methodicalneuropathy

Hello kids, and welcome back to the show. As you may have noticed, I don’t make it a habit to talk about myself much on this piece, as it’s not really my style, and furthermore, not really its main focus or purpose. I do, however, have a story to tell you which involves my personal life. So go grab you some popcorn and your snuggliest feeling robe and curl up next to the fireplace (or space heater) for today’s adventure. (No really… I insist on the popcorn, I’ll wait, it’s gonna be worth it.)

‘Round about October of ‘08, me and my beloved were spending quality time watching TV and talking about funny shit, when one of my friends (who we will refer to as “Grady“) comes up in a conversation, or more importantly, his past relationships. He tends to go out with some cartoonish cunts, but, to each his own. Cartoonish cunts = a bitch who kind of resembles Sylvester Stallone, is an extreme drama king (I would say queen, but the bitch looks like a dude) and allegedly likes to piss on motherfuckers and has a flaming case of herpes; and a bitch who is a white trash bar whore with a northern accent and a forehead area that doesn’t look to be formed quite right.

Anyway, my beloved thought it would be a funny-ass idea to prank call the northern cunt (since it was Grady’s most recent relationship), but to our dismay, there were no resources to find said cunt’s phone numeros. Then the second choice (which really should have been the first) was suggested by my beloved. So she blocked her numeros and called said bitch. When she called her, she said something funny about her hair and maybe said something about having a case of herpes (which was a rumor Grady had told me after she broke up with him, that I had really half believed because Grady tends to be full of shit), then hangs up the phone. That was that, typical prank phone call, end of story. That was a Saturday.

On Monday, I get a call from my beloved, and she tells me that she received a call from State Trooper Whatever-the-Fuck and that the fucking twat called the po-po and had the number traced. The cop told her that said twat had been prank called for a long time by someone else, which was fucking stellar! We obviously had no idea she had been prank called before, and it was just a random thing. I had probably conversed less than four to five sentences to the bitch since I was introduced to her by Grady four years earlier, so obviously the only thing I knew of her is that she was a drama queen and she looked like Stallone with a possible case of herpes.

So you’re probably saying to yourself “well, I know what happened next, the cop probably just tried to scare you a bit and warn you not to call her again, end of story“, not what happened at all kiddies. The cop asked her how she knew of the bitch, and she said she had heard of her from me, and I am a friend of Grady’s. The cop then told her he would call said twat to give her the details of who called and said he was sure it was going to end there. Well, it didn’t. After discovering that I was affiliated with my beloved, said twat insisted on “pressing charges” for “harassing phone calls” (again, I didn’t know the bitch, and didn’t even have a problem with said bitch, but obviously an attempted stab at Grady by proxy by a vindictive cunt) and we had to go meet the cop and sign some paperwork, then drive ourselves to the courthouse (no cuffs, no cop car, we drove ourselves) to sign some more paperwork and wait for our “court date” in the mail.

A few months later (January), we were set to appear at the courthouse before a judge and more than likely “the victim” and her toothless husband (who, by the way, allegedly said he was going to bust my ass for calling his testosterone-laden honey and the pussy-ass didn’t even look at me the whole time we were there at the courthouse). We had to sit in the courthouse lobby (I guess that’s what you would call it, fuck, I’m new to being a felon) for a few hours to the point where it was only me and my beloved on one side of the lobby and both the dudes on the other (Herpes Gash and Toothless McGhee), then we were called in! They were apparently not intending on taking the twat and Toofers into the room with us because it ended up that it wasn’t even going to be a “trial”. Ends up, everyone there (the judge, prosecutor, the lawyer and us) knew it was a joke except for both of these cheesy cocksuckers. When said cunt realized they weren’t intending on taking her pus-filled box back with them, she jumped up and demanded to get in. When we were in the back room, the judge basically said: “Here, sign this shit and don’t have any contact with these motherfuckers for a year, and pay your court costs, then your shit will be dropped and you won’t have any record of any kind. Furthermore, I think I can smell that whore’s scalded gash from here” (okay, maybe I’m paraphrasing just a little…).

The judge then asked the bitch something along the lines of “is there anything you would like to add?“, and in response said twat goes off on a fucking tirade and says I (not my beloved, who is the one who called) had been harassing her for over five years (she had only known grady for barely four years) and that I just won’t stop and she’s at the end of her rope. In reality, I have never called the bitch, sent an e-mail, wrote a letter or even a fucking carrier pigeon. She also said “and they made fun of my medical condition I have had since I was younger” (which proves the bitch has herpes. Remember, up to this point, it was only a funny rumor). She obviously knew she was lying her nasty ass off, and was intentionally trying to get me and my beloved into some serious shit. Well, it didn’t work. So we signed some shit, didn’t contact the bitch and we had six months to pay our court costs (which was only around $160 each and was due around July of ‘09), and my beloved took care of her court costs right away. I, on the other hand, intended on taking care of my court costs later as it was not high on my list of priorities. When we left the room, the lawyer wanted us to go in the back room with her for a minute and she asked what the “medical condition” was. We told her it was herpes, and she fucking lost her whole shit laughing. So yeah, after meeting with the judge, prosecutor, and lawyer in the biggest herpes trial of the century, we spent the next several minutes in the back room ripping on the bitch with the lawyer. Good times.

Well, time flies and it is now March ‘10 and paying my court costs had completely slipped my mind (you know, motherfuckers remember their electric bill and cable bill, but you tend to forget your herpes-infested twat bill) and I received a letter from the courthouse just the other day letting me know if I didn’t pay that shit right away they were going to suspend my license. And although I don’t see how the fuck a license ties into non-payment of herpes-infested twat bill, I just went on my merry-ass way earlier and took care of said bill.

Now, the case is completely dropped, no record, no slap-on-the-wrist, no nothing. Just a receipt for my payment of my herpes-infested twat bill and fond memories of a Stallone-looking bitch with a case of scalding herpes and her punk-ass husband trying to get niggas in trouble for something they didn’t even do. So kids, the next time you intend on prank calling someone, just make sure it’s not some insane herpes-ridden gash who will stop at nothing to attempt to exert its fully engorged 5 inch clit into your greasy ass and then take a hot, steamy piss on your chest.

One last thing, the items from my herpes-infested twat bill receipt:

Court Costs: $10.00
Regional Jail- Criminal: $40.00
Crime Victim’s Compensation: $10.00
Law Enforcement Training Fund: $2.00
Court Security Fund: $5.00
Jail Per Diem Fee: $47.53
Community Correction Assess.: $10.00
Courthouse Fac. Imp. Fund: $5.00
Regional Jail Operations Fund: $30.00
Calling a scalded vindictive cunt: Priceless

The best 160 bucks I ever spent. Until next time kiddies!

I was thinking earlier this evening of growing up and got a little half-assed nostalgic. Shit was so simple back then, fuckin’ video games, G.I. Joes, jackin’, etc… Well, maybe a few things haven’t changed. But speaking of jackin’ I used to have these two jack socks under my bed and they were named Dreamcatcher and Mr. Crispy. Protein really makes shit super stiff, these fuckin’ socks were whored so much, they had some sharp edges. I could cut butter with my jack socks. Anyway, I just thought I’d share. Tune in next time. And remember kids, Target is only K Mart with better shit.

I was just reminiscing recently about back in 2003, when I was in a band and we all lived in the same house. I had just graduated high school less than a year earlier, and not one of us had a job (there were four of us in the band, and three of the guys, including myself, lived in the house together). Aside from the four bandmates, one of my best friends lived right down the road from me, and he came over to the house all the time. He didn’t work either. We were all in our late teens and early twenties, and we experienced nothing but hanging out, and playing music 7 days a week. Don’t get me wrong though, we didn’t have much money, and couldn’t afford to do much, but being able to go to bed as the sun came up and waking up in the afternoon just to hang out and play music was just utter euphoria. We are raised our entire lives to believe that we have to wake up at the same time everyday, and go to the same place for 40 years to be able to “make it” in life. It has been over six years since we all lived in that house, and I have accomplished a good bit (as many people do in a 6 year period) since then. But I can honestly say that through the projects I have been involved with, the jobs I have been employed in, and the money (and I hate money) that I’ve made since, not much seems to be able to top those times.

I mean really, what can top waking up at 2 PM and creeping into the living room wearing nothing but leopard-pattern boxer shorts, and blasting Cannibal Corpse as high as it will go to cause your couch-sleeping drummer to jump out of his skin? Or getting the guys together and playing for hours on end in the basement? Or making some frozen pizzas or ramen noodles, and piling in the living room to have one of our long-winded discussions about everything and nothing at the same time? One of the guys had a video camera that we would set in the corner and record our hours-long conversations, then we would watch the tapes later and just laugh and laugh. Good times.

Unfortunately, as time progresses, many things change for better and for worse. We all moved out of the house later that year, and really haven’t played together since. Also, some of the guys are married, some with kids, some have jobs that don’t allow for much else other than work and sleep, and one of the guys lives a few hundred miles away in another state. We are all still friends of course, we just don’t see each other nearly as much as I would like.

I guess the point that I am trying to make aside from reminiscing, is that you’re never too old to enjoy life. The need to set aside your happiness for “responsibility” is a misconception, and is intended to create just another worker ant. And chasing money will only make you unhappy and in need of more money and material. I was the happiest when I was dirt poor and had nothing but music. Start enjoying life for what it is, and try to not worry about money and material as much. Money and material are superficial, and can be gone in an instant. The relationships, the impacts that you make, and the art that you create will live on way after you’re gone. Appreciate and embrace what you have, and sing your life away