It’s Wednesday, and I’ve got too much to do to write. The last two days, and today as well, have been a mountain of work: the Office job, followed by a nice thirty minute nap on the Metro (I usually wake up about five seconds before the door close at my stop and hurtle myself off the train), and then I’ve spent my evenings at the Bookstore. Tonight, too, although I expect we won’t be very busy: people are traveling, people want to get home in preparation to travel, or waiting to receive visitors. I think post 7:00pm, only our homeless contingent will be in the store.
So, I’ve been doing this blogging thing for a few months over four years, and I figured I’d try and do a sort of “Best Of.” I sometimes wish I’d categorized my posts better — there are a couple in specific I remember but can’t seem to find now — but alas. Anyway:
“I just thought of something… wouldn’t this post of Snay’s, particularly the last line, predate LOLcat speak? If so, is he some sort of prophet that can channel bizarre internet memes of the future, but only when he’s drunk? It is from 10/23/2005 and I think that’s well before LOLcats. Am I wrong?”
Getting Out of the Holiday Mood
…It was like I’d kicked in her front door and butchered Santa Clause as he stepped out of the chimney, disembowling the jolly present giver in front of her grandkids, then mashing his balls into a testicle soup and force-feeding them to her pet pillow-dog, before ass raping the dog and shoving it down the garbage disposal.
However, on his way to drop the pizza off, Silent Bob realized he was very hungry for a pepperoni pizza. What was on his passenger seat? A large pepreroni pizza. So instead of delivering the pizza, he took it home and ate it. The customer didn’t call the next day to complain, Gary actually called them to verify his disbelief when Silent Bob came in the next morning, explained the situation, and asked for a refund. “After all,” he said, “I never delivered the pizza, but I paid for it.”
Her parents have an awesomely stocked liquor cabinet, and on my drunken claim “I can make the best buttery nipple ever!” she took me up on that. There was no Bailey’s Cream, nor Butterschnaps, but there was a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of root beer schnaps, so, I don’t know what that shot is called, but it was actually pretty disgusting — I nearly gagged all over her. There was also, I think, goldschlager? Flecks of gold floating around? I had some of those from the same shotglass I’d had the whiskey/root-beer-schnaps from, but I wasn’t guzzling the Cap’n Morgan like she was (it might’ve been Jack Daniels, I was pretty woozy by this point — heck, it could’ve been a bottle of sprite).
There’d be deliveries on the rack in the store waiting to get out and he’d be out some where having some crackhead give him a $5 blowjob. (To top everything off – at the end of the night he’d complain about making zero tips, and you’d have to go down everything with him, “You said you spent $5 for a blowjob on the hooker at Elm, then $25 in gas, you bought Indian food for dinner and told me it was $10, then you were ranting about being overcharged for a blowjob by a hooker on University…”)