Saturday, February 24, 2007

Billy Graham Killed My Dreams

I'd normally make this post under the ongoing list of reasons why I'm retarded, but I thought I'd put in a little more effort. I hope you like it, I really do. Well, not really. In fact, I don't like you. So leave my blog. Ok sweety?

So, I spent today online. What else is new: it's Saturday, I'm a loser, ergo ipso facto. Today's twist, and yet another example of my stupendous retardedness, is that I was online on not one but two computers. With the first, I was happily then frustratedly and finally pissed offedly in the online waiting room at, waiting (tee hee) my turn to order green monster seat tickets. I'll get to that in a minute. With the second, I was avoiding work by blogging and searching for classic porn. That's right, I said work, on Saturday, which makes my Monday through Friday job that much more super great and awesomely incredibly fanfuckingtastic---you know, because I also have to do it on Saturday.

I booted the 'puter aruond 7 AM (Boston time, le bruce bruce, in case you were wondering). I grabbed my notes, sat down with a cup of coffee, and got crack-a-lackin. Then I remembered that why the fuck am I working on Saturday? So I got busy avoiding work. Before I knew it, hours had gone.

It was about 11:00, and I remembered that, holy shit, I was supposed to hit to get tickets for my cousin, brother, and me. The deal: one game, four tickets. On the green monster. Sweet baby Jesus, we were going to get what every sox fan would sell their mum for.

Naturally, the sheer excitment about possibly getting monster seats made me shit my pants and spray beer out of my nose. Dude, come on, this was a wicked pissah chance of a life time. Most folks, especially sox fans, understand the pure awesomeness of getting the chance to see a sox game while sitting high atop the famed left field wall. (Anyone who doesn't understand the magically scrupmtious yummy delicious sweetness of this kick-assedness can go fuck yourself.)

The happy madness began just before noon. It ended at six. Sans tickets.

I toggled between puters every 30 seconds, blogging on one and checking to see if I was refreshed into the ticket purchasing section of on the other. Every 30 fucking seconds!

Yeah, so, six hours later and no tickets didn't piss me off, even a little? Oh, that's right, I was super fucking pissed. I was firstly pissed at the red sox for tricking me into believing that I actually had a shot at these seats. But who can blame me? My cousin got an e-mail from stating some congratulatory bullshit about how he was chosen to be among the select few (apparently fucking million) to have the opportunity to get green monster seat tickets to a red sox home game. But he wasn't going to be around to collect the loot, so could I? Shit yes I would. I was then pissed because I fell for this shit, like an old Betty giving the last of her life savings to bring Jesus to Billy Graham.

Somewhere between seeing my dreams spiral down the toilet and not working on Saturday, I read a choose your own ending post over at Monkey boy Egan's, which I thought was fun. I'm copying that for this post.

Given that I've got a following of about 7 and they're all a touch retarded, I figured I'd help them with the choosing. Here goes. It's now the end of this post. Will you:

A. Go.

B. Fuck.

C. Yourself.

Hint: try all three, in order.


Rob said...

I rode the special bus. Not because I was retarded, but because I'm special.

le bruce bruce said...

Life is so much easier when you hate sports.
And blogging.
You can suck my green monster, bitch.

Lord Fondleberries said...

rob: you are beautiful, too.

le bruce bruce: by "green monster", do you mean that knappy mustache of yours?

lord f