Archived Ass-Paper
My burning weekend It seems that I cannot go a week without at least one night that mandates further exploration through recollection. Here's the deal: I'm not what you would consider a "good looking man", in addition I am also not exactly "proportionate to myself" nor do I have a cock "bigger than an average breath mint". Considering all this, it would naturally follow that I am rightly suspicious of attractive women. Fuck, I mean the guy that is not suspicious of the girl that is too fucking hot to even be asking him for a light, none the less is halfway to carting his tired fat ass back to her place, and about to get his ass took. Furthermore, we all know those among us that are meant for the lizards at closing time, and "those" that are out there for the real prize Or at least the ones who won't dry up a pussy like a roll of Bounty when the lights come up at 2:30. So, when I woke up in a strange bed, in a strange house, in a strange neighborhood, next to one of the most undeniably attractive woman I have ever seen, I was slightly apprehensive. First, I was greeted by the fact that while I was completely naked, she was clothed, and this got me wondering. As I tried to keep the shear pain from the light streaming through the curtains from compelling me to gouge out my eyes, I tried to pry open the soiled and sodden vault of the last night's memories. The show, there was a show, right, show. I saw the show, I was leaving. On my way out I ran into...her. We had met once before...she had bought me whiskey that time...but I had to leave. Sure, I'll stay. Whiskey. End of the night whiskey. Combined with the three high powered medications I have had to take since "my episode"; and the universe blinked out of existence, replaced by something else, a one-eyed blurry place where I suffered a complete loss for spatial perception. The words, "Sure, I can drive you home," actually came out of my mouth. Now everything from this point on is, at brass tacks, conjecture, but then again, what isn't? Those of you familiar with the urban decay that permeates those metropolitan areas of the great state of Ohio, up north where cousins are off limits to each other and you don't get a Klan card for your tenth birthday, they will understand. Although the house was three minutes from the club, I discovered on my lovely drive of shame back to my side of town the next morning, there seems to be a lost hour. An hour, it would seem, spent driving through the most decrepit and squalorous (yeah I made it up, fuck you) of rotting blocks. The prison of the inner city, overpopulated with cracker-hating Negroes, shitty on a Tuesday night, in groups on corners. And here go I, the shit-faced wonderbread-cracker-roundeye-white-devil motherfucker that I am, with the windows down blasting Blood-for-Blood into the night with one hot little white bitch chewing on my neck and not slowing down around the corners. This great episode culminated with me falling ass-first into the magazine rack of a ghetto gas/convenience store that no living white person ever should have been in, while some cocksucker screamed at me in an Indian dialect from behind a ceiling to floor sheet of bullet-proof glass. An epiphany of a rationalization occurs to me now, as I look upon this girl. Rarely have I been too fucked up to find my own house � even if that meant that I staggered there unconsciously through ten miles of concrete... on my fucking face... only to fall through the front door. Good, now we have decent evidence to attribute this freak occurrence to an overindulgence of booze and a case of the Girl-At-The-Bar-Without-Her-Friends-Syndrome. This comfort lasts ten seconds, ten precious seconds of peace, until she stirred, opened her big, fucking crushing, eyes and said "Hey, honey", she puts her lips on mine. Fuck this. Why the fuck doesn't she want me to leave? Better yet, why the fuck does she want me to stay? Son of a bitch. I got to put some clothes on, there is nothing worse then being the ugly half of the pair and bearing all your uglies in front of God and all that shit. Right. Got to get the fuck out of here. Before the big Russian fuck pops out of the closet, rolls me for my billfold, and shoves an aluminum bat up my ass. I'm now receiving protests at the idea of my early departure, this is worse than I thought, I fucking better get used to the idea of living my life in the absence of at least one of my internal organs. I was too drunk to remember to check the bathtub for large amounts of ice like I normally do. Then, it gets worse. "Do you want to go to the show with me tonight?" she asks. What the fuck, is there a fluctuating market for internal organs that is going to become bull by tomorrow? So what do I fucking do, after all that, when every instinct I have tells me to grab my shit and run out the goddamned door, what the fuck comes out of my fool mouth... "Sure, babe, I'll go to the show with you". And this, dear reader, is the beginning. Maybe it's hard for some of you to understand, you might say "What the fuck is wrong with you, you got drunk and woke up with a beautiful woman, what's the problem?" And I would say, "Shut the fuck up you dumb piece of shit, there is a balance to the universe, and this sure as fuck is in definite violation of that balance, the consequences have already been dispatched." I do not, in fact, know what I did to that girl that night, what I do know is that it wasn't sex, and it sure as fuck wasn't good. And no reason to stick around with my fucked-up bastard ass. And instead of waiting for the nightmare, when the balance of creation and destruction mediates this anomaly at my expense... I think I'll just go home, put on some fucking Tom Waits, shove some whiskey down my throat and stick my gun in my mouth. I win, fucker. Incidentally, if you're the author of this filth, you need to get a hold of me. You got a new job. You know where to find me.
