Hello my people. In today's society everyone is so bent out of shape over meaningless things such as breathing and getting that Firebird because your buddy just got a Trans Am and if you don't hurry he's gonna be getting all the tail while you sit in your Neon Saturn in the driveway, ashamed to leave your own property. You people sicken me. I happen to be totally selfless and giving, making sure that everyone feels joy and enlightenment in these hectic times when religion is crumbling and we slowly awaken to the fact that we have no purpose. So in light of this, I feel that we should not scoff at what we have, but be thankful to be alive. How do you achieve this lofty task? It's so easy you're gonna be pissed when I type it.
It's hard to feel good about yourself when you are constantly surrounded by friends and family that are better than you. It sucks. You want everything they have from the proverbial glimpses you get into their fantastic lives. I used to make people feel bad all the time, and I reigned with an iron fist of justice, until I got that concussion getting kicked in the head by Mike the zebra when I was drunk, supressing my constant need for idolization. It made me realize I shouldn't drink in the wild land of Africa, nor should I stop on my quest for the holy grail.
That was eighty years ago my friends. I started feeling bad for myself because I was no longer better than everyone, enraged at the thought of my throne being taken by the perfection of Eric Astrada. I went straight to the hooch, the open arms of my former lover who comforts me when no one else would. Dejected, I would walk the streets for hours looking for titty bars or a KFC.
One fateful night I happened to take a shortcut through an alley to my favorite bar Eskimo Joe's when I came across a man who would indeed change my outlook on life and the greatness of the dirty creature that is the hobo. That look of neverending despair in his eyes will always be with me, giving me warmth from the arctic chill of envy. His disheveled hair and clothes added to the pizazz needed to win me over and prod into his background for horror stories of his life.
I sat in awe of this man telling me of decapitated babies in trashcans, hookers with four arms, crack addicts pooping on peoples faces. It was horrid, disgusting, and gratifying that I didn't have the actual images tearing at my brain as it must do. Three day he talked, and for three days I made him bacon and eggs. He would cry after some of his tales, causing an awkward silence and me usually running away for an hour because I don't do emotions. I'd peek around the corner every once in a while until I made sure he was done, then I would jump out and taunt him for being such a crybaby. He asked me if I'd ever cried, to which I had to explain that I have felt emotional pain, yet never shed a tear due to my lack of tear ducts.
At the end of the third day I shook the hobo's hand with a towel and went on my way, grateful to the man who had totally reshaped my outlook on life. I no longer need to be sad walking by some balding fat bastard in a porsche,thinking about what he has and I don't. Because I know deep in my heart that one day I will impregnate his daughter and steal from his safe.
It's hard to feel good about yourself when you are constantly surrounded by friends and family that are better than you. It sucks. You want everything they have from the proverbial glimpses you get into their fantastic lives. I used to make people feel bad all the time, and I reigned with an iron fist of justice, until I got that concussion getting kicked in the head by Mike the zebra when I was drunk, supressing my constant need for idolization. It made me realize I shouldn't drink in the wild land of Africa, nor should I stop on my quest for the holy grail.
That was eighty years ago my friends. I started feeling bad for myself because I was no longer better than everyone, enraged at the thought of my throne being taken by the perfection of Eric Astrada. I went straight to the hooch, the open arms of my former lover who comforts me when no one else would. Dejected, I would walk the streets for hours looking for titty bars or a KFC.
One fateful night I happened to take a shortcut through an alley to my favorite bar Eskimo Joe's when I came across a man who would indeed change my outlook on life and the greatness of the dirty creature that is the hobo. That look of neverending despair in his eyes will always be with me, giving me warmth from the arctic chill of envy. His disheveled hair and clothes added to the pizazz needed to win me over and prod into his background for horror stories of his life.
I sat in awe of this man telling me of decapitated babies in trashcans, hookers with four arms, crack addicts pooping on peoples faces. It was horrid, disgusting, and gratifying that I didn't have the actual images tearing at my brain as it must do. Three day he talked, and for three days I made him bacon and eggs. He would cry after some of his tales, causing an awkward silence and me usually running away for an hour because I don't do emotions. I'd peek around the corner every once in a while until I made sure he was done, then I would jump out and taunt him for being such a crybaby. He asked me if I'd ever cried, to which I had to explain that I have felt emotional pain, yet never shed a tear due to my lack of tear ducts.
At the end of the third day I shook the hobo's hand with a towel and went on my way, grateful to the man who had totally reshaped my outlook on life. I no longer need to be sad walking by some balding fat bastard in a porsche,thinking about what he has and I don't. Because I know deep in my heart that one day I will impregnate his daughter and steal from his safe.