Oh yeah, I went to your "blogger meet-up" last night, and all I can say is that the proper authorities have been notified, and they will be paying you all a visit quite shortly.
In the meantime, I have a few words for you sick animals:Short and Fat
, Dude! Do us all a favor and catch the South Beach wave. Please! The party was all about you - wall to wall you. Seriously. I don’t care how cool you turned out to be in person, but damn, lay off of the Krispy Kremes for a while. I mean, damn.
Listen up, Mary Mancini
. I am sorry, but for the last time, no. No, I will not have your love-child. I don’t care how much you cry and beg. I am a married man, for Chrysakes! You have to face the truth. It is too late for us. ...*sniff*
Um… I don’t know who the brilliant lame-dick was who brought the drunken baboon with them, but not only did the thing smell like warmed ass, but I don’t think Rex L Camino
appreciated having his leg humped all night either.
Jon Jackson, if that really is your name. I don’t know what you did with the calm and collected guy who once wrote Crap and Drivel, but you need to bring it down a few levels, dude. I mean, humping Camino’s leg like that, well, it just wasn’t cool.
Somebody seriously needs to hunt down and kill that Sarcastro
fucker. He nearly amputated my entire arm playing his little elevator games
. At least I still have parts of my fingers. Having any problem typing your post this morning, Sarc? Probably not. You didn’t type your post with BLOODY FUCKING NUBS! Did you!?!
You know, Gandolph Mantooth
, come to think of it, I don’t think you did actually smell smoke when you screamed “FIRE!”. If I didn’t know any better, I think you were just trying to get away from listening to me yammer on about the weather. Nawwww.Chris Wage
, you sir are a madman. The way you fought off those gun nuts, when they began firing their AKs into the glass atrium, proves you are either the bravest son-uva-bitch I have ever seen, or a bloody psychopath. Judging by poor Blake’s
gnawed-off ear, I’ll go with the latter.
Thank sweet sweet Jesus, Newscoma
and Squirrels on Snark
showed up when they did. Together with SoS’s gift for triage and Newscoma’s saintly bed manner, they were able to save a few of the boys. I don’t know how they did it. There was no way in hell the gun nuts could have survived that much blood loss, but some did.
Thanks also to Roger Abramson’s
quick thinking in jerry-rigging the massive uber bong on the fly. Nice craftsmanship, dude. Before that, I thought we were going to have to keep smoking spliffs rolled from Aunt B’s
napkin cooters and her brother’s “oregano” stash. Next time, though, Krumm
needs to bring his own. Puff puff give, my friend, puff puff give.
Of course, then everything got really weird. Kat
started screaming hysterically about tiny clowns crawling up and down her legs. Amanda started kicking Darth Vader’s
began making molatov cocktails out of Sarcastro’s half empty bourbon bottles for use in her “revolution”. Then Ceeelcee
began complaining about how the barbecue that was served wasn’t up to Mothership standards, and then decided to light poor Brittney
on fire, chanting, “Where there’s smoke there’s Q, bitch! Where there’s smoke there’s Q!”
Thank God, Kleinheider remembered to bring his fire hose
I mean it. You people are sick!!!
One more thing: I don't know who did it, but somebody must have paid off the bartender to keep his mouth shut, because when I asked him how you people were about tipping, he said that overall you were pretty good. The lying bastard. Just for that, he got no tip from me. I hope you people are happy.
…and that’s exactly how I remember it.
Well, at least I think so, and then I blacked out from all the scotch.
Can anyone tell me how I ended up in Fritz’s