Random Rants After Consuming Red Bull
I dared venture down the dark abyss formerly known as Aisle 6. The truth is, Aisle 6 no longer existed. It was more of an Area 51, an enigma to all consciously ignorant consumers, not to be taken lightly and not to be wandered often. As I forced myself to glance upwards at the mysterious void of the top shelf, I discovered there was really no mystery at all. The rumors were all true.
Twinkies had become extinct.
WHAT THE FUCK.
My mailman has been missing in action for over a week now. Christmas is over, Waldo. Where are you? I'm beginning to grow paranoid that he has died. That was a lie. Really, I'm just paranoid that I won't ever get my fucking mail. Waldo's heart rate is the least of my concerns. If he's about to kick the bucket, he can at least fill the bucket with my damn mail and kick it toward my mailbox.
Breaking News! This just in: 22-year-old chain-smoker murders her mailman. What's that, Susan? Tried to? I'm sorry, folks, I must have read the teleprompter wrong. Ahem. This just in: 22-year-old Horndog sits on her front porch for nine consecutive days and dies of starvation. Her last words were, "I'm waiting for my mailman. I am going to murder him." Lucky for him, but unlucky for her. I think the lesson here is get off your ass.
Boredom is a dangerous thing. I've decided to never be bored again. I end up looking up things like, "Find Out Your Elf Name!" (Buddy Sparkly-Toes) which then leads me to "Find Out Your Stripper Name!" (Raquelle Heaven-Glitz) which then leads me to a state of panic. Why does my elf name sound more scandalous than my stripper name? Is this some kind of short-joke? Who the fuck runs this shit? Am I being watched? How'd they know that my toes were sparkly? HOW DID THEY KNOW I EVEN HAVE TOES.
This then led me to an article about the worst rapper names in history. I'll give you one: Shorty Shitstain.
I have come to the conclusion that never again will I say I am bored. I boycotted the "killing time" phrase years ago after my father told me never to kill such a precious thing. I now say I am spending time. My new boycott is that when someone asks me what I am doing, I will no longer respond with, "Not shit." Instead, I will say, "Saving money." Because you know what I'm doing when I'm sitting in my room all day and night? I'm not drinking, that's what I'm doing. Which means I'm saving money. It's more original and more positive - and that's the damn truth.
I cleaned my bathroom for the first time since I moved into my house back in August. My bathroom is so white now. It's really almost too white. It reminds me of an insane asylum. Except when someone takes a shit in the toilet. That adds a bit of color.
I just returned from a dangerous voyage to The Land of Lard, also known as Wal-Mart. In case you didn't get the memo, the entire population is supposed to be present at Wal-Mart everyday. It's a daily e-mail. Goes like this:
To Whom It May Concern: Are you breathing? Then you need to be at Wal-Mart today.
What the memo fails to mention is that there will be mandatory bumper carts for anyone who has at least one arm, and that upon impact with something/someone, you must act oblivious to the damage you just caused. The hurt. The injuries. The medical bills that no one there can afford. The guttural vibration of a fat man's stomach rippling like the waves of a hurricane.
As soon as I got in, I made it my sole mission to get out. I imagine that's how it was back in 'Nam. You heard me. Wal-Mart is the new Vietnam. I risked my life going in there. I could have been run over by an angry tubby in an easy-go. I could have been vomitted on by a feral child. I could have been permanently blinded by one-too-many velvet-sweatsuit sightings.
My house has no heat. My roommates and I have space heaters in our bedrooms, but as far as the rest of the house goes, we're living the lives of Eskimos. Without the fish. Because I can't afford fish. Maybe a can of tuna here and there, but that's only on holidays. I do have mayonnaise, though, but you can't really do much with mayonnaise when you don't have eggs, tuna, bread, meat, cheese, or your dignity.
This is how I'll explain how cold my house is: I don't pee. I hold it for hours. Shaking my leg. Putting a pillow under my crotch. Dancing around. Anything to hold it in. Because there is nothing worse than being cold and having to pull your pants down. Actually, there is something worse. What's worse than that is being cold, having to pull your pants down, and then being forced to seat your warm bottom on a freezing bowl. No tush is warm enough to heat that toilet, trust me. Not yours. Not mine. And not Beyonce's.
I'm out of rants.