Gut Rumbles

September 14, 2008

I feel like Fido's ass

Originally published January 12, 2002

I feel like the hockey dad who got beat up on the ice, except for the fact that I'm not dead. I'm not sure if it was the fried mushrooms I ate, the bottle of pouille fouisse I consumed with the mushrooms or the fact that I slept only about three hours in two separate shifts last night that makes me feel so badly, but I'm going to blame it all on the French wine. I hate the French anyway.

My son has a basketball game tipping off about now, but I am not going to see it. His bloodless cunt mother can handle those duties and I do not want to set eyes on her. Besides, I have my adpoted nephew, Jack, over at my house playing a monster-killing game on my son's Play Station II. His coif resembles something that was done in a blender. When he rang my doorbell this morning, my first reaction was to open the door and ask him who in the hell combed his hair. "My sisters," he replied, which explains everything.

Elvis would be green with envy. Of course, after this much time underground, Elvis is probably green anyway.

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