Friday, October 06, 2006

You'd Think I Died. Keep Wishing.

Christ. Time really does fly the older you get. It looks like I haven't touched this blog since end of August when Jack forced me to destroy my kitchen table. Just like that. A month went by.


Maybe it's because all the days that roll on by seem just as miserable as the one before. I don't know. I can't really tell any of them apart anymore. I get up, I take a shit, I eat some cereal, take another shit, go to work, come home, eat a Hot Pocket, watch some TV, listen to Jack's crazy ass adventures and then go to bed.

Wash. Rince. Fucking repeat.

This is the life I've carved out for myself? This is the best I can do with the remaining time I've got left?

I think about my 'heart attack' and I wonder when the next one is coming. If I were to take the dirt nap today, could I look back on my life and think: Yeah, Bill. Not too shabby. Not too shabby at all, old timer. Well. Could I?

Probably not.

Well, I don't mean to get reflective or bore any of my remaining readers with my rambling. You're probably wondering where the next nasty story is or the next time I make a complete ass out of myself.

I sense it's just around the corner. Here's why:

I started talking about 'not having much time left' and me being 'in the Korean War for crissakes' with Jack one night while we were sitting up watching a Chuck Bronson movie on the cable tv. He started asking me shit about women. I told him I was married (and divorced) three times. Each one of them worse than the one before. I even went so far to say I was glad one of them was dead.

"Fuck her," I said. I'd had a few too many to drink. I don't do it often, but when I do, look the fuck out.

"Wow," Jack said. "So you haven't thought about dating again? You know, getting back on the horse?"

I looked at Jack like someone had dipped him in shit and put doughnut sprinkles on him. Was he out of his fucking mind? I had to ask him.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"No," Jack said, belching into the crook of his arm. The boy's got manners, I'll give him that. "I just think you'd probably be a little healthier if, you know, you were with a lady from time to time."

"Trust me," I said, almost tempted to break my empty bottle over his damn fool head. "One reason I'm such a crabby son of a bitch is because of broads. I've been shit on too many times to fall into that racket again."

Jack sighed and shook his head. "I don't know, man. I just think it's kind of sad. I mean, I hope when I get older I'm not going to end up a miserable old prick like you..."

The stink eye I gave him stopped him dead in his tracks.

"No offense, but I sort of wonder if I'm going to end up like this. Old, living in an apartment, not getting any pusssy..."

"Hey, hey," I shouted, gripping the bottle tighter. "I can get pussy. I just don't like the trouble attached to it. Christ. I was balls deep in Korean hookers when your goddamn dad was a zygote in your grandpa's nutsack."


"Never mind," I said. "My point is, that time is over. My friend Murray tried to hook me up with some broad in California a couple years ago and that went down the shitter. I think I'm just..."

Jack looked up. I guess I stopped in mid-sentence.

"Just what, Bill?"

I shook my dumb old head. "I guess I'm just waiting to die."

Jack grabbed me by the sleeve and shook me. My baseball cap popped off and fell to the floor.

"Fuck all that, man. I'm going to get you laid. That is my new mission in life."

I shook my head. Yeah, I could just see that. Jack will bring home some young little floozy and she'd take one look at me and throw up all over herself. I'm old, I'm miserable, and I look like I'm ready for the crypt.

"Don't even..."

"You're not the boss of me, Bill," Jack said. He stood up and went over to the computer. "Some way, some how, I'm going to set you up with someone."

"But, why?" I started to get nervous. I've seen this punk kid when he gets an idea in his head. He gets shit done. It's scary, almost.

Jack ignored me and started typing shit into the computer. Great. He was going to scour the internet for me. I'm sure I'll end up with some old fat broad so ugly she makes the street crack.

I tried all night to talk to the little prick. He wouldn't say word one to me. I ended up going to bed, afraid for morning and what his 'quest' will bring. It's nights like those where I hope I go to sleep and never wake up.

Stay tuned, Tabbies. I think shit is about to get much worse.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

I Didn't Need To See That.


Having a roommate is the shits. I mean, Jack is a good kid and all, but there's something about another person sharing your personal space that just gets up in the crack of your ass and starts to itch. You know?

Take the food situation. I don't like a whole lot of variety in my diet. Give me a Hot Pocket and a cold beer and I'm set for the night. I make sure I have plenty on hand so that I don't have to go to the store and stock up on those breaded delights. When I came home from work the other night, I found Jack sprawled out on the couch asleep. The crazy son of a bitch was wearing his skivvies and nothing else, a half-eaten broccoli, chicken and cheese Hot Pocket on his chest. Some of that day-glo cheese seeped out and was bonding to his three or four chest hairs.

That must've hurt like a motherfucker. Burned, at least. But no, Jack slept right through it. I don't know if I was pissed about the mess he'd made or that he'd gotten into my HP supply. Fucking kids.

Another time in the middle of the night, he came back to the apartment, piss drunk. He stumbled around the place, knocking over chairs, banging into walls and made it to the bathroom. There, he proceeded to throw up like someone was taking a rake to his insides and pulling 'em up through his throat. I lay in bed, looking at the ceiling and wishing he'd just go ahead and die already. I listened as he said:

"Oh, God Jesus. Oh, God Jesus.... Oh Gaaa-rowwwlffhfgdhu!!!!"

The poor, miserable prick was calling in a favor to God n' Jesus and they were both responding with a big 'fuck you.' He threw up for what seemed like 3 hours.

The capper was when I worked a day shift and cut out early to go and get a check up, you know, because of my fucking heart. I punched out in the early afternoon, took the goddamn bus to my appointment, got the 'change your diet this, watch your activity level that and I headed back to the apartment. When I got there, I could see the smell-ass shoes Jack wore in the entryway, alongside another pair of smaller chick-like shoes.


Thinking he was in his room probably drilling some floozy, I went into the kitchen. There, on my kitchen table, was a naked girl of about 21, attached at the vagina to Jack's fuckstick. They took no notice of me in the kitchen door way and were going at it like a couple of nymphomaniacs.

"Yeah, you like that? You like a little Jack-in-the-box?"

I couldn't believe he said that to this broad as he drilled his piss-pump home. Over and over. The broad's tits were doing pirouettes on her chest as she clutched the sides of my shitty little table.

I couldn't believe I was watching this. I also didn't realize she'd seen me.

"Oh shit," she said covering up her serviceable funbags. "Your dad is home."

Jack withdrew like it was second nature. 'Shlop.'

"Shit, Bill," Jack said, out of breath. "I didn't think you'd be home until, you know, later."

I blinked and watched as the girl scrambled to get dressed. She didn't know if she should cover her tits, her groomed snapper, or her nice round shitbox. I think she wished she had an extra arm to get the job done.

"Yeah," I think I said. "I sort of didn't think I'd have to worry about you fucking someone on my kitchen table. Where I eat my goddamn meals."

Jack turned and looked at the table as if he hadn't thought of that. He didn't bother pulling on some pants, but I really wished he would have. It's a little unsettling talking to someone with their sex-slickened dong hanging out.

"I'll call you later, Jack," the young chick said, buttoning her loose cans into a flannel shirt. She looked at me and smiled with a shrug. "Sorry."

Jack sort of stood there, not sure where to look or what to do. He started to talk and I interrupted him.

"You know I'm going to have to burn this table now, right?"

Jack looked down at his diminishing erection. He nodded to the floor.

That night, with Jack's help, I pulled my kitchen table (one of the few things I got from my 2nd divorce) and with a small axe I used to wield when I was one of those faggots that liked to camp every weekend, I chopped the table into kindling. I dropped the pieces into an empty garbage can and lit the whole fucking works up.

Jack and I stood there in front of the barrel fire like a couple of homeless assholes, shifting our weight and shuffling our feet. We didn't say anything.

We just watched the fire.

Friday, August 04, 2006

Those Cocks.

So, it's been a while. What'd you expect? I had what has been determined a minor heart attack. For christ's sake. I still don't think that was it. I'm convinced I fell down and knocked my damn fool head on something.

Regardless, I've been taking it easy.

I don't have much time. I'm actually going back to work today, but I figured I'd update the 2.1 people who still actually give a shit about ol' Bill Tabernacle.

Jack moved into my apartment. You know, the bar-back from the bar where I almost fucking ate it? Yeah. It's a temporary move, but he insisted, saying it'd be better if he was around in case I (in his words) "Do another face plant in the concrete."

I oughta bust that son of a bitch in his smart mouth.

What is it with e-mail? How come I don't get any? Make me wonder why I bothered with the bullshit. I mean, I was in the Korean War for crissakes. Shouldn't I be getting some messages from the government? Letters of appreciation from the citizens I fought to protect?

No. Instead, I get propoganda for prick pills.

In the e-mail was this picture:

Don't get me wrong. I don't mind looking at the photograph, what with the heavy, heavy boobs that woman has hanging off of her, but it's a little fucking sickening too. Do they really need to rub it in that my cock is on auto-pilot?

I look at this picture and wonder if it isn't time to put the bayonet into my chest and just take the one-way ticket to Silent Town forever.

I'm never going to get behind a whore like that.

My fucking hair never looked that good.

What the hell are they talking about? Rabbit hole?

Christ. I swear, sometimes I don't even know what the hell people are talking about anymore. If you can avoid it, don't get old.

It's for the fucking birds.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

The Phantom Shitter 3: The Last Stand

(pack a lunch for this one, Tabermaniacs)

Oh Tabbies,

I'm trying to get more goddamn creative about my bloggy titles. I sort of stole this from some movie title that's in the cinemas around here. I have no shitting idea what it's about. It sounded like a pornographic movie title, but I could be wrong.

Hopefully, the subject of this edition of TMTTY will clue some of your more daft sonsabitches as to what's going on. The Phantom Shitter has been unmasked. It's about goddamned time too. I was getting sick of the barrel-sized ass-missiles he was leaving behind.

It started a couple nights ago.

I was busy wiping the bar and scratching my fuck-stick and paste pellets when Jack came up to me, all excited. He threw the empty bottles he'd collected into the can and they broke with a nerve-rattling 'CLINK!'

"Holy shit, son," I said, thumbing a piece of Juicy Fruit into my word hole. "Ease up on the bottle tossing."

"Sorry, Bill," Jack said, doing a dance like he had to piss something fierce. "I was just in the pisser, when I heard something godawful."

My eyes lit up. I gave my case of chronic jock-itch a rest. My balls could be scratched later. If this was going where I thought it was going, all that extra-curricular shit could wait.

"The Phantom Shitter?"

Jack gulped and nodded, still doing the I-really-have-to-piss dance that 3 year olds sometimes do.

"What makes you think so?" I put the towel down, poured Beefcake Murphy his final beer for the night and waved the prick off.

"There's someone screaming in there, kind of like they're giving birth."

This had to be it. I came around the bar like a madman, ignoring the sharp pains racing into my trick knee. This was it. This was my moment in the sun. This was when I was going to get to the bottom of the monster who lay waste (literally) to the bathroom's at my place of employment.

"Jack, my boy," I said with I'm sure a twinkle in my eye. "Let's fucking do this."

I kicked the door to the bathroom open and waited a moment. The stink rolled into Jack and I like a fog of filth. I almost welcomed it, much like a hunter must welcome the signs and trackings of his prey. It definitely smelled like shit. We were on the trail, all right.

"Oh god, help," some poor miserable son of a bitch muttered from the middle stall. A fart thundered from somewhere behind the battered stall door, making the rest of the bathroom quake a bit.

At least it seemed to.

Odd, I thought. Our old buddy usually drops his industrial-sized droppings in the last stall. How curious...

"I can't get it out, for the love of Jesus," the Phantom Shitter exclaimed. I could hear him shuffling around in there, fighting that turd through the much-too-small opening. I couldn't imagine what it was like to try and force something so colossal out of your own body.

"We'll call the paramedics," Jack called out.

I turned and slapped him across the face. He looked at me like a wounded, abused child. I held up one finger, the only thing I could think of to make him stop and wait a minute. We didn't want the goddamn paramedics in here ruining our shot at the big time. No way.

"'s definitely stuck," the Shitter screeched. "Please send some help."

I decided enough was enough. I puffed up my chest, and got ready to kick the door in. I was used to taking the lead and bringing dangerous, unsavory situations to a close. After all, I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

With a grunt, I kicked the door in, letting it smack against the interior stall wall with a loud BANG! There, standing with his pants around his ankles, was Fred Gustafson.

The Phantom Shitter?

"Oh, man," old Fred groaned. "Thank god."

I looked at the scene. There wasn't a giant log lying in, on, or above the toilet water. A small cloud of yellow indicated that Fred took a piss and that was it. What was curious, though was was he was the toilet paper dispenser.

"What are you doing to the toilet paper dispenser, Fred?" I looked down and saw that his manhood had somehow got caught between the 'active' roll of toilet paper and the one up above it, used when the 'active' roll was depleted.

"I was taking a piss, drunk off my ass when I looked down. The bitch was asking for it, man!"

He pulled and tried to free his miserable prick, but it stayed caught. His piss pump was stuck between the two rolls of toilet paper.

"What the fuck," I muttered, slowly putting the scenario together. I'd heard of horny, drunk guys, but this was...

"Ridiculous," Jack said, still holding his red face. "You tried to fuck the toilet paper thing."

Fred groaned. "It looked just like a nice comfortable vagina, guys. Two nice, neat rolls. Close together. You gotta understand. I thought I could slip it in, pump it a few times and be on my way."

I wanted to haul off and kick ol' Fred in the ass for being so stupid, but I didn't want to sully my boot and I didn't want him to get any more stuck than he was. I turned to Jack with a sigh. It seemed we weren't going to crack the Phantom Shitter case that night after all.

"Sorry I slapped you, kid," I apologized. "I guess I over-reacted."

"It's cool, Bill," Jack replied, with a small smile. "Thought we had 'em, huh?"

"Ayuh," I muttered. Then, feeling like a real shit-heel, I asked him to go and call the ambulance. He went off, a little too excited to get out of the men's bathroom.

"You won't tell my wife, will ya?" Fred reached down and gripped his urine pipe, giving it a few good tugs. It was stuck fast.

"Nah," I said, backing out of the stall. "Help is on the way, there, Freddy."

He thanked me and as I was leaving the bathroom, I heard the last stall flush. I hadn't realized anyone else was in there. I turned on my heel, and saw a smaller, strange-looking man come out. He made his way to the sink and, looking at me in the corner of his eye, washed his hands.

The hands were small, almost feminine. As if to further prove it, the nails were longer. He looked up into the scratched up mirror and wiped his mouth. His mustache moved a fraction of an inch and when he pulled his hand back, the mustache came off!

This cock-sucker was in disguise!!!

That was when the stink hit me. It wasn't ol' Fred in his stall after all that had made the nuclear war in the bar's shitteria. It was this shifty, crazy son of a bitch.

To confirm my suspicions, I peeked my head into the stall.

There it was. A giant log the size of a telephone pole, lying half into the bowl full of sludge, half out. The Phantom Shitter had struck again and he was standing a mere two feet from me. When he saw that I saw the atrocity he'd left on the toilet seat, he broke into a run, heading for the door.

Now, I'm no marathon runner or an action hero, but I had to catch this vile son of a bitch. No matter what.

I was out the door and after the Phantom, knocking into Molly who had a pitcher of beer on her tray. It went down in a golden shower of beer and glasses broke like we were at some Jew's wedding.

The Phantom ran like a girl, but I was right on his ass, watching as his mangy hair fell off of his head and landed at the foot of some dick-nose dressed in NASCAR shit.

The costume was falling apart. In no time, I would know who the Phantom REALLY was.

He got to the front door without any problem and went around the corner, heading toward the back of the building. I was grunting and wheezing right behind him. I didn't care about my knee, my job or anything else. I was going to catch this prick once and for all.

The Phantom turned the corner and made his last mistake. He stood in the little alcove where we keep the dumpster. The miserable motherfucker was trapped.

I caught up with him and stood there, waiting for him to turn around and face the music.

"You sick son of a bitch," I wheezed. "There's something wrong with you."

"No," the Phantom said as he turned around. "There's something wrong with you, Bill."

Bill? Who the fuck did this dirty bastard think he was. That's Mr. Tabern...

Shit. I looked and saw the Phantom face to face. It wasn't a guy at all, but a woman. A woman I recognized. I wasn't sure until I saw the messed-up eye. If I wasn't mistaken, she'd gotten that injury last Christmas.

No, the Phantom Shitter wasn't some dude. It was...


Surely you remember Shirley.

I don't know what happened next. Somehow my eyes got all swimmy, my legs weakened beneath me and I could've sworn I saw ol' Shirley do a backflip and land in the dumpster. After that, everything went dark.

All I know is I woke up in the hospital. Jack was sitting next to my bed.

"You got a concussion," he said, looking at me like I was covered in maggots. "People say they saw you run out of the bathroom and out into the streets. The paramedics brought both you and ol' Fred in. Good thing I called those guys."

I sighed. I had no idea what the fuck was going on. I just know I shouldn't have slapped the kid.

God damn it.

Monday, June 05, 2006

Sometimes I Wish The Terrorists Would Just Win Already


I know I'm a vet and all that patriotic horseshit, but sometimes I really do wish the terrorists would just go ahead and win already. I mean it. Everyone talks about how great this country is and how we have all of these so-called freedoms, but you know what? I'm not buying it.

Do this little test. Go somewhere crowded and just act like a goddamn sponge. Absorb all of the human filth walking around on cottage cheese legs, listen to how people talk to their kids, notice how customer service people treat their customers. Look at the piles of garbage on the grounds. Watch a fat woman eat a greasy hamburger in one hand and suck on a cigarette with the other. Look at a douchebag with NASCAR shit all over his shitty Chevy Cavalier. Notice how much gas costs.

Sometimes, I just shake my head and say: Fuck this country.

Corrupt politicians shooting people in the face while hunting. A goddamn gorilla running the Whitehouse (referred by B. Tabernacle as the 'Shithouse'), that human phony Oprah Winnpeg (or whatever the fuck her name is) telling people how to live and PEOPLE LISTENING TO HER!!!

It's enough to make me want to fall onto my bayonet and call it a day.

If I seem exceptionally owly and curt today, it's for good reason. I had to do some shopping for supplies and I goddamn hate doing it. Because it makes me reflect on this shit in one convenient spot.

Our area Walmart.

Now, usually I go out and buy as much toiletpaper (turd tickets) deodorant, toothpaste, soap, etc. as I can afford so I don't have to venture out as often. But, I strung it out as far as I could. I had to goddamn go.

Now, since the passing of my beloved Silvia, I had to take the bus. Lots of fun if you've got to haul 20+ plastic Walmart bags back onboard with you. Well, it's horseshit.

So there I am, an hour later looking to find the best buy on dish soap when I see some douchebag ignoring his kids while he's busy inspecting a Dale Earnhardt Jr. wall clock. He's looking at it like a horny prick looks through a peephole at a naked dancing whore. Of course, he's got about 150 pounds of surplus beef hanging over his belt buckle. His kids are trying to reach something up on one of the shelves and have even gone so far as to start scaling the merchandise racks.

I can only pause and watch with rapt fascination. This is going to be interesting.

The kid pulls down a remote-controlled NASCAR car, all while applying his full weight to the shelves. The little porker's eyes open wide as he hears a metallic snap and wouldn't you know it, the whole goddamn works (shelves and all) comes raining down on him and his little brother. There's a 'whack' as the kid hits the floor and he's pelted with about 30 more of those redneck race cars.

NASCAR Sr. drops the clock in what I think is going to be a heroic move to pull his buried boys from the wreckage, but instead he yanks the kids up by the arm and smacks them both in the head, adding insult to injury.

"Now look whatchu did," the toothless prick mumbles. Both kids start screaming and crying, my blood pressure went through the fucking roof and I just wanted to GET THE FUCK OUT of there.

I don't want to seem like any more of a judgemental asshole than I've already portrayed myself, but I literally looked around me after that incident and I saw stuff that made me ashamed to be an American. To my left was a woman who weighed 500 pounds easily riding around on one of those scooters. I think she was maybe 42 years old. On top of it? She had a rose tattoo on her industrial-sized leg. What a goddamn mess. I'm 70 years old and I was in the Korean War for crissakes. I don't need any shitty scooter. Get up and walk you fat trashbag full of shit.

As I made my way down the aisle, I saw some pregnant broad pushing a cart loaded with shitty food and about 13 kids running back and forth from shelf to shelf, trying their best to pitch their wanted purchases to the their parents. Both of them looked like they fell off the back of wagon loaded down with comatose patients. The idea that these two were going to have ANOTHER kid made me sick to my stomach.

I brought my shit to the counter and had to put up with some scab named 'Marlene's' smarmy remarks. She looked at the 12 packs of toilet paper and said, "Boy, looks like someone goes through the TP!"

I gave her the patented Tabernacle stink-eye.

She muttered under her breath, I paid for my shit and hefted all of my products out toward the bus stop. Now, I'm not a praying man, but I said a little something under my breath, just wishing a fucking A-Bomb would drop on the Walmart moments after I left. It would be like a scene from a movie, except the rest of the town would benefit from the people inside being incinerated.

Hey, a guy's got to dream, right?

Christ. Just thinking about my 'shopping day' makes me pissed. I need a goddamn drink.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

The Pounding In My Ears, The Pounding of My Fists


Thanks for sticking with your ol' buddy Bill. It's a disgrace that I don't get on here to update this pile of dogshit blogger-thing more often. I wish I could say I'm too busy chasing skirts and whooping it up, but that would be a lie.

Bill Tabernacle doesn't lie.

Truth is, I've just about had it with my neighbors. I'm ready to sharpen my bayonet and filet those sonsabitches. If you've been following my previous groanings, you'll know I've got some inconsiderate neighbors who like to listen to loud, horrible music. You know, the kind that shakes the walls and makes your testicles leap into your pelvis?

Yes. That kind of music.

It happened again last night. There I was, getting some much deserved shut-eye in my comfortable, dumpy little bed. It's an old shitty mattress. If you took the sheets off, it looks like someone was murdered on it, but damn if it ain't comfortable.

Anyway, I'm off track. I was dreaming about Hot Pockets, or internet breasts, or some damn thing and the next thing I know, my framed picture of Sophia Loren is rattling on my wall. If it kept up, the cock-sucking thing was going to come down and break over my dumb head.

I sat up in a cold sweat. Fuck, I thought. Was it the Koreans?

I sometimes wonder if they'll ever come looking for me. Straining to hear a little better, I figure out what is making that goddamn racket. It's my shitting neighbors.

If you remember, I went over there before and threatened to beat the shit out of the woman in front of her kids if this kind of monkey business continued. I think I might have called her a cooze to put a little salt in the wound.

Well, I had fucking had it.

I got up, put on my robe (I didn't want my piss pump to poke through my pajama pants) and got ready to kick some ass.

I went out the goddamn door. All I could hear was 'WHOOMP, WHAAM, BOOM-BOOM, SLAAAM.' I don't know how anyone can call that over zealous horseshit music, but that's what some folks like to listen to.

I clenched up a fist and pounded it into my open hand. Oh, yes. A punch from ol' Bill Tabernacle would still hurt. And that's what I had on my mind. Delivering the hurting. As I reached up to pound on the door of the apartment and punch this dumb bitch right in the mush, I heard something that made me think again.

Her kids. Her goddamn kids.

Yes, yes. I know. I threatened to beat this dumb twat up in front of her kids, but now that it was the moment of truth, I couldn't bring myself to do it. I couldn't imagine how scary that would be for some kid. Some crazy old white prick comes in and beats the shit out of your mom while you look on in horror.

So I did what anyone else would do. I made a different plan of attack. Changing up your stategy is nothing for an old vet like me. You assess the situation and plan your course of action with the options presented to you. This is the kind of shit I did when I was in the service. Lest anyone forget: I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

I found a large black Sharpie marker. I found a brick outside by the dumpster.

With just a little light from the street lamps, I scrawled the message:


Then, I heaved the brick through her apartment window. I'm pretty sure I didn't hit any of her kids, but I knocked some shit over with the brick. I heard the crashing of glass and something else in there tipped over.

In seconds, the music was turned off and I heard the words that have become music to my ears:

"Goddamn, muthafucka! What the fuck is this?"

A second later, I heard her ranting and raving. Apparently she saw my hastily written message. I ducked into the shadows in just the nick of time. I crouched down next to some garbage cans, making my trick knee sing. I think I might have played a note or two on the ol' butt trumpet too. She poked her head out the broken window, looking for the culprit. She was swearing up a storm, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. It sounded like a bunch of clicks and whistles to me.

There I sat, breathing in my own stink, wincing from the pain in my leg, smiling like some kind of stupid juvenile delinquent. I couldn't help it.

Lesson? Don't fuck with Bill Tabernacle. Otherwise, out come the bricks.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Murray the Jew

Holy fuck.

My friend Murray Goldfarb (aka Murray the Jew) is back in action. I had no idea. The old prick didn't see it fit to call me up or anything.

He's started a blog here. Who Needs A Drink?

Christ. This is good news. He and I had some crazy ass adventures in the past.


I Might Have A Roommate Soon.

Tabbies. How are you?

Some people have sent me e-mail about my decision to extract some of the angry bullshit I put on 'those other people's sites.' I thought I'd share an e-mail with you that struck me as poignant.

Hey Bill, you old cunt. Why'd you puss out and wipe out your comments about those CA assholes??? Ha, ha.. Just playin'. LOL!!!! - Super Jeremy

Here was my response:

Dearest Super Jeremy:

Fuck you. First off, it's my goddamn blog and I'll run it as I see fit. I still think those people are fucking crazy for posting that personal shit on their sites, but even so, it really wasn't my place to weigh in. I said what I wanted, and that was that.

Secondly, I hope you're not a regular reader of my fine blog. If so, please don't ever come back. Also, I hope you fall on a knife. No. I'm not just playing, you prick. Treat me with some respect. I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

Your lovin'
Super Bill

Alright. I'm closing the books on this bullshit once and for all.

As you may have surmised from the title of this shitty entry, I might get a roommate. Not sure it's going to be the best idea, but ol' Jack from the bar got thrown out of his girlfriend's apartment and he's got nowhere to go.

One part thinks it'll be hilarious to have the kid around, but the other part of me thinks it'll be a demonstration in complete and utter fucking annoyance. I have no idea what this asshole is like outside of being at the bar investigating the Phantom Shitter, cracking wise about some of the patrons, etc.

The kid might be a complete shithead.

I'm supposed to know in the next week whether he needs a joint to rest his head or not.

Christ. Me and my big mouth.

Stay tuned Tabbies...