Being too closely acquainted with Jim Beam causes me to yell at poor (and by poor, I of course mean pathetic) suburbanites and hiccup laughter directed at their deer in the headlights look and gurgling throats with the protruding adam's apple (a sign of power in the social hierarchy). This was the beginning of the MEXICAN FOOD DISASTER NIGHT, which occurred during the late hours of NOVEMBER 28th, 2007. Happy Birthday, and don't peer too closely at my bloodshot irises, for they might A.) Implode, or B.) Explode. Answering the question in form of another question really never makes any sense, answer questions with questions, you'll always seem to know the answer that way.
Generally, we sit like barbarians at any dinner table, knobby scabbed knees tucked under delicately designed wood, belching, farting, cursing as our eyes glaze over. shoving greasy food into our greasy mouths, elbows in the dinner plates, uttering things unmentionable even to you, as families with burpably small children sit in our vicinity, taking as much heathenistic terror as any god-fearing peoples could, UNTIL; they had reached their breaking point and would then have us thrown out on our sorry scabby asses.
As members of a community full of others equally as rude, we have forgotten what it is like to conform, and we have no intention of remembering.
This particular night was different, albeit better, not because we were any less rowdy or unrefined (in truth, we were more so), but because we had the place almost entirely to ourselves. Thank the God we all forgot to believe in, because the acoustics in this "Mexican Kitchen", let me tell you... all echo, echo, echo.
Oh hey, did I just see you slip that fork into your pocket?
Oh hey, did I just tell the waitress that the birthday girl is a dick.
Oh hey, did we just drive here intoxicated with 6 people crammed into a smelly Volkswagen bug?
"As people, we are largely defined by other people." Quick write that down and everything else I say on the napkin with the salsa stain. You can inscribe for me. Take note that you don't order hamburgers at a "Mexican Bistro", just like Amish people don't eat pizza... or do they? Find that out for me, it's your job.
It looks like the water is moving and thats because it is. You can't take a field trip to a funeral, but that's what we were all hoping would happen, and that's what did happen. I love throwing my cigarette butts into the virgin beauty of nature. Rape, pillage, burn, and then take a nap, right? No really, look at the river, it looks like the frosting on cakes that sit out in a non popular display case, collecting mold.
Philanderer, J'accuse..
No really guys, let me tell you about how much I love the Meso-American culture. Bloodletting! Wristcutting! Beheading! What's not to love. Hell is fun and Heaven is boring. Christianity can suck my dick and pagans can sleep on my couch.
Get back and get slapped and cry over un-sad books.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAD ASSHOLE,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
AND GET FUCKED AND I HOPE YOU ARE EQUALLY UNHAPPY FOR THE REST OF YOUR UN-LIFE.
And I had fun, and I have the postmortem bullet wounds to prove it.
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