Well how bout a fat shit sandwich for me today! I fucking can't stand my pasty and fat-injected stumpy-ass shit stain of a body that should have been fucking aborted. What the fuck! I would love to just get run over by a giant lawn mower and be fed as chum to the whales at SeaWorld. Good times.
So last year I went to see Jim Norton (I'm a huge fan!) do a stand-up act in Cleveland, Ohio. I went with my brother-in law Mike and one of his friends, who I will call Baby Huey. Just kidding, his name is Derek. (I don't know if I spelled his name right, but really who gives a fuck?) Anyway, before we even got into the show to see lil' Jimmy, we were already completely fucked-up and shouldn't have even been admitted into a soup kitchen, let alone the comedy club. Jimmy's set was incredible and I liked it so much that I screamed enough distasteful and offensive material of my own to even be mentioned on the Opie and Anthony show the next day. After the show let out and Mike, Derek, and I slithered out into downtown Cleveland to find a place that spoke drunk. We fell into Flannery's and immediately felt at home.
Now at Flannery's we went about drowning ourselves in liquor. (Jack Daniel's for me) As the night continued we felt the need to loudly voice(read: scream so loud the deaf could hear us) our opinions about the rest of Flannery's patrons. Derek felt it especially important to let a woman know that because she had a tattoo on her chest, she was obviously and without question a whore. Derek so eloquently pronounced it so that the emphasis was on "who" and came out sounding as if it was spelled like this; whoo-wes. Also, and I'm sure there if a front row spot for me in hell for this one, but a man who had cerebral palsy came into the pub with a nice, shiny set of aluminum crutches and before he could even "walk" into the pub, (I'm awful) I screamed, "Faker!" and immediately hid myself into my pint glass of ole' No.7. Needless to say when Flannery's poured out last call, it was definitely time for Derek, Mike, and I to find some fat drunken sustenance to soak up our protruding tubs of booze that we call stomachs. Now Mike did a great job in getting us a very large, and very nice room at the Embassy Suites. This was a horrible mistake by the Embassy Suites staff because I immediately volunteered myself to go on a scouting mission throughout the hotel for food. In a drunken stupor, I broke into the closed kitchen of the hotel and rid the place of their ample bacon, french toast, pancake, and egg stores that they possessed. In the morning after a long evening of engulfing pounds (literally, POUNDS) of stolen breakfast treats I awoke to a almost innate urge to vomit it all back up into the pristine bathroom of the Embassy Suites. As we excited the room and headed down the hallway towards the elevator, a very distinct trail of bacon and pancakes was sprinkled across the hotel floor and even in the elevator. Ah, Cleveland! Kill Yourself.
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