Hangovers are impervious to karate
After spending some well earned time with my Father of the Year coffee mug, I decided to cash in my good parenting karma points and ditch my brother to dance and get drunk in Philly over the weekend. Some of the nagging feelings that earned me all of those points to begin with were playing loudly on my guilt strings, but a quick call to the hedonism police shut them right the fuck up. I work hard for my money, damnit, and I have every right to spend it in a manner that I won't remember the next day!
My biggest fear was that my brother would spend any advanced notice I gave him by devising a way to cram forty no good hooligans into my small apartment. In order to counter this probably unfounded vision, I didn't tell him that I was leaving until the day I left. I showed up at the house with some groceries and cash, told him to have fun and then told him not to let any of his greasy friends touch my video game controllers without washing their teen soaked hands.
Once I got to Penn Station, my mind was finally put at ease with the answer to the age-old question "How many cops would it take to cover the Rebuplican National Convention?" Answer: Every single fucking one of them. I was instantly regretful of my decision to leave town instead of staging an unstoppable crime-spree across New York City's unprotected east side. After a few moments of walking through the station, I decided that should I ever feel the desire to commit a large scale crime, I should feel free to go ahead and do it whenever and wherever I wanted since apparently the NYPD does not in fact require all recruits to be Bruce Willis. I'm not saying that being short or fat is a bad thing. I'm not in the greatest physical condition myself. But then again, you don't see me offering up my services as protector of the city who at some point may find themselves in a position where they are required to be in better shape than the bad guy.
In order to get my mind back on track, my brain changed all the signals going to my eyes so that everything I saw looked like a beer soaked dance floor. This didn't work out to my advantage when I started doing the Harlem Shake in the middle of what is currently known as the most paranoid area known to man
But once I got to Philly, it was well and truly on. Say what you want about dancing, but I will fucking annihilate you in a circle of cheering bitches. Even if I don't, I'll be drunk enough to think I did. My fly dance moves were fueled by my Atkins approach to alcoholism: Dancing + whiskey - beer = less carbs = drunk faster = invulnerable dance machine. For some reason though, my game with the ladies was much better than my game with the dudes, which led me to believe that it was opposite day in Philly. Whatever, fags. I didn't want your sweet cocks in my crack anyway.
So in conclusion, if you ever wondered what I would look like if I grew my goatee back and was wanted for rape, wonder no more.
After spending some well earned time with my Father of the Year coffee mug, I decided to cash in my good parenting karma points and ditch my brother to dance and get drunk in Philly over the weekend. Some of the nagging feelings that earned me all of those points to begin with were playing loudly on my guilt strings, but a quick call to the hedonism police shut them right the fuck up. I work hard for my money, damnit, and I have every right to spend it in a manner that I won't remember the next day!
My biggest fear was that my brother would spend any advanced notice I gave him by devising a way to cram forty no good hooligans into my small apartment. In order to counter this probably unfounded vision, I didn't tell him that I was leaving until the day I left. I showed up at the house with some groceries and cash, told him to have fun and then told him not to let any of his greasy friends touch my video game controllers without washing their teen soaked hands.
Once I got to Penn Station, my mind was finally put at ease with the answer to the age-old question "How many cops would it take to cover the Rebuplican National Convention?" Answer: Every single fucking one of them. I was instantly regretful of my decision to leave town instead of staging an unstoppable crime-spree across New York City's unprotected east side. After a few moments of walking through the station, I decided that should I ever feel the desire to commit a large scale crime, I should feel free to go ahead and do it whenever and wherever I wanted since apparently the NYPD does not in fact require all recruits to be Bruce Willis. I'm not saying that being short or fat is a bad thing. I'm not in the greatest physical condition myself. But then again, you don't see me offering up my services as protector of the city who at some point may find themselves in a position where they are required to be in better shape than the bad guy.
In order to get my mind back on track, my brain changed all the signals going to my eyes so that everything I saw looked like a beer soaked dance floor. This didn't work out to my advantage when I started doing the Harlem Shake in the middle of what is currently known as the most paranoid area known to man
But once I got to Philly, it was well and truly on. Say what you want about dancing, but I will fucking annihilate you in a circle of cheering bitches. Even if I don't, I'll be drunk enough to think I did. My fly dance moves were fueled by my Atkins approach to alcoholism: Dancing + whiskey - beer = less carbs = drunk faster = invulnerable dance machine. For some reason though, my game with the ladies was much better than my game with the dudes, which led me to believe that it was opposite day in Philly. Whatever, fags. I didn't want your sweet cocks in my crack anyway.
So in conclusion, if you ever wondered what I would look like if I grew my goatee back and was wanted for rape, wonder no more.
VIEW 25 of 32 COMMENTS
Fucking show up like you say you will once in a while, bitch. I know it's hard to face your own sad mortality when confronted by an inhuman booty-gancing, dude-licking, whiskey-sweating nightmare such as myself, but I promise you'll come out mostly alive.