I drove to a crappy neighborhood to camp out in my old VW bug. I have the kind of bug where the whole front end tilts up like a hatchback so it's great for getting a lot of stinky crap neighborhood air. I very soon discovered that it's really hard to enjoy a nice camp out in the ghetto because there are just too many ghetto people around. I thought bringing the dogs along would be good for keeping some people away but no, the dogs just made the whole thing that much more aggravating because I kept worrying that they were gonna run off with some crackface.
Right as I was falling asleep I felt the car wiggle a little and I looked into the rear view mirror only to discover some mangy looking meth dickhead rifling through my engine compartment. I calmly made my way back there and stood next to him waiting to see how long it would take for him to notice that he had been busted.
"What ya doin there pal?" I asked.
"Oh just gettin me some parts off this old bug."
"Yeah? Don't you think the owner is gonna be pissed?"
"He shouldn't park here."
"What if he FUCKING WANTS TO CAMP HERE YOU FUCK!?"
"Whoa -- you're MERKLEY???!! What's up dude, I'm a HUGE FAN." He said, totally fucking up my rage.
"And this is my FUCKING CAR FUCKHEAD!"
"Whoa dude, sorry. So how many of them chicks you take pictures of do you bang n'shit?"
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FACE ASSHOLE!"
Suddenly the whole street was swarming with douchebag frat guys all wanting to talk to me about my "awesome beard" and asking me "how many of them chicks do you bang".
Frat dudes wrecked my ghetto camp out.
So I wandered over to a circus tent filled with rhinos to watch some lame idiot commit suicide. Nobody gave a fuck so that was good. Burning man is lame. For the billionth time.
When I got to the hotel where all the writers were staying I felt all competitive and smartassy. Some big newspaper interviewer guy maybe from Rolling Stone asked me what the secret was to writing a good story and I said:
"Tell the truth so good it sounds like a lie."
I really hadn't thought it through but by the looks of all the other writers they were pissed that I got interviewed and they didn't and even more pissed that a half decent non-cryptic sound bite flopped out of my mouth. Luckily I was dressed in hunting gear and had a bunch of my screw shaped bullets to keep them all at bay. I think I would have actually shot one of them, mostly to watch the bullet do it's slow motion screw action. Also to watch a writer die.
Anyway, I was acting all douchey, taking notes and overdoing it, mocking writers basically, but the joke was on me because my pen was leaking through about ten sheets of paper and it was my grandmother's old notebook with all her thoughts and recipes. I don't like wrecking my grammas shit. She can't make any more stuff on account of bein dead.
That's all for now.
Don't get caught trying to trade 6 frat dudes for one 50 year old hooker with missing teeth.
Your Crappiest Day To Have a Birthday,
New Years, No, Christmas, No, It's a Tie.
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