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

First Stop

Glad to be out of there, I haven't been so bored since I broke both legs and had to watch re-runs of "Who's the Boss" for two months. Do you have any idea what it's like to become intimately familiar with Tony Danza?

Think "Sylvester Stallone," but less talented. And gay.

But I wouldn't be the man I am today if I let little shit get me down. Me and my brother Brad both know that there's only one way to get a party started right, and that's with a mothafuckin' deuce-deuce AKA 40 oz AKA tall boy of love. Keeping that in mind, I got the taxi to wait while I went into the gas station and grabbed myself a little pre-gaming action.

Debited, motherbitches

Yeah, I guess I forgot to say that I borrowed a little money from the people who owned that house. I figure it's only fair that they paid the celeb fee for me staying there.

Ho ho ho, I got a fat sack.

The cashier asked to see my ID, so I had to break it down for her. First, I was like, "Don't you know who I am?" and then when she affirmed in the negative, I had to tell her that people who're buying underage by Smirnoff or Bud Light. Only alcoholics drink King Cobra. Still, I don't think she would have gone through with it had this dude not vouched for me. At first I thought maybe he was a homeless guy, but it turns out he has a blog, too. I went ahead and linked to him, not in a gay way or anything though.

So, I'm sitting there in the back of the taxi chugging this King Cobra and missing the old days, back when Billy D Williams and I used to hang out. That was one crazy dude. He and I used to cruise around in his limo and he'd scream "Black Jedi power!" at old white people and throw his Colt 45 cans at them. Then we'd usually drop by a club, pick up some chick that weighed the same as a coke machine, and double-team her in a motel.

Anyway, Colt 45 got wind of all that and ended up hiring us as their spokespeople:

Colt 45 and bad sweaters. Welcome to the 80's.

The paychecks were rolling in, and we were just going crazy - partying all night, trashing motels, doing more ugly bitches, and Colt loved it, but one day while I was wasted on corn syrup and Valium, I had sex with the C.E.O.'s horse, then his wife.

Next thing I know, I'm airbrushed out of the commercials, and this is all that remains:

It's ok, though: After I got fired I went back and had sex with his daughter, too. Then his horse again.

Escape!

I'm completely done with this place. First I find out that there's no wet bar, but then I realize that there isn't even a fuckin' pool. I mean, shit, I'm all for roughing it out, you know, two hookers instead of four and all that, but this is insane. Richard Simmons doesn't live this bad, and he's got shorts that look like they're actively sawing his ass cheeks apart.

I played it cool for a while, just chillin', but as soon as the people who live here went to work, I broke in and grabbed some food.

Oh, by the way, thanks for drinking Natty Light, fucktards. What, you can only afford beer made for the homeless and minorities?

Shit, there's my cab.

Sha-zam!

Wait...You know what? I did stay in their yard for a while. I should probably write them a note or something.

That's better.

To the gas station!

Ads

Yeah, I put some ads on the website so I can collect a few benjis. Cab drivers don't take handjobs in exchange for rides downtown.

Well, they do, but I don't get any change back.

Where Am I?

So, I just woke up in this dude's front yard. I'm not sure what's all over my legs, but I hope it's not dog crap. I guess I blacked out there for a little while, maybe a couple months. No clue if it was the PCP or skydiving without a parachute, but I was fuckin' out. That's the biggest rush I've had since Richard Gere smuggled me through customs in his ass.

Yeah, Gere and I used to be real tight back in the day. Forget the urban legends - they're not half as impressive as the truth. We went on vacation together in San Miguel (that was when I was big into leather) and man: His prostate was so strong he could walk around the house hoovering up Cheetos with his ass. While wearing pants. Fucking amazing.

Sorry, I tend to ramble. I know a lot of famous people though, and all the bitches love me, so I guess you can just deal if you wanna hang.

More later, I'm going to go find a phone so I can call a cab.