Greetings my brothers of the blade!
A thought approached me the other day and I wasn't able to shake it. I'm just going to come out with it: A man is not a man unless he off-roads. At first it seemed to specific to be universally true, but now, after a few days of Dew soaked consideration, I accept it as a truth as certain as Lucretia (my bitchin' Leatherman) is resting on my hip. If you haven't torn up a piece of this fine nations countryside with a glorious machine like my baby (a navy blue jeep), then you have no right to refer to yourself as a man.
This reminds me. If you do own a magnificent machine like my baby, and you don't give her the freedom she needs to flourish, then you'll be answering to me! I can't guarantee anything, but if history is any indicator then I will likely stab the shit out of your briefcase while you frantically try to figure out what it is you have done to incur my righteous anger. Well I'll tell you! That beautiful machine you have there, that lifted Jeep with the wench and cherry paint job has never been off-road, you yuppie poser bastard! Those sweet ass tires should be shredding sod and crushing stone, not driving you to an office job. This cannot stand!
Needless to say, I had to knock back some Chick-fil-a and a Mountain Dew Tall Boy to calm my nerves after I put the fear of manhood in that Jeep abuser. Another thought occurred to me while I sipped my Dew in my hideout and watched that wimp give his statement to the cops. I would make a good cop.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
I carry at least four blades on my person at all times - all Times! You never know when you'll need to brandish some steal. Let me give a for-instance: the other day I woke up to discover that I had completely forgotten everything. Now, only two things could explain this: either the evil spirit that haunts me had succeeded in bringing about some type of apocalypse (zombie, Born again or otherwise) or my Mountain Dew/ Hot fry bender of the preceding evening overloaded my brain with joy chemicals. Turns out, the second option was the right one, but for close to twelve hours I was committed to the first theory of my sudden amnesia. Luckily, while in my survival mode, my trusted blades were at hand. I was able to run an old homeless man from his station under a choice overpass with just a few waves of Lucinda (my lovely and sensuous bowie). The old fool even left a nice tarp behind, which, when the Dew haze faded, I returned home with. Yes, I fashioned it into a shower curtain. You see, by sacrificing a little belt real estate, I was able to not only survive what I thought was end times, but thrive!