November 19, 2008

I told my brother last week that most women didn't turn me on and today I found a friggen Viagra package in my mailbox. Nondescript brown package - obviously a bomb or pills of some kind, and I opened it up hoping maybe one of the druggies around here made his delivery to the wrong box. But nope, it was Viagra and I knew it was my brother. So yeah, most women don't turn me on. They're always talking about their lipstick and their friends children or their mother and the latest pretty boy dipshit selling his looks in Hollywood. Hell I'd do it too if I had the looks, sell my self out and sleep with models just to break up with them and say they were terrible people. Probably suicide, they're all addicted to cocaine and booze and these women love telling each other - AND ME when I'm on the bus next to them - which dipshit picked up the nose candy and which bitch "quit drinking" and was then found binging the next weekend with a new boyfriend, half the time it's some young kid they meet at a club who's gotta be braindead and drunk himself, or maybe they just like fucking famous women to say they did it. Every single one of those Hollywood relationships ends with somebody suing or filing a restraining order or having a public bitching fest in the middle of a mall somewhere, and the damn paparazzi swarms them. I got into a fight with a paparazzi faggot one time, he's sitting at the bar telling me how he always tries to take pictures of the models in this town from "unique angles". I was pissed and high, started throwing hooks and apparently didn't stop until he admitted to being gay and having no family and no friends beyond the women he took pictures of. I do remember the bartender smiling the whole time though. Gave me a free shot when I was there again a month later - I don't like visiting bars for a few weeks after I have a fight there. I always win (it's always against some nancy boy who majored in liberal arts or the jerkoff interns for the Seismic Productions porn studio downtown) - I never fight the real fighters, I've got no wish to see what it's like on the other end. I was there in elementary school until I grew a spine both literally and psychologically, and started beating the crap out of people who looked at me wrong. I couldn't hurt them too much or they'd get bruises and then the teachers would show the bruised bastard to my parents, who'd ask me if I was really taking my medicine or not. That happened a couple times every year. Whenever you have a fight at a bar, everyone else there wants to fight you, no matter if they've never fought, always lose or always win. The guys who have never fought see you beating the shit out of some fucker and want to prove themselves, get some for the night. The guys who have never won think that I can only beat on guys with little muscle and no brains - liberal arts majors and porn interns (they don't actually get to fuck, just do technical work. They used to try talking to the stars though, until Seismic made it illegal for them to by putting it in their contract. The women were always unnerved by these young kids trying out pick-up lines they read on the internet) - these guys think they can take me since I only fight weak people. So I avoid them because I don't like unnecessary fighting and if you fight two days in a row you'll fight three days in a row until someone beats you or the body builder friend of who you pounded corners you in the parking lot and rips half your face off. Then there's the guys who have never lost a fight - and they're ready to prove that they won't lose, they always look straight at me when I'm being escorted out. So I leave a place alone for a month - just long enough that everyone gets bored looking to take me out as the champion bar fighter, or picks a fight with someone else. If I hear about a fight at a place after I've been there, I don't go. Some people take shit way too seriously and get killed over politics and which way they voted last election. Speaking of which, Obama won the latest election but I bet he'll get assassinated by some guy who's never won a fight in his life in order to prove that black people can't take care of themselves so how can they run a country? Course I don't think he can run the country either but I keep my mouth shut about that. Well I took some hydrocodone I stole from a pharmacy three weeks ago, took the box Viagra sent me and replaced my address with my brothers, marked "Wrong Address" on the box. Desperate bastard that he is, I know he'll try it and when he does he and she both are in for a surprise.