Today, I’ve decided, I’m not going to tell a story. So if you just read that line, and you’re looking to read a story, well…this ain’t gonna be it.
So stop reading, go do something. Go do your laundry. You know it’s piling up. Clean your pillow cases.
I don’t know if this is an old wives’ tale or not, but someone told me I should constantly be cleaning my pillow cases. You don’t, it’s bad for the complexion. The oils give you zits. You know, you hear something like that, and…
DAMN IT. See ya bastards, you got me telling a story again, and I’m a man of my word. NO STORY TODAY. Stop reading. Go floss your teeth. You know it’s been awhile. Take care. Buh-bye. See you tomorrow for a story.
Damn you. You’re still reading. What is wrong with you, people?! Go walk your dog, go shop for kitty litter, go shit in it, for all I care. Just stop reading this anti-story. Thanks and good-bye.
You know, you’re really starting to piss me off. The expectations you place on me. Fine. You want a story, I’m going to give you a story. The most boring story you’ll ever read, at the end of it, you’re gonna say, damn. I wish I had my ten minutes back.
So here’s your story.
I got some socks. I bought some black socks. They’re long ones. They’re Nike. They have this weird thing on them that pisses me off. One has an L. And the other has an R. So every time I grab the socks, I gotta look at them carefully, to make sure I’m putting on the right sock to the right foot. AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE???? The damn letters are fading, so I can barely make them out. Is that the L or the R? And don’t get me started when I’m folding laundry with them. OF COURSE WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO? I have to match them up. CAN’T HAVE TWO RIGHTS TOGETHER, CAN I??
Oh you’re still here. Man, get a hobby. I hope you enjoyed my story about socks.
Since you’re still here, and have no life, I’ll tell you another unfunny story.
Let’s see, off the top of my head…
I drink one Sugar Free Red Bull and one Kaliber every shift. I crack open the Red Bull around 9, then slowly sip on it. I pour about four fingers of it in a plastic cup, then I ice the rest of it. By 11 I’m done with it. No caffeine after 11. Then I crack open the Kaliber at midnight. It takes me a good hour to drink it, sometimes two, if it’s busy behind the bar.
Really? You’re still here? Ok. Great. Here’s another one.
I take walks right after I get home from work. Usually for about 45 minutes. It calms me down from a night at the bar. I bundle up, put the front door key in my right pocket, and my passport in my left. Why do I carry around my passport? I guess you can guess.
What if I have a heart attack a mile from my house? What if I get hit by a car? My twisted wrecked body, face smashed in like a pumpkin day after Halloween, is sprawled out on the pavement. The cops come, the coroner comes (do they come?) they say, I wonder who the hell that guy is? Can’t even make out his face. He’s a John Doe. No wait! He’s got a passport in his pocket! Clint Curtis. Wait a minute.
Wasn’t he in Blade?
You better not have laughed at that, you pricks. This was supposed to be AN UNFUNNY STORY.
Now go shove a sock in your ass crack.
One that says L.