Dear Street Carnage,
Wow. You guys don’t know when to quit. I thought we were cool de la, but I stand corrected. It’s one thing to expose me as the mastermind that was able to completely undermine an entire website with the touch of a few buttons, or computer keys as it were, but to publish a letter on your blog re. my ceiling fan that I sent you in confidence is just going too far.
What you have done is disrupt my sense of trust in our already admittedly fragile relationship. You know, trust, rust with a t,… Niel Young… I thought you people were Canadians for crying out loud! I’m hurt more than upset here, miffed is too benign a word to express my emotion yet outraged paints a picture of me all sweaty and red faced and actually I look pretty good today and the AC is on, but I digress.
Like all good Americans I am an extremely litigious person with a predilection for representing myself in court and I don’t want to take it to that level because frankly I’m a bit busy trying to find my pants. Long story short… I was at a party and this one dude came up to me and asked if he could borrow my pants. I felt there must have been a good if not serious reason this guy needed my pants so of course I obliged. Turns out it was a prank to get me out of my pants as revenge for showing up at the party.
Apparently I wasn’t invited, pretty much the opposite of invited actually. That group of people had recently grown to despise me for making fun of the music they like, the way they look, where thy hang out, ethnicity etc. I was doing it on facebook so I thought they knew I was just fuckin’ around. Actually I meant everything I said! Jokes on them after all even though my pants are probably hanging from a lamp post on east 6th.
So here I am with no pants, no friends, hungry, tired, and alone. And now this. It’s rich. Really, really rich.
Totally as an aside I was thinking about getting off the grid for a while, going back to nature. I had a lot of realizations about life and who I am on my recent spiritual retreat to the cheap district of Cancun. I was at Chili’s with a local transsexual hooker (nice people, the Mexicans) and I thought, “What am I doing with my life?” The answer was clear. I was high on coke hanging out at Chili’s in Mexico with a hooker, a tranny one at that.
I was overcome with joy at my achievement and immediately went and punched the budget guru/vision quest guide I had hired in the kisser. I let out a terse “Ass wanker” and myself and Monique (that’s my hooker’s stage name) got in a cab and flew back to Austin without filling out any paper work what so ever.? More like Homeland Shmeshmurity.
But yeah, no, I’m not sure about the tennis match on Wednesday. I busted out a few of the strings on my racket playing guitar but it should be fine, I’ll text. Also I can’t find some of my other tennis stuff… You guys seen my balls?
Later days, take it sleazy,