I hate the fact we helped some unemployed fucker who was looking for scrap metal, and he came while I wasn't home, even though I gave him my day off to do it, but he didn't show up in time and I had to get my shitty truck inspected, and he took the shit my wife pointed out. Then he came back for something we wouldn't let him drive across the yard for since it had been raining, and I was throwing up on the couch, and he got that other thing. But low and behold I go outside the following weekend to hit the dilapidated weight bench in the field by the pig pen, and it's gone, as is the barbell, although the weights got dropped right the fuck there. So I remember vaguely where the dude says he lives, and I go and find his house to be like, "Yo dude, you took my weight bench," and he was like, in his jibber jabber 40-something fucker talk, "your wife said..." and I was like, "No she didn't," because that type of old school always tries to blame the old lady when the old lady ain't there. I'm a modern man though, and know my wife ain't no joke. But I chalk it up with him as a miscommunication. But on the ride home I think about two other things sitting there that I bet that bitch might've took too. Sure enough, he did. And none of it is valuable, and was sitting in the woods for sure. But at the same time, I'm a guy with an old truck hood, two pieces of rebar, and a couple of bungee cords for a gate to my pig pen, so obviously I make use of the alleged trash. So when we told that guy what he could take, that meant that's what he could take, not anything else he thought we might've not been using the right way. So fuck Charles Christmas. Yeah, that was his name, which is almost too fictional to be real. But if some jibber jabber asshole in a white pick-up with some shiny ass wheel covers rolls by your house asking to get some scrap metal, and his name is Charles Christmas, tell him to fuck off. Although probably you don't have the type of house that has scrap metal. Man, what an asshole world I got born into.
I love bright colors, big asses, brown eyes, The Return to Sky Valley, listening to Yelawolf and imagining there's a whole genre of music like that but there ain't except there will be but it won't be something I love for the most part. I love having a job that's steady and I get my science on and I have a pink dress shirt I wear because a bearded fuck-up who shouldn't have such a job has to rock a pink dress shirt, with some pleated brown pants that look like I'm in a Big Daddy Kane gospel rap video circa 1998 or something. And I get off work and it's warm out as I leave the building and I unbutton my stupid wrist button and that one weird ass nice shirt button that's halfway down the slit by the wrist, and I roll them bamas up three times each, which ends up an inch higher on my right arm because my roll technique is slightly crooked from the Chilean earthquake, and I get my stop at the grocery store and buy a twelve-pack on.
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