“And that’s why this God damn fucking country is going straight to hell, especially when you shits think you can ridicule me by talking about me in a foreign language. That’s more cowardly than talking about me behind my back. As far as I’m concerned, you, all of you stinking f-holes can suck my uncircumcised dick, and then go back to your shithole country.”
There’s nothing like the concert experience. Actually, there is, public transportation during rush hour, minus the loud music.
As Horace Face made his way through the crowd, barely holding on to three beers in wax-coated paper cups, his knees buckled. Beer sloshed all over him. He had never experienced such a sensation before. He did not like it one bit. He recovered as if nothing happened, so he proceeded.
If you ever wondered what hell or purgatory is like, visit the DMV.
Connie Kim was filling out a registration form to renew her driver’s license, never an easy task, especially when English is your third language. Even more difficult when your mother-in-law hovers over your shoulder with serious kimchi breath on the back of your neck, ostracizing you, telling you to close your o’s and cross your t’s. To be clear, her mom-in-law was Polish and loved to eat kimchi.
The piano was so stoned on the heroin that it lost all sense of self perception. It thought it looked pretty good for its age. No one had the courage to tell it otherwise.
It was the classic struggle of man vs. piano. To be particular, Jerry Dootie was a back end octogenarian, an accomplished pianist, and most worth noting, on the verge of death.
The piano was twice Jerry’s age; it served in the Civil War. It is rumored that Abraham Lincoln attempted to play “Dixie” on the piano. It was horrendous. Not once did anyone bother to consider that Lincoln was musically inept. He was. The piano was blamed, and immediately placed into storage.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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