The Bar

There's only one place to go when you have a little bit of a buzz goin' on, and that's the bar. Or, if you're Eddie Murphy, to pick up a transvestite hooker... but that's kind've 1990, you know? And never let it be said that Garvey fuckin' Pitt is anything but cutting edge.

I went to a 1920's themed bar called Speakeasy. Let me tell you something about these kinds of places, so that you can profit from an older, handsomer point of view. They're more expensive, sure, but that means when you buy that round of Buttery Nipples, Cum Shots, or Date Rapes, their panties are already residing in your grungy pockets.

Wow, a 12 piece band. Just pissed myself.

So, this bar has lame-ass bands. Whatever, they still got booze. Yo, bartender!

Liquor=not gay. Band list=still gay.

So, you're probably wondering about why the card numbers are all blanked out and shit.
That's ok, I don't mind admitting I stole it from the guy who vouched for me at the gas station. See, I figure if his card shows up some tabs at some cool bars for a change, maybe he'd have some better luck and not pick up so many men in disguise (Ever see Transformers? Imagine if instead of a car that transformed into a robot, a hot chick transformed a cock, and your erection transformed into a deflated balloon) and maybe, just maybe pick up a real woman, like I do.

Anyway, whatever. I got better things to do than justify myself, like drinking my body weight in scotch.

Oh no, the scotch ninja stole it!

Damn, that was good. Total time: 25 seconds. I know you're impressed - when you finish drinks like I do, fans flock to you. And by fans, I mean bartenders and alcoholics. Also some college kids, but they usually end up drowning in pools of vomit, and I hate getting vomit on my shoes.

A fan. See how happy he is?

Man, that's what its all about - making the fans happy. On a good day, I'm shooting sunbeams out of my cinnamon ring, all over the public. Today, however, I just pissed in his hand. He'll probably never wash that again. He's a fan of the lemony fresh scent.

Secret...downblouse man...secret...downblouse man!

You have no idea how hard it is to stare down a woman's shirt when you're approximately 1 foot tall. And you probably also have no idea how hard it is to put up with a conversation with one if you can't. Let me tell you: Harder than my dick in an asian girl.

Oh. Wait. Drinks are catching up. Give me a second.

I vomit and pee simultaneously. What've you ever done?

All right, enough is enough. The chicks are bitches, the music is lame, and I just returned my liquor rental. Time for a change of scenery. I wonder what the hell my cab driver's been doing all this time?

Ow...that fucker.

Goddamn, you get a little toasted and have some witty repartee with a cab driver, and the next thing you know, you're getting slung you to the curb along with your empties. All I said was that I was finally drunk enough to fuck his mom, and that she'd give me some money for the fare, and BAM! Ejected like a straight man at a Barenaked Ladies concert. Asshole.

What the...What's that down there? Is that fucking gold?

Must take...free...shit...

I gotta get closer. I'm just going to jimmy this grate. What I wouldn't give for an Olsen twin... By now, they could've slipped in and out and had time left over to throw up the air they had for lunch.

Jackpot! Who's retarded now, fuckers?!

Hell yeah! This is a better find than Jake Gyllenhaal's cock ring. Wait ... maybe it is Jake Gyllenhaal's cock ring. Well, our dicks are the same size...fuck it, I'm locking and loading. It's Go Time.

To be continued