So, hey: how about that? Here we are in one of them fancy joints they opened up near from where I’ve been livin’! Used to be, not that far back, if a guy wanted a drink, he could just stumble out of his home in his boxers and his bathrobe and stagger to the nearest liquor store and buy a fifth of whatever for under ten bucks.
But nowadays, it’s all fancy bullshit. The liquor stores have been bought up by the faggoty coffee chains and the wooden Injuns frontin’ the cigar places have been replaced by real-life Mexican sportin’ signs, trying to convince you that your phone operator’s fucking you, so you should sign up with them because, when they fuck you, they have the decency to lube you up first. That’s progress for you.
Fuckin’ hell. I mean, really: Fuckin’ hell pigsty-cuntin’ shit-hole of a goddamn what-the-fuck!
Now I gotta actually get in my car and drive to get to where I wanna get boozed up. Yeah, ain’t that super smart? Oh, don’t get wrong: I did try to go to that fancy-ass supermarket bullshit they opened up. The booze section was all the way in the back, as if it was some kinda kiddie-porn stash. And the looks I got just ‘cause I hadn’t shaved or showered or put pants on, really: what the fuck?! Chill out lady: I ain’t gonna rape you, I just wanna buy this here bottle of fire water and get on home and drink myself into a week-long slumber and I sure hope to Christ I won’t run into you in my dreams. But no: I’m the freak.
Yeah.
They’re wearing speedos and keep ‘running while standing still’ at the cash register, waiting to pay for their juiced-up water bullshit, pretending not to look at the tabloids and wondering how satisfying their bowel movements are gonna be and who’s gonna fuck them this comin’ weekend and if no-one wants to fuck them, then what’s the point of it all? Maybe it’s ‘cause they’re too fat, so they should run some more. Waking up at 6am is too late, if they woke up at 5, they’d have a whole extra hour. So they figure: ‘Fuck that, I’ll drink more Gatorade and do away with sleep altogether and run all night long and then I’ll be skinny and hot and someone I wanna fuck will wanna fuck me back and then it’ll be great, we’ll fuck and run together and then we’ll die, skinny and happy.’
Yeah, I’m the freak ‘cause I enjoy a burger with fries and a cold one on a hot day. Or on a cold day. Or a tepid one. Okay: fuck it: I’ll admit it: I always like a cold one. But still: I’m the freak ‘cause I don’t run every day. Sure, I don’t get laid a whole lot, but who needs it? Once I’m drunk enough, I sleep. When I don’t sleep, I take a great big steamy runny dump or I go buy more booze. Sometimes both. I have no time for sex, or porn or anything like that. My job is hating the people I see. And it’s a full time job, lemme tell you.
Fuck, I got side-tracked, here. I was saying… so we’re at a fancy bar, not a place where cockroaches crawl across the counter, not a place where a 60-year-old toothless whore turns tricks in the men’s room. A real classy joint. A place that tries to be authentic. They put fresh nut shells on the floor every morning. They got Mexicans shelling the fuck out of peanuts all night long just for that. That’s class, baby. If you ask for another round, they actually give you a new glass and they call you ‘sir.’
‘Sir.’
Ain’t that a kick in the fucking balls? Used to be, barkeeps called me by name and I had a tab runnin’. These days, if you wanna pay cash they look at you as if you’d just sucked their one-week-old puppies' assholes with a plastic straw. If you ain’t got a platinum card or a black card or a fucking diamond-encrusted card, then you’re shit.
Now, the places I used to go to? They’re malls. Or fast food or coffee joints, fucking outlets or goddamn mother-cunt yoga places.
Used to be, women got pregnant, then they got big and they resented it, but they squeezed out the brat and went right back to smoking and drinking. If they’d ever stopped in the first place. Now, big moms pat their bellies as if they’re God-like just because a dick squirted into them. They’re proud and touchy and doing yoga and buying bullshit things for their bullshit fetus which will become a bullshit human doing bullshit things in a bullshit world.
Yeah. It’s all bullshit. You don’t agree with me? You don’t? Lemme guess… You’re a college grad, yeah? Yeah, I thought so. You’re… engaged, you got one of them electrical car whatchamacallits, you vote democrat and because one of your co-worker’s black you think you’re not a racist, right? You probably even know a gay couple, so you think you’re so fucking cool. And I bet you go to Jamba Juice once a week and think that carbs and trans-fat and Arabs are Satan’s gift to humanity, right?
Yeah, yeah, I’m leaving. Don’t worry, I’m leaving. And you’re footing my ten-dollar beer, just because you’re an asshole. Yeah, yeah, be offended. But you know what? In a few years, God-willing, I’ll be dead and buried or rotting on the side of a road somewhere or other. Yeah. But, hell: you’ll still be here and you’ll still be a pussy. And I pity you, I do. With whatever’s left of my soul, I pity you and your generation.
Fine, I’m leaving, don’t touch me! Lemme get back to my car and drive home. And if you’re lucky I’ll run over someone you know. And if you’re not, you’ll be who you are now until the day you die.
