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When I was a kid, I would beg my parents to let me stay up late so I could watch "Grizzly Adams." Clearly, it had a big effect on me. I live in the woods (Well, in a car parked near the woods.) My best friend and lifelong companion is a 'bear' named Ben. (Met him in my car parked by the woods.) And I've got a beard. Not your average 'Van Dyke' or Goatee or even one of those ironic 'hipster' beards, like you see on Jason Lee or Brad Pitt. This thing is the real deal. Thick, bushy, uncombed, lice-riddled.
And the best part -- I shaved yesterday. Imagine what three days of growth looks like? Eat your heart out, Jim James.
Good sir, could you please come a bit closer. My vision, in my advanced years, has ebbed. What was once a bounty of color and shapes has withered to a fuzzy, Manet-like view of the world. Curse these worthless eyes!
It seem that you have pointed your finger at me and begged a question. Alas, my ears have fallen quite deaf, a condition brought upon me during my incumbency as a traveling musical technician for the minstrels Megadeth.
Oh, you wish to know what happened to my incisors? Ah, a previous encounter with a constable wherein I let loose my wicked tongue proved to be a most foolish advance on my part.
Now would be too forward to beg of you a simple cup of tea? It calms my jangled nerves whilst I await my solicitor.
I knew when I got those ironic tattoos done they would serve me well one day. And that day is today.
They laughed at me when I asked for two tears on my fingers. Sure, they said, get a silly mustache on your index finger -- that makes the girls go crazy. But tears? It's too maudlin, they said.
Who's laughing now? Or who's crying now?
And then I go fall down..
I'm not sure what's more humiliating: Being beaten-up by a chunky waitress at Hooters or the fact that the police dispatch gave me blue bandages with ducks printed on them and then took my picture.
She was brutal. I guess I sort of had it coming. Throwing an onion ring at her cleavage, trying to lodge it between her perfect bosoms, isn't exactly appropriate restaurant behavior. Especially after I was warned twice before to stop it.
I had no idea that tray they use to transfer drinks to your table could be used as such a powerful weapon. Good thing she didn't have that Bic pen with her -- she might have opened my jugular with it.
I'm going to say that my eleven percent tip was not enough to patch things up with her.
And next year's birthday lunch for my mom is going to be at the Cheesecake Factory...where she wanted to go to in the first place.
...and ask yourself this question: "How could this man be accused of drunk driving?" Drunk driving an ATV. With my eleven year old cousin/common-law wife riding on my lap. And a five gallon water bottle filled with 200 proof home-made spirits in the back.
I was on my way to the market to purchase some badly needed Grecian Formula -- Auburn Sunset is my color -- and some very badly needed beard conditioner. That moonshine still dries out my hair something fierce.
Okay, just this once. No, I am not Salvador Dali. Or Ron Jeremy. Or a Latino Fred Goldman.
I'm just a man, who enjoys a well-waxed mustache. And drinking in public. And embroidered birds on my collarless shirt. And the occasional run-in with the law whilst drinking in public.
You think you're pretty clever, with the surrealist artist reference? Let me tell you, I've heard it before. You're not as clever as you think you are.
Latino Fred Goldman? What does that even mean? Fred Goldman isn't a Latino, so why would there be a 'Latino' version of him. And let's be honest -- hasn't he suffered enough?
I have no idea who Ron Jeremy is, but I'm sure he's as dashing and handsome as I am.
Please, just leave me be!
Yes, I know it's November, but I can say it anyway: Happy Halloween!
Sometimes the party you're at goes on a little bit longer than you had expected. Forty eight hours longer. Thank you very much, Red Bull, vodka, yerba mate, oxycontin, and some strange blue pills a cute guy gave me. I need a vacation from that party!
And only three weeks til Thanksgiving. I should be stockpiling coke for the big day, shouldn't I? I get so tired after eating turkey. And horny.
I'm sorry -- I mustn't be making any sense. A three-day bender has rendered me somewhat incoherent. As soon as I post bail, I'm returning to my apartment, putting my weary head on a pillow, and smoking a big 'ole rock.
