What to post?
Hmm... I've given this a little bit of thought. This is, after all, my first LJ post and I wanted to make it a good one.
And so, after minutes of heated self-deliberation, I finally decided to tell the world the story of my good friend, Don Pablo.
Now, two weeks ago, I didn't know Don Pablo at all. But, I'm sure if you asked him, he might have said that we were fairly close friends. This is speculatory at best, on my part, but there is some logic behind it...
Why else would that FUCKER waltz into my goddamn living room at three o'fucking clock in the morning? He must have thought we were on pretty good terms, for that kind of thing not to result in an immediate neck breaking parade.
In what could only be described as a display of sheer stupidity (Perhaps alcohol-induced stupidity, but I can't fairly place full mantle of responsibility upon the booze. I mean, let there be no doubt about it... Don Pablo is a fucking moron even when sober. That's a given, but still let us grant credit where credit is due. Alcohol contributed in a great way to his amalgamated stupidity level on that morning.), Don Pablo just stands at the entry to my living room from my backyard for next to a minute.
I, having heard the door open and close, stand and open the door of the bedroom I was in at the end of the hall, directly opposite of Don Pablo. We just stand there and look at eachother for a moment. It was like something out of a movie, to say it plainly. But, really, I thought this guy was going to pull up his shotgun and start pumping me with buckshot at any moment, so I stood there frozen for a what seemed like minutes. Of course, he didn't have a shotgun, but it was too dark for me to know that.
I turn around and head back into the bedroom, and grab my trusty Louisville Slugger. This, my friends, would surely be a fine day. But, much to my dismay, my trespasser (A trespasser, might just *happen* to have picked up a knife from my kitchen. A trespasser who I would have been within my rights to crush within a sliver of his life with my beautiful Ken Griffey II baseball bat. A trespasser who would have never been missed and never been discovered after I had buried him in my backyard.) had run off with his tail between his legs.
The moral of the story is that I had to stay up for like 96 consecutive hours waiting for the fucker to come back, not able to watch any television or play any video games for fear of not hearing the bastard enter my house or start his chainsaw or whatever the fuck it is he might have done if he came back. The moral is that I am gonna KILL THAT FUCKER if I ever see him. I will KILL HIM and I will KILL ALL WHO LOVE HIM!
That's it. I'm done.
And so, after minutes of heated self-deliberation, I finally decided to tell the world the story of my good friend, Don Pablo.
Now, two weeks ago, I didn't know Don Pablo at all. But, I'm sure if you asked him, he might have said that we were fairly close friends. This is speculatory at best, on my part, but there is some logic behind it...
Why else would that FUCKER waltz into my goddamn living room at three o'fucking clock in the morning? He must have thought we were on pretty good terms, for that kind of thing not to result in an immediate neck breaking parade.
In what could only be described as a display of sheer stupidity (Perhaps alcohol-induced stupidity, but I can't fairly place full mantle of responsibility upon the booze. I mean, let there be no doubt about it... Don Pablo is a fucking moron even when sober. That's a given, but still let us grant credit where credit is due. Alcohol contributed in a great way to his amalgamated stupidity level on that morning.), Don Pablo just stands at the entry to my living room from my backyard for next to a minute.
I, having heard the door open and close, stand and open the door of the bedroom I was in at the end of the hall, directly opposite of Don Pablo. We just stand there and look at eachother for a moment. It was like something out of a movie, to say it plainly. But, really, I thought this guy was going to pull up his shotgun and start pumping me with buckshot at any moment, so I stood there frozen for a what seemed like minutes. Of course, he didn't have a shotgun, but it was too dark for me to know that.
I turn around and head back into the bedroom, and grab my trusty Louisville Slugger. This, my friends, would surely be a fine day. But, much to my dismay, my trespasser (A trespasser, might just *happen* to have picked up a knife from my kitchen. A trespasser who I would have been within my rights to crush within a sliver of his life with my beautiful Ken Griffey II baseball bat. A trespasser who would have never been missed and never been discovered after I had buried him in my backyard.) had run off with his tail between his legs.
The moral of the story is that I had to stay up for like 96 consecutive hours waiting for the fucker to come back, not able to watch any television or play any video games for fear of not hearing the bastard enter my house or start his chainsaw or whatever the fuck it is he might have done if he came back. The moral is that I am gonna KILL THAT FUCKER if I ever see him. I will KILL HIM and I will KILL ALL WHO LOVE HIM!
That's it. I'm done.