You know the most interesting thing about breaking a 24-hour fast by drinking a dozen beers? I’d tell you, but for some reason I can’t remember. I’ll have to do more research into the subject, as I’ve never experienced memory loss while fasting in the past.
I guess there’s a chance the beer had something to do with it, but who can say for sure?
Even though I should rightfully be comatose after sleeping 3 hours and working another 11-hour shift, I’ve decided to suck back a quick brew at good ol’ Chuck’s Roadhouse to do a little nonsensical writing.
I do have one problem though…
I don’t have jack shit going on in my life.
No good stories, no new adventures, no scantily clad women.
Fuck, I suck.
So I’m sittin’ here at Chucky’s hopin’ for something interesting to happen.
But it seems to be the same ol’ drunks in here… staring vacantly into a television the size of a billboard pumped with steroids (or possibly Oprah’s ass after Thanksgiving weekend, whatever analogy works for you), and sucking back beer after beer after beer. Hmm, kinda reminds me of another pathic junkie I’m far too intimately acquainted with… (insert “Me” emoticon here).
Okay, here’s a twist. Some hammered fuck who looks like Gordon Lightfoot just came up to me and asked if he could buy me a beer.
Sure, why not? Who am I to deny the generosity of a human who likely doesn’t remember his middle name?
But 3 minutes later, the cocksucker decided to forgo ordering my beverage, and jumped into a cab. Fucking tease.
Not that I really need another beer. But I do need something interesting to happen. Anything, really. The 11-hour-a-day drudgery of burger flipping has left me feeling very much like all the routine-obsessed, slave douchebags I love to shred.
Realizing I’m a slave douchebag as well, doesn’t quite perk my spirit. But it does remind me that I’m a JFA (Judgemental Fucking Asshole — a new acronym I’m trying to introduce into texting culture). No surprise there. Maybe this evening is about a little self-reflection.
Hmm. No, that’s boring as fuck. We’ll forgo stupid philosophy at the moment.
Sometimes I just don’t understand the Universe. How come a team of hot Italian models, whacked out on mushrooms, doesn’t walk into this shithole? C’mon, God, throw me a frickin’ bone here! Gimme somethin’ I can work with!
But it’s still just the drunks. And now I’m sadly one of them. Even though I might seem productive typing away at my keyboard, I’m really just another jerk-off, like them. Sad, pathetic, lonely. Throw self-pitying into the mix, too.
But at least I’m writing — still in touch with my passion, and still getting in a goofy quip here and there.
Still no hot models. WTF. My manifestation skills are woefully inadequate.
So where does this piece go?
Apparently nowhere. Should I delete all this bullshit and go find my bed, or should I consider scoping out a local meth dealer to inseminate the evening with a little insanity?
Nah. Maybe one more quick beverage, then an hour or two of weeping into my pillow, before unconsciousness takes me for the night.
The drunks are disappearing quickly. The only guy left is the old fuck who I’m pretty sure walked into this building at 11:05 AM. Christ, how is this asshole still alive? I guess it’s possible he left for a few hours to nap or something, maybe beat off to animal porn, I dunno. But he started this day sitting at the bar for countless hours, and he’s ending it the same way. I doubt he even likes football, but he hasn’t broken his hypnotic stare at the telescreen. Quel surprise.
Still no cocaine-fuelled models. What a bullshit night.
Wait a second… I think the fossil just ordered food. What a grand way to wrap up 12 hours of drinking! Hey, waitress, deep fry me some chicken arms please, I need energy to snap one off to Blondes and German Shepherds 4 when I get home.
Hm. Those two letters just made my word count 666. Perhaps that’s God’s way of saying I should hit that delete button after all. Or maybe it’s Satan’s way of saying I should press on, regardless of not having anything productive to discuss.
But let’s think of this from an artist’s perspective — any amount of time you spend working on your craft is always time well spent.
Hold on… a new twist!
Some “Where’s Waldo” looking jackass just walked out of the kitchen, asking me to buy him a beer — one of the idiot kids at Chuck’s who would serve society better by drinking a pint glass of bleach.
He either lives in a broken down van, or with his crackhead roommate — I’m not sure, I tend to tune him out when he speaks. But I don’t mind shelling out a couple bucks once in a while to degenerates living paycheque to paycheque. I’ve been down that road. I can empathize.
I won’t use his real name in this post, so let’s call him Gerrit. Hmm. That name seems a bit contrived. We’ll refer to him as Gerrit Dale. That seems way faker.
Though he could clearly see I was immersed in some kind of creative project, it didn’t stop him from interrupting, and asking a series of inane questions. Shit like:
“Hey, Mike, do you think people who dye their hair are cool?”
“Hey, Mike, is it normal to drink 7 pots of coffee a day?”
“Hey, Mike, have you ever dropped acid with a large-breasted transvestite?”
But being the polite person I am, I closed my laptop and engaged in the trivial dialogue, and considered the possibility Chuck’s Roadhouse was a vortex sucking in lost and pathetic souls.
My friendly gambit ultimately paid off, as the kid offered to drive me and my car home. I agreed.
Sure, why not? Who am I do deny the generosity of a human who likely can’t spell his middle name?
So I’m home now, finishing this drivel to give myself a sense of accomplishment. Why you’re actually still reading is beyond me. I guess it can’t all be comedic gold here at BonerFruit, but at least be grateful it’s free. Even though you probably feel like I’ve stolen far too many moments of your life that could have been spent watching Dancing With the Stars, or grooming cats, you should give yourself a pat on the back for finishing something you started.
Good for you.
As for me, I’ll start mailing out apology letters.
Maybe homemade Xmas cards instead. Who dares be the first to give me their mailing address?
Perhaps a smarter move if you don’t…