Do you ever hear people talk, and when they get done, you just start thinking “Please, never, ever, ever speak again. Seriously.”
“Well Spenser, what are you bringing to the class potluck?”
“Uh, I dunno. Toothpaste and a pack of ramen?”
“How about something green? We don’t have anything like that yet.”
“I could make brownies, but that’d be expensive.”
“Dude, hit that fucking turkey!”
“Nah, and give this car back with feathers all over it? What’s he gonna say? ‘Yo man, what’s all those feathers in the grill from?’”
“Yeah, that’s a fucking great idea.”
And I says to my doctor- you wanna know what I says to my doctor? I says to my doctor, I says, I don’t know where they came from or how they got there man, I just work up itchy and it started burning, ah I dunno man, I just don’t know, can’t you give me some cream or something for it? Ah, yeah. I swear man, this is the last time. Clear it up this one time and it’ll never happen again. Just give me some of those chalky pink pills and I swear it’ll be the last time I do a body shot out of a hookers pussy. And the doc says, ah, yeah.
I should start signing all my emails like this: $pen$er c; fuck bitche$, get money.
As you may or may not be aware, I have no piercings or tattoos. The reasons for this are many and varied; I feel it’s more unique to have no body modifications, because even infants get pierced ears, I find tattoos and piercings to typically be garish, and why would anyone in their right fucking mind willingly poke holes in their protective outer covering? I like being safe from microbes in the comfort of my skin. And how can you even tell where the needles have been? I don’t want AIDS man. Oh, and mostly I’m just a huge pussy who freaks out and cries at the very first sign of a needle. They just, you know, make me exceedingly uncomfortable and panicky. It’s something in the way they glint.
You know you’re a pothead when you drive though parking lots to get to the headshop from taco bell, and upon arriving at the headshop, you sit in your car for 15 minutes, staring into the windows, salivating over bongs while you clear out a triple layer nacho. You finish your meal and enter the store, where the clerks who know you by name then ask you if you enjoyed you taco bell. Do you remember that time? Or did I just tell a story?
If I didn’t think that naming bongs was stupid, I’d name my bong Cornelius Feldwick. He’d be a British scholar, and he’d be all like “You there, fill me with pot!” and I’d be like “No Cornelius, I have things to do today.”
You know that Oasis song? Champagne Supernova? You know where it’s all like “Slowly walking down the hall- faster than a cannon ball?” You know how high that motherfucker has to be? He’s SLOWLY WALKING down the hall- he’s not even running- and he’s STILL faster than a cannon ball. I can’t even. Wow.
No comments:
Post a Comment