29 November 2006

I Doubt Even The Germans Understand Each Other

Right. King Solomon never lived around here and Elton John never wrote a song about this place. The clouds in your eyes was really just milk in your coffee.
Because the things I do not share on with the blogosphere are many and the things I do share are pansy, I will placate cocaine.
So I walk into some bar on some street in some town and not one of those names are pronounceable by even the most eloquent. I am in my uniform because I am supposed to be looking for soldiers too drunk to drive and give them a ride home and keep American soldiers from bashing German kids to death. All in all I am real happy my Friday night gets fucked because Joe is does stupid shit.
Oh yeah, it's Friday and that means I am wearing my Stetson and spurs. See, in the Cav, we wear this goofy shit on Friday to demonstrate we are dumb. I thought the mere fact grown ass men with educations and morals are still in the Army illustrates that we are in fact dumb, but we need funny hats and spurs to further drive it home to the peeps. Fucking Cav. I call it the funny farm because it is so stupid.
Anywho, I got my gear all on and I walk into this bar and I am repulsed by the smoke. The repulsion makes me sad, because I remember how I used to love to smoke so very much.
So I am walking through this joint and I tip my Stetson to this cute girl sitting at the bar and say, "ma'am." I think it's funny because it's all so cowboy and it has no meaning to these German gits. She laughed and asked me to explain the whole hat/spur/funny talking thing, and I did, 14 times until her daft ass understood it.
We are shucking and jiving and all and bright boy Yossarian that I am I ask for her name at the end of the conversation. "Pascha," she says. I ask her to spell it and she does. She spelled it out on a piece of napkin and she wrote 7 different phone numbers I could reach her at on the same bit of napkin and then she shoved that napkin into my pants pocket.
That's when I thought I could hate fuck this Pascha and have her be the subject of my ire and aggression and maybe I might feel better about everything later. But then I thought, I don't know this broad. Why should I punish her with a hurtin' for no reason? Maybe she is a sodding princess for all I know.
Then I realized that I have nothing to hate fuck this woman over. Who cares if the last Pascha I knew tried to stab me? Who cares if she ran meth across the country and never made any money off it? Who cares how many dates she missed, events she forgot or places she never showed up to? Who cares if she was fucked three ways towards the weekend? All in all she is a blip in my life.
She is probably still living with her parents and the only redeeming quality about her is that her sister is the hottest woman ever. And sister lust isn't something a relationship can be built upon and nor is it something hate fucking this broad would end.
I left the bar and went to another one and then went home and drank myself to sleep. I haven't called her and I won't because I don't call anyone. Because I have a anti-social disorder or a fear of abandonment or something. But really, it's just I think I can do better. This Pascha didn't have a job either. I'd like to start violating women who have incomes and ambitions.
Also I am pretty upset that Notre Dame can't beat a ranked team to save their Catholic souls.

28 November 2006

No Phone No Pool No Pets

Right. I am the king of the road for one hour a day. I can straight fly. I'll let you in on how it's done - it's the shoes. I have never been so fast in my life.
I am the king of pain for one hour a day. I can straight drink. I'll let you in on how it's done - it's the gullet. I have never been so empty in my life.
He's shot again.
Two Martinis from now I might realize I was feeling low when I finished my last beer, but more likely I'll be a Blue Hawaiian away from pining over some bitch who never cared for me. I'll just drink a couple Gin and Tonics instead and wait for the small hand to touch the 2.
Two Martinis ago, I didn't realize where I'd be two Martinis from now. I watched a Whiskey and Rye and a Gimlet sink into what can't be sunk. But by the time I catch up to the four White Russians I'm behind, the little hand will be almost reach the 3.
Two martinis later I might feel I'm a Manhattan away from Jim Bean helping me open a fifth of Bourbon. But by that time, the two Martinis I started off with will make me think thoughts of a woman who once cared for him but thought of me while she straddled him. By that time I'm a Guinness away from wiping that thought from my mind and the little hand will be on the 4.
Two Martinis from then, I'll have to make preparations for the next day. I'll say my prayers and have three Our Fathers and one Bloody Mary for breakfast. I'll realize I won't sleep when the little hand reaches 5.
I am the king of the road for one hour a day. I can straight fly. I'll let you in on how it's done - I feel no pain. I have never been so fast in my life.

27 November 2006

Gold Colored Prisms Of Light

Right. Thanksgiving is a son of a bitch. It's always the same. You show up at a buddies house and the noise of 50 screaming children give you a migraine. You go home and call mom and pass out from the pain.
Then, when you wake up, you realize it wasn't the children giving you a migraine but the flu. The bloody flu. That bastard hits hard. You fight it and hit it with everything. Fluids, medicine, exercise and food bash against the flu. You called out everything you have for a 1st round knockout. It wobbled a few times and looked like it was about to go down. But that motherfucker was just waiting for the bell. And when it rings he smiles at you because he knows you just blew your wad and now your ass is his. That motherfucker hits hard. Christ I feel like digging my own grave.
I am thankful for you.
Fucking Army man. I can count on my balls how many times I've been sick since I was like 7 all the way up until I joined the Army. Now I am on my deathbed once a month.
No. Kate Beckinsale wins and always wins. Enough caterwauling.
Do you remember when Dennis Rodman was famous? Me neither.
Unkind didn't get the job and I am pissed off about that.
Are you new? Have we met?
I love strawberries. They rule.
I can't write the last paragraph any more. I try and I just can't. That is what accounts for my lack of blogging. I have nothing left. I am sorry. Maybe I could buy you a ginger ale and we can call it even. Or maybe you can make me a meatloaf and we can call it even. Or maybe the faded rose smell she left will leave my sheets. Or maybe you can come over and help me unpack and ask questions getting to know me in a way no one else does, blissfully unaware that every answer I give is a lie. Maybe you know every lie I tell is 80% truth. Maybe if I stab this to death I can give you what you want.

20 November 2006

Just Take A Risk

Right. Let is never be said Yossarian is not a fair man. Let it never be said Yossarian is not an understanding man. Let it be said that Yossarian tolerates failure. So the new private comes to work today all motivated. We are going on a bloody run I tell him. He tells me that he fell out of the Squadron run because of the flu shot and he is feeling much better and he will never fall out again. While another man might have interpreted that as motivation, I took it as a challenge.
Not really. I understand how flu shots make you feel like a years worth of jizz backed up into your brain. So I let it slide. We go on our normal run for a Monday and I'll be damned if this bint didn't fall out. That made me as happy as a puppy with two peters, because lunch was soon upon us.
We break for lunch and I say, "Hey private...where you going for lunch." He replies with Burger King. Fucking right you are going to Burger King. Git. "Think again. Grab your PT's," I say. We run. Now we have an hour and a half for lunch. We ran the miles and a half to Burger King, we circled it 5 times, we ran 4 miles out and then we took a short cut and 4 miles back to where he could change.
It was around the point we started to turn around when he slowed down. Now I wasn't busting his ass on the speed, but I was keeping a good pace and his ass started complaining. "I can't go on. I'm tired. My pussy hurts."
Fine. So for the four miles back we sprinted 100 meters at a time and jogged for 50. It was around the 10th sprint his nose started bleeding. "I have to take a shit," he says. "No you don't. Your body is losing a lot of water and your insides are tightening to excrete water and hydrate your body. You should drink more water. Your intestines are contracting making you think you have to shit. Trust me," I say. I have no idea if that is what actually happens. But it sounded good.
"Why is my nose bleeding?" I reply with, "Because you are a pansy and need to run more. Haven't you seen Hidalgo? When the horse gets a bloody nose he wins the race. It's a good thing." "Sir we need to stop. I might die." "You aren't going to die. Nobody dies. Pay attention and run."
Long story short he finished the run and did not die. He took a shit and changed clothes. I asked him if he was going to fall out of another run. He said no. Little does he know we are running tomorrow and if he falls out I am going to make him carry me Fireman style for 3 miles. Sometimes this job isn't so bad.
Other times it makes me want to see how fast I can get a bullet through my face. All in all I hope someone gives me a job when I leave the Army.
Unkind needs to tell me that book from the Werewolves point of view I need to read so I can buy it and read it.

19 November 2006

I Am Getting A New Tattoo

Right. You might be new, so I want to clarify something for you - JESSICA BIEL is yearning for me and doesn't even know it yet. How hot is that? Pretty fucking hot if you ask me.
Thanksgiving is around the corner and I am going yet another year without my mothers cooking. In case you don't know my mother, she is a saint, actually ordained by the Holy Catholic Church, and cooks the best food in this realm of existence. Except for her spaghetti. She can't make a red sauce to save her sainted life. But that's fine because you don't eat red sauce on Thanksgiving. You eat other shit. Like giblet gravy. And oh how I could eat giblet gravy.
LimeWire is the biggest bunch of shit ever. Every day I look up Norah Jones and find a bazillion songs, I try to download them all and it always says it needs more sources. Nevermind the source thing says like 34,000.
Who the sodding hell is Parson Brown?

Unpacking still isn't finished. I was going to finish it yesterday, but I had to work all day and night. I had to sit at the gate, in the cold, in the rain, in the ice, in the sleet, in the snow and make sure when the troops left post they weren't drinking, weren't going out alone and had a plan not to drive drunk. Then I had to walk all over hell's creation making sure these knuckleheads didn't beat up any German kids or damage any shit around town. It was fun. Oh and Ohio State won. A great day all around. In case you are unaware, Ohio State is a school for wankers and ought to be put into the SEC and I hate Ohio State.
So I bought a 60 gig Ipod a while ago and I don't know what to do about this. I only put like 1 gig of music on it and the fucking thing says it is half full. What the bloodclot is Apple pulling?
The Army gives these things called "flu shots." I call them, "Make you sick when you were perfectly healthy shots." Bloody hell I feel like shit.
So I have this new private, E3 type, and he is all motivated and hard charging. Straight out of jump school and AIT and all that good shit. I ask him his run time and he says it is close to 14 minutes. Fine. So we PT for a week or so and his run blows. He falls out and he is slow, but to be fair, I run him a lot faster than he is used to. Friday we did a Squadron run and you NEVER fall out of a big run. They are long, slow and you just get bored. But this new private falls out. As this bint is falling back I turn around and say, "Look mother fucker, this is not up for fucking debate, it is not a polite suggestion and it is not a good idea nor is it an option, you WILL fucking get your ass in this formation and stay the fuck there or I will have a case of the ass and fuck your world up." This daft twat fell out. His ass sat in the Roman chair for about 13 minutes straight. Then he cried. So tomorrow I am going to run him until he pukes. Then on his lunch I am going to run him until he pukes. If he doesn't puke, I will run him until his fucking nose bleeds. That ought to get my sodding point across.
I wonder what my bleeding grandfather would think of me.
What it is to be free.
One day, when I stand before God and I have to answer for my life, I will be asked how I want to spend the afterlife. Without hesitation I will answer. I will request to sit in a bar I hate, surrounded by people I generally can't stand, drinking cheap beer and smoking menthol because of something that happened that one night. I sat across from a friend and she walked in. God placed a hand in my spine making me sit straighter. My eyes saw more clearly than they had in years and my speech accurately reflected my thoughts. She brought me as close to God as I ever wish to be. She gave me this and I gave her a lesson in creep joints and speculation. There is no way in hell I will be able to live the afterlife that way, because upon her death beauty enters heaven for the first time, and I couldn't take it away from everyone else.

15 November 2006

25 Minutes To Go

Right. I don't know. I don't know why I fucking hate everything all of a sudden. Oh wait yes I do. I have been lied to. Purposefully. Everyday. For as long as I can remember. Lied. Straight to my face. A real sincere guy who lives under clear skies lies to me as he beats his wife with his umbrella.
With leave, I look forward to March 12th 2008.
I wake up and it is dark. I run. I go home and shower and on the way back in, the sun comes up. I sit in a room with no windows. Sometimes I go to a classroom with no windows and learn about my vehicle, and all of its super secret shit. Sometimes I go to my vehicle and we ride around doing shit. Where I sit, there are no windows. I leave my office/vehicle/classroom and the sun is gone. I drive home, shower, drink a beer and go to sleep. Sometimes I steal away a few minutes to read about sports. This is my life and I will never get this time back.
It's not all bad though. I laugh a lot because that is all I can really do. Sometimes I love it. Every morning when I hit the third mile and start sprinting for the next 2 to 3 miles. I am bullet proof.
My hands have veins bulging I never knew I had. My forehead is dry. My hair is short and still bothering people with its excessive length.
I do my job. I do not complain at work. I do not let anyone know anything is bothering me. I contemplate how to go to jail. Because in jail, my biggest worry is actual anal rape. Not a mental anal raping.
The girls who call me danger boy say they are worried about me. I look sick. I look like you would if you dug a hole 200 feet deep, showered and was then told to dig deeper. I look like my father would have had he been 4/5 his size and puked because of headaches. They don't call me danger boy any more. They call me sir and ask how I am in a tone no one talks with in the Army. I smile, flirt, get what I need from the service support squadron and go away.
It's not only the Army though. Truth be told, I only hate the Army when I am not there. It's like dating a crack whore all over again. There is a sick joy to it. Like celebrating St. Patrick's Day while storming Omaha Beach.
It's everything else. It's the constant war in my mind. It's the pressure of gravity. It is waking up everyday and not feeling you are any closer graduation. Is this it? Is this what they promised me? Is this why I went to college? Is this why I went to graduate school? Is this why I didn't lay brick? Is this going to pay off? Who won the game last night? Is there a dice game I can get into? Where are my slippers?
I am sorry my turn to negative town has an adverse effect on your mental state. I am sorry I can not say things are better. I am sorry I don't report anything good. I am sorry I quit smoking. I am sorry I have done everything I have done, while you did all you did, and you have what I will never obtain. I tried to make sure my life would be secure. You shot heroin into your neck.
Where will I be in 17 months? Who will hire me? Where will I live? How will I afford things? Who will I know? What will I do? Do things get better when you walk away?
I am ashamed now. But I stand here laughing because I will not be distracted. I would give back everything you ever gave me and sell off everything I have ever earned in order to start over. I'd date more girls wearing bikinis made of diamonds.

13 November 2006

The Blog Bash With Yossarian

Right. My bad. Unpacking is coming along slowly. I am lazy. What can you do? Aside from get seven different types of pissed and punch holes in walls not belonging to you. It's for decoration. This is how we roll in America. The hordes need to get their shit together.
Speaking of shit that is together. Keira Knightly is some next level shit together type shit. Is any of this making any sense?
Getting a four-day weekend a month isn't such a bad deal. But it fucks my sleep schedule all up.
Ohio State vs Michigan. No matter the winner, if Notre Dame puts a hurt on USC and Florida loses...NOTRE DAME IS IN THE BIG BOWL BABY!!! It's not likely, but it isn't crazy talk.
You know what is crazy talk? Bengal fans. Let's blow a 21 point lead. Sheesh. You just blew your season and you just blew my gambling money for the month you sodding bints.
Sod means fuck.
Sod off you wanker.
People ask me all the time, "Yo Yoss, what do you miss about America?" Much. Sports. ESPN. Sportscenter. Live games. Watching a game and listening to it on the radio. Women who speak English. Drinking heavily. The Simpsons. Bars.
People ask me all the time, "Yo Yoss, what is pretty much the same over there?" Much. Women don't even look at me. I have three friends. I wear bomb ass clothes.
When will Cocaine be in Frankfort? I will make myself close. Beer will flow like my seed into JESSICA BIEL.
because people ask me questions all the time and constantly email and AIM me with questions wanting to get to know all the splendor of Yossarian, I will give you what you want - answers.
Favorite food - Dijon Mustard
Favorite color - Black
If I could be anyone else - Spiderman
If I could be any animal - Saber Tooth Tiger
Two-Mile run time - 11:28
Favorite baseball team - Yanks
Favorite football team - Steelers
Favorite hockey team - Blues
Favorite NCAA team - Notre Dame
Who I'd like to meet - Keira Knightly
What I look for in a woman - In order - 1, Money. 2, Style. 3, Open to Anal Exploration.
Am I serious - I don't know.
Who is "she?" - I can't tell you.
Favorite movie - National Lampoon's Vacation
Favorite actor - Burt Reynolds
Favorite band - Boards of Canada
Favorite book - Out of Africa
Favorite drink - Guinness in a can or Murphy's in a can.
If they made a movie about my life, who I want to play me - Dennis Franz
I think that about covers it. That is all the important information about me anyone would ever want to know.

11 November 2006


Right. I am Yossarian. I am eternal. Blah. Yadda. Blah. We all know this and we are all bored. We all know Yossarian lives. In my mind, I'm already there. Have I explained what death is like?
It's nice. You alternate your hours, which seem to last close to 40 years, boning Jessica Simpson, Shakira and Lindsey Lohan. Sometimes thoughout the hour, Lindsey's mother shows up and hot inscest ensues. God is merciful and great.
Where would I be, nay all of mankind, were it not for Guinness? I say we would still be in the stone ages. Or age. How many have there been? 13. I have seen it. History repeats itself and we all do the same shit over and over. It's all real pointless if you ask me.
I hang with the big time. I am Hollywood. What I say goes and where I go the party follows. Who am I kidding. I miss my crew. The clique. My peeps. If ever they make a movie about my life or my life turns into a movie, I hope it involves those two motor-boating sons of bitches. I emplore you two to get divorced in a year, because when I return, I demand we run shit mob style.
No I don't. Drinks, laughs and pisssing in beer bottles is all well and good with me.
How is eveyrone? I am fine. I bought stuff today. As much as I hate putting money into the German economy, I had to. Christmas is coming.
The war isn't in a country. It is in the heart of every living human alive. The conflict isn't in the battle. It is in the will of the subjects. I am not wrong. I am seeing what you have yet been shown. I am not blind. My eyes have atrophied from looking at her everytime I close my eyes.

07 November 2006

So That Every Mouth Can Be Fed

Right. It was all making such sense. I got promoted today. Yossarian works for 18 months and one day after I take over...promotion. What a chump. Yossarian hated ceremonies. I bathed in it today. I made it mine and basked in the warmth of the attention. Why he would hide from any adoration is beyond me. Everything was going so well. Then he had to fuck it all up.
I found this place up the farm road where I had every intention of burying him. But I got greedy. You know how pride kills more than cancer, AIDS and the CIA combined? Well my pride is in the plan. I wanted to make it back to the house in time to enjoy some drinks before I had to sleep. So I decided to put him back together and glue his head back. I stitched it up and glued what I could. Something I noticed was that all of his brains were gone. Now that I think of it, when I blew them out, there were none splattered on the wall. Just bone and flesh. Some blood. A bit of tongue.
I sat him upright n the passenger seat of his car, enabling me to use the car pool lane. The temperature was dropping and I noticed something emitting from his chest. I remembered how Yossarian used to say he liked the winter so much because he already had warmth inside. He was such a fucking putz.
I took him to what I assume was a battlefield. Barbarian hordes died there. Germans died there. American men died there. Good men, young men, brave men all died there. Fighting what they hoped would be the last battle fought. Fighting for an ideal unattainable. Fighting for words used by men with no real power, but power of words. Fighting because that is what they were born to do. The last thing these men did was lay down their weapon. The last thing they saw was the kings of men relinquish their crown. They only laid down their weapons because of loss of muscle control. They only saw the kings dethroned because of synapse misfires in their dying brain.
I dug a deep enough hole to throw his shitty body in. The winter breeze blew the cold onto his body and carried the smell of a woman. A stupid woman I listened to Yossarian pine over time and time again. A stupid woman who fucked up my plan. A light burst from his chest, healed his scars and forced a gasping breath into his lungs. I knew that mother fucker didn't have a brain in his head and now it is proven.
He brought me back here and asked me to leave. His name is Yossarian. He looks a little dehydrated. I still say he is a pansy. I don't think he wants to hang out with me any longer. He lives in a world where all good men die. Why he came back is beyond me. Maybe he isn't that nice of a guy.

06 November 2006

You Can Border On Being Great, But It Is Either An A Or An F

Right. My first day as Yossarian went swimmingly. I have taken over. He is not missed. My name is Chad McGreevy and I get things done. I ran and then went to work. I smiled and was more social with my superiors. My name is Chad McGreevy and people respect me.
Today, someone sneezed and I said, "gazoondheight," and everyone laughed. My name is Chad McGreevy and I sprecenzin funny.
Things are going to run differently now. My name is Chad McGreevy and I don't attend your party unless you have prawns I can eat. My name is Chad McGreevy and I don't drink beer from a bottle or a can. My name is Chad McGreevy and I go the extra mile, smile, wink and nod. My name is Chad McGreevy and I can talk people into anything. My name is Chad McGreevy and I am better.
I answer to the name of Yossarian. I answer with a smile as I think of his rotting corpse decomposing between my washer and dryer. I come home and spray the air with vanilla. I coat the body with vinegar to keep it from smelling. My name is Chad McGreevy and no one can stop me.
Tomorrow I will wash the clothes Yossarian died in. Tomorrow I will remove his limbs and place them in trash bags. Tomorrow I will eat rice with salsa and maybe drink a ginger ale. My name is Chad McGreevy and I will never have a conversation about the BCS again.
A new day has had its dawn and I was awake for it, while Yossarian slept. He is sleeping a sleep he will never wake from. I am waking a day that will never end. My name is Chad McGreevy and four days from now will be my lucky day.
Yossarian will never think another thought about a woman. Yossarian will never write a sentence about his bleeding emotional heart. Yossarian will never bother a single person again. My name is Chad McGreevy and I did the world a service.

05 November 2006

Sorry I Ruined Your Day

Right. Yossarian is tied up to a fucking chair and I am holding a gun to his fucking face. I look enough like him to take over his life and go about his day to day affairs. We started hanging out a while ago. He likes to write about me and wish he was me so fuck it. Yossarian can die and I will take over. From here on out.
What a faggot. I have a loaded gun pointed at his face, and he doesn't even flinch. He looks like he welcomes death. Pussy. I wish he had bought a camera. I'd like to post a picture of his brains splattered across the wall.
In about five seconds Yossarian will no longer breathe. We can all accept it. I am Chad McGreevy and I am very real and very dangerous.
I wouldn't have to kill him if he wasn't such a fucking downer all the time.
In about four seconds Yossarian will no longer pump blood. I am Chad McGreevy and I am not tolerating this shit any longer.
I wouldn't have to kill him if he was capable of making at least on sound decision every 500 years or so.
In about three seconds Yossarian will no longer have a thought in his head. I am Chad McGreevy and I will not listen to him whine again.
I wouldn't have to kill him if he had anything in his life he enjoyed or was looking forward to.
In about two seconds Yossarian will have never known what it was like to get the girl, defeat the bully, win, smile or be content.
I wouldn't have to kill him but he completely fucked his life up with one decision he made, and he keeps making it over and over again because he keeps believing the lie.
In about one second Yossarian will have been a forgotten memory. No one will be surprised or upset when hearing the news. I am Chad McGreevy and I charge the weapon.
I wouldn't have to kill him but he asks me to. Every day he sees me he asks me. That is what he wants. There are things too painful for him to live with, and he met me because God stopped talking to him a long time ago. God wouldn't have killed him. God is too busy developing a new disease man will get from drinking water because worms have been eating the corpses of cancerous bodies for years. Then worms drown in underground water wells. Cigarettes are the plague. Yossarian is dead.

02 November 2006

But Is It The Right Idea

Right. Once, when I was young, I thought like you. I thought the world revolved around the watch of the overlords. How easily our beliefs are shattered.
The first snow is always pretty. Especially when you bleed on it.
The foggy dew in the morning is thick and it hurts to breathe. But there is a trick to it. Focus on the rhythm. The rhythm of the surroundings. Many look in for the rhythm, but they are wrong. Outside. The wind, the birds, the traffic and the noise. Listen for the rhythm and the air will soothe. It also helps if you desire to kill the one who mocks. The one who laughs and lives under the precept that he understands.
It must be nice to run in the circles you run in. Because you do run in circles. You can name drop about the cancer later, but please, when I am not around.
A "bint" is British slang for a woman and always used in a degrading manner. It is pronounced "bent." Like lint not pint.
It is as cold as sodding hell out there. I am becoming more British by the bleeding second here people.
I can't believe how rad I am. I am the dopest. Neat if you will.
Here is the problem with the NFL: I don't get to watch any of the games because I live in the future.
Today I came to realize that I will never make myself happy until I tell everyone with more money than me to, "sod off you bleeding wanker." It's out of my hands until then.
I have so little to say it is stupid.
I have said it before and I will say it again, I hate German people. In a perfect world we would have salted this paltry country when we bombed it back into the stone age so nothing would have grown here for a thousand years. The only good thing about the German people is that sometimes they shut up.
The German people do not celebrate Halloween. Instead they celebrate a day called, "We steal shit from your yard and hide it in the neighborhood and see if you can find it and if you don't have a yard we just fuck with your car." It's a fucked up holiday. Not as fucked up as my response of sprinting into the night with a .50 cal hand gun trying to pistol whip the motherless gits fucking with my bitch. I was wearing slippers at the time. Not only slippers, but I was wearing slippers.
I miss my crew.
Remember when shit was cool?