Writings » Home of the Dead 4 (The Potato Famine)

    I woke up as an irish boxer, rising and falling/triumph blah blah, so I changed all the outlet covers in the house; that's known as an update, jazzbreath, and it was a chore with those green boxing gloves getting in the way.  1922-1993 was smitten, like, totally fucking naked, thumb-tacking his bean bag to a sesame seed bun (his bun, a.k.a. his own ass, for lent).  I was like, "whatevs," while I wiped the sesame seeds off his old/poorly tattooed/over tattooed/miserable rear-end (everyone knows I fucking hate sesame seeds).  I finished my breakfast and went out the door, grabbing my jacket like a business man (you know, over the shoulder, red tie dancing in the wind created by my success).
    When I got to work I invented a new cocktail - "The Feast of the Brutal."  It was one part blue ribbon, one part wild turkey, one part brown ale and no parts pussy.  Here's the kicker:  it must be mixed orally (in my mouth, a.k.a. the salt shaker) and siphoned back into an empty guy's mouth then, finally, you feed it to a girl between the age of 9 and 9 and a half (preferably a colored).  So here I am patiently explaining this to Patrick after a hard day's work, and the guy can't stop falling a sleep because he (quote), "thinks he might have a brain tumor." 

"Fuck your white guilt bullshit!"  I yelled, flipping the table like a working class hero.  Patrick was confused and drooling with cancer, but I kept my composure, hard-style, as in, I adjusted my tie (with the boxing gloves), and gave 1922-1993 a three jab chemotherapy, blowing his teeth out of his head like frozen corn firing out of a cannon.  The next day at the office, everyone was pulling for him (whatever the fuck that means).