Writings » Cutlery

Cutlery

By Shitwincer at 2007-10-26 | Drama, Ridiculous! | Printable version

After I wrote that stupid Proclaimers song, I thought I'd be the third musketeer in a sudden Swedish pop sensation.  Contrary to this, my dreams were about to fade like the demand for white wash jeans.  The elephant graveyard in my closet made me a tabloid monster, fresh off the cover of Weekly World News.  The paparazzi would be here any minute, beating me to death with flash photography, siphoning my soul onto collector's lithographs, sticking me on a Wheaty's box with an empty smile.  Underneath this velvety silk bathrobe that hid my family jewels, deeper then the man-suit I wore at all hours of the day: I am actually a witty half sheep-dog mispronounced from the first sonogram. Just imagine my mother's black book attaché, she'd seen more hotel pillows then the thin mint, and it makes for one nasty litter. Covered in placenta, I would be known as the newest mutant expose and time was running out on the Final Fight continue screen. My best bet was to take to the great American underbelly, selling snake venom to mercy killers or rufies to fat cocktail waitresses.  Off the radar sure was hard, but I liked my prostate, and I would play cotton-eye joe on violin for Pez if it meant keeping the little guy between my legs.  So I made my way with Weird Al Yankovic riding shotgun as we did a slash and burn of the entire Mid-West territory.  Pure payback, and I had polished skulls of the entire child cast of Barney mounted to the bumper of my Gremlin to prove our victory.   We went out like Count Dracula, reciting numbers in idiocy as we drove that hemi off a zeppelin into space.  It was quite an amazing tour of the Newark Sewage plant, best day since last Tuesday.  I hate salad Tuesdays. So much that I begged for my day job like a pleading rape victim hit with sloppy seconds.  Once the war paint was back on, I was crabbing in the Mariana Trench like a tube sock bulging with marbles, walkman-powered with unicorn wails of 80's love ballads.  I fought those bastards for like two weeks, and the final blow came when I took Park Avenue...

"Get out of jail with a one-way ticket to hell," said Ron Pearlman as he blew my face of with a gun that shot knives. 

Fucking, cutlery....I'll kill that son of a bitch with one of my other 9 lives. 

Should've ate more steak...