No Wonder I Don’t Have a Girlfriend
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Issue #3
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The Homeless are only here to entertain us.
I don’t “hate” the homeless, my morals happen to oppose their way of earning money. Not that I myself have ever learned that money comes from hard work. I mean, my greatest fear is manual labour, but begging for money from people other than your mother just seems downright lazy. My first night back at Docksiders (the local pub I’ve been being kicked out of since 2004) I found myself setting up a joke that would send me to the bathroom in fear of urinating myself.
“Its nice being back but FUCK, you know you’re back home when you can’t even get into a bar without a “Ey bie” from Keith.” I said. It was at that moment that my audiences attention was visibly directed behind me where I heard the heavy breath and smelled the words “Eyy bieeeee.” It was Keith.
I used to give money to Keith quite a bit, especially when I was actually making money. But in recent months with the recession and drink prices leading you to believe they should be sprinkled with green turtle shell, I’ve been a little more frugal. So, to combat this, I offer Keith deals. He will not be getting money from me by merely lighting my cigarette, no. I prefer things along the line of one-armed pushups, alphabet recitations (amongst other songs like Jingle Bells or I’m a Little Tea Pot). You can imagine my amazement when (women, specifically) people come up to me and assault me with accusations of being inhumane or unjust. The Homeless should work for their money just like anyone else as far as I am concerned, even if my mom has been supporting my cigarette/alcohol addictions since I was 17. As always, here are a few things I have been pondering lately.
1. The Cold Weather Slut Identification Equation:
(let X designate the female vagina)
if, at ≥0º temp, X is visible at ≥80º angle, then -2º + X = SLUUUUUUUUT
In other words, if it’s fucking freezing outside and all it takes to see your clunge is a slight bending over then… 1+1=2
2. Okay, England, sure you haven’t had a winter like this in over 20 years, you still have no excuse for the amount of bitching and moaning you’re doing. I went to school in Canada (for a year…) and we handled that with the style and grace of a hooker getting an abortion. Sack up, you should be happy that your country is now white and not the depressing grey it usually is.
3. My last week at home was spent getting drunk and filming “Pirates of the Caribbean in 60 Seconds” (you can see the glamour shots in my latest photo album). I suppose I should use this platform to thank everyone that was involved. Not only did it give me a chance to get drunk all week but it also alleviated the immense guilt I had over not doing ANY of my schoolwork. The film is for a competition in which I have been told the prize is glory and whiskey. Two things my life revolves around already. I just worry that people will see the film and think “So… basically they got dressed up as pirates and got shitfaced. Oh, and someone filmed it.” I worry only because that is EXACTLY what we did.
4. Since this is my first posting since the holidays I suppose I should include a small NYE story. While my memory stops at the vision of myself pouring champagne down people’s throats on the dance floor, imagine my surprise in the following days when my night was pieced together for me. While there are some funny stories that would be hilariously self-deprecating at this point, I will draw from only one person who I find to be extra “special.” For anonymity’s sake we will call her Wilma. Now, apparently, Wilma had been out to a nice dinner and was not particularly boozy when she arrived at the party. Wearing a beautiful white blouse with a plunging neckline that happened to show off her finest assets (BOOBS if you don’t get the hint) she arrived with poise and grace. Making her way through the crowd, smiling and waving at all her friends, she came upon one particular friend I like to think she is especially fond of: me. While we usually exchange witty banter before any of the following, I found myself in a situation that is often quite rare. A bottle of champagne in hand, drunk, facing a pair of beautiful boobies. “Is that a bottle of champagne you are drinking out of?” Wilma asked. Famous last words. While doing lines off a hooker’s ass still evades a cross-out on my “To Do list”, motorboating champagne soaked breasts most certainly does not. No wonder I don’t have a girlfriend.
WHAT TO DO NOW?