are no fun alone, I feel like some sort of creep." "You are 'some sort of creep' Oscar, that's why I love you!" "I love you too, but I think I loved you more when you were just a low-life piece of shit, and not a responsible father figure. Jesus, are sure about this? You are aren't you? Yeah, I can see it in your face. Well, let's get the fuck outta here then. Grab those joints off the table, we're gonna need them." You grab the weed and the two of you climb into Oscar's minivan. You're feeling more grown up and responsible already. You even fasten your seatbelt.
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"So where the fuck are we going anyway?" Oscar asks. "They got lots of baby stuff at Wal-Mart." "No," you say, "Wal-Mart is no longer an option, remember?" "Oh yeah, I forgot you got banned from that place. Alright fine, we'll go to K-Mart then. Same cheapo shit, different store." You share a joint on the way to the store and by the time Oscar finds a parking spot in the crowded lot, you're both pleasantly baked. When you go in the door, Oscar grabs one of the electric scooters the store provided as a courtesy to it's handicapped and mobility challenged cutomers. "Hey, you don't need that, just hop in my cart!" you say, "I could use the practice for later!" He shoots you a bird. "I'll catch up to you later, I need to grab a few things!" Then he's off, tearing down the aisles at the breakneck speed of about five miles an hour.
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You're not sure what to buy, you've never shopped for a newborn before, so you start with the necessities. Jumbo pack of diapers, definitely need lots of those. Baby clothes, neutral colors because you don't know what it's going to be yet. Bottles, nipples, one of those bottle brush cleaners. Twelve pack of Heineken. Not for the baby of course, that's for you, you're strictly a stay at home drunk now. Holy shit, eighty-six bucks doesn't buy much these days, a can of baby formula and you'll be broke. Time to check out, where the hell is Oscar?
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You find him in the electronics section. He's gotten off the scooter and he's pretending to look at CD's but what he's really doing is peeking under the very short skirt of a woman trying out a pair of headphones, oblivious to the fact that she's being ogled by your favorite lecherous and lascivious leprechaun. With some difficulty you manage to pull him away and, with him once again recklessly cruising on the scooter, running over toes and scraping ankles, the two of you head towards the cash registers.
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"Hey, look what I got for the kid!" says Oscar, pointing into his basket and clearly excited. "Dude, that's a five piece screwdriver set." "I know, do you think the little fella will like it? I got these for him too, you're never too young to learn about safe sex." "Jesus Oscar, a baby doesn't need condoms! What kind of a fucked up childhood did you have anyway? Nevermind, I don't wanna know." You pay for your purchases and you're putting them into the van when you spot a familiar face in the parking lot. "Hold on a minute" you tell Oscar, "there's something I have to do."
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Just what in the hell do you want?" says Detective Blake, after you've walked up to his car and rapped on the window to get his attention.
TO BE CONTINUED...

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...

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...

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...

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

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...

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...

"God"

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!

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...

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.