I got arrested three weeks ago for public intoxication, failure to obey a lawful order, and disturbing the peace. There is no peace where there are fucking police. That's what I say. But who the fuck am I?
I took time out of my life to read this thing by this guy named Steve Roggenbuck and, like most poor decisions, I found myself asking what the fuck did I just I sit in this library for this long reading this for? There are worse ways to waste your time, yeah, but I'm just saying: what the fuck? And look at this guy. He weighs 95 pounds and pretty clearly thinks he's clever. This is the kind of guy that is fashionably thin and functionally incapable. Something. I just wanted to take a second to talk shit on him, because fuck him. Actually, though, this one struck me as being worth the 8 to 10 seconds my eyes flashed over it:
IT'S OKAY AS
LONG AS WE
GET TO HANG
OUT SATURDAY
NIGHT... I LOVE
THAT NIGHT
St. Patrick's Day is coming up. My primary hope is that I won't go to jail again. Because the chances are that I'll see the same fucking judge again and he'll know me and remember me being quite disoriented and outspoken at my last bail hearing. It's not unlikely that he'd deny bail to someone's second offense in the same fucking month. Motherfucker. I want to pretend that I'm not angry about this shit, but I kind of don't want to even tell you what started the whole deal. Okay but fuck it. Here we go.
Preface: "if it weren't so expensive, I'd wish I were dead." (Jim Prine, for you younger chumps.)
There should be something by now tying this to earlier paragraphs in the column, but I don't feel like it. I don't feel like doing that. Because fuck you and fuck everything. Fuck your mother. These are the kinds of things I was saying when my roommate came out of his room and said that my phone conversation with my mother was irritating him and his girlfriend of three whole weeks or whatever. This man's name is Paco and he often gets into my business with little or no catalyst. It's alright. Everything's alright. I just wish I had shut up and smoked a joint and gone to sleep instead of continuing on down that path, in which I detailed the many friends of his girlfriend whom I'd fucked on various occasions over the past three to four months. Which, true as it may be, Paco didn't want to hear all that. And really didn't warrant it. I just have an issue with authority most of the time.
Paco must have snorted the rest of his cocaine before the girl called the police. She told me she had called them. Then she slammed the door on my nose. I was in the process of talking about her flabby titties. I was doing these things. These retarded things. Being highly anti-social, thinking variously of the vast amounts of cash now stacked in my room. I need to open a fucking bank account already. Or did I? I'm spinning out these days. Paul, I'm not okay.
Look, I don't know if I can do this column thing anymore. But fuck it. It's fun pretending I am a voice of importance. I like your discuss//words thing. Maybe I'll just start posting there.
I think that's all.
