It goes like this. I'm drunk enough to actually hold a conversation with a computer technician and very obviously palm my junk through my levis at "statutory anomalies", when all of a sudden, my bladder is struck with a kind of pressure comparable to the crushing guilt only a Jewish mother can apply (a believe the actual unit of measure is an "Oy"). I run with moderate, Caucasian speed, to the nearest dumpster, unleash the mountain of meat that is my bologna pony, and exhume a stream that Captain Kirk would be proud of... ... right onto what upon reflection would have been the left shoulder of a crouching drug addict just trying to enjoy his 2:53AM visit to fraggle rock (crack, he was smoking crack).
Luckily, the appearance of my clean shaven purple headed yogurt slinger in full dead cell and ammonia disposal mode sent him sprinting with even greater moderate Caucasian speed away from me, mumbling and cursing and slapping at his moist shoulder as though he could somehow banish the liquid Chris-waste now clinging to his Tears for Fears t-shirt. Mmmm.
So crackhead that I peed on, let's call you.... Whitney. Whitney... I'm sorry, I was drunk, and what I did was inappropriate and could have caused those open sores on your face to sting I'm sure. That night, we gave each other something. Your t-shirt, dead, joyless eyes and what seemed to be a terminal bone marrow deficiency gave me inspiration for today's blog. I gave you a slappingly tight piss stream to your left flank and shoulder.
Which brings me to this: Everybody loves the acne prone allure of the eighties. The eighties, with all it's imperfections and denim. The eighties, when Trix weren't just for kids! (I have no actual proof supporting that claim, but a surprisingly large amount of evidence to the contrary) I've gone through a veritable sea of eighties internet memorabilia to try and get that feeling back (which is hard because I was like, 4) and I found it. Your assignment for Friday is, imagine me peeing on a homeless drug addict, smirking devilishly, and then that same homeless (I think he was an army veteran) guy running away in eighties slow motion to Laura Branigans "Gloria." That, to me, is the eighties.
Thank you for taking that journey with me. Whenever you find yourself in a situation involving urine, crack, strangers, heavy drinking, garbage dumpsters and dim lighting or any combination of the aforementioned elements , I hope "Gloria" is your soundtrack too. On a side note, Rave Arnie knows you are weak to DA MUSIK!!!!
Fuck yeah.
So this Friday, I will be taking things easy, and putting out the first weekend post for 5% Nation of Aphorism.
History will be made, hymens with pop and inner children will weep. There will be an abundance of fart jokes and agnostic commentary too!
I want to send an open invitation to those following 5% Nation currently to send me special requests for topics or general endeavors you would like me to undertake and write about for this weekends content. If I get no suggestions it will likely be about bestiality, Peter Akinola, Philip Morris and labial piercings.... Booooring! So please jackhammer my potential monologues with thick vein y suggestions.
