A SPECTRE IS HAUNTING. THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS DIVORCE
But you guys aren't like me. You don't go to bars where you could get accosted by homeless people pretending to be rich all the time they are trying to get you to buy them a beer by telling you stories about the life of a man who stayed married for 22 years before getting divorced and the divorce made the guy so bitter that he lost his job as an engineer at Boeing and now he has to go around as some kind of funny homeless guy ranting about Irish men and how they aren't human like us because, "they shoot themselves in the kneecaps even though they are all the same color."
I guess what homeless divorce Santa meant to say was that white people should only shoot dark skinned people. I say that because he dropped the "N" bomb a few times while trying to tell a string of Irish jokes. None of his Irish jokes had anything to do with being funny or Irish. They were just lame attempts to gage our latent racism, but since I don't know any white people all he was doing was pissing off his audience, which is supposed to be the last step you take after becoming successful in life as an entertainer. Not the first step you take as dirty homeless guy ranting about marriage to a nervous colt of a guy the day before his wedding, because that's not going to get you a beer from his groomsman, nor will it get you invited to sit down with them, but it will get you popular enough with the local patrons who feel sorry enough for you to allow you to sit next to them, because they don't mind your smell and they will pretend that you can still sip some beer out of your empty bottle of Miller Genuine draft.
I GUESS I WAS SUPPOSED TO BLOG ABOUT THE BACHELOR PARTY AND WEDDING
The reason I have not blogged a lot lately is I have been busy with a friend's wedding. Also I am sick of blogging and I am sick of a demanding audience whom I can never satisfy. I know some friends in real life will want to have the past week memorialized, because you are too lazy to remember stuff yourself. Only thing is I don't write this blog. Romius T. does, and Romius doesn't like weddings and Romius cares not to include all of you in his little blog world.
I could have written something mildly humorous that would have served the dual purpose of creating a nice funny narrative about the weekends activities that might also have amused this blog's general audience, but I don't like giving you guys what you want. If I did that I would be just like every thing else in your life: like your air conditioned cars with heated seats, or your stainless steal frost free refrigerators with ice makers, or your flat screen TVs, or your mommies, or the little suck up people who tell you how nice you are, or the TV & movies that never challenge you, but keep you entertained all the while making you feel smarter than you really are.
I won't ever do that. You don't deserve all the good things you get out of life, and I am the one place you can go to that will tell you what you need to hear. That life is cruel and random. And it cares not a bit about you.
This post is dedicated to my cousin."I named my penis 'my cousin.' That way every time I fuck a bitch I can tell her, "You like fucking my cousin, don't you?"