I am the fucking Anti-Superbowl, bitch.
"I just don't get it, man."
"Don't get what," the sudden statement elicited a nonplussed expression on the part of (insert name here), "what the hell is 'to get'?"
"This whole thing, man. You know, the Superbowl. Mass marketed, nothing but slugs bashing into each other on a green rectangle while the proletariat watches on, gets drunk and or high, and makes general idiots out of themselves. They should know better."
The slightly confused expression turned to one of pure annoyance accompanied by a scoff. "Don't tell me you're on another God damned 'the masses are asses' kick, man. It totally harshes my God damned mellow, and when my mellow's harshed, I get the sudden urge to experiment, you know, as in how small of an opening can this," He shook the tupperware bowl in his right hand, "can fit into. You dig what I'm saying?"
"Whatever, man."
"If you were going to start bitching, why the hell did you come in the first place? And you'd better get your hands off those damned chips, that's greasy sustenance for the people who don't know anybody. Feel free to help yourself to the moldy bread on the counter."
"Screw you, man. As a member of the intellectual class I can stuff my face with anything I damn well please," he retorted, spewing orange crumbs in every direction.
"Right...well, help me clean up this mess."
"Again, screw you. I am the anti-superbowl, I do not condone this...what you call 'partying' and what I call unnecessary hedonism in celebration of stupidity. I AM THE MOTHERFUCKIN' ANTI-SUPERBOWL, BITCH! BOW BEFORE ME AND SURRENDER YOUR WOMEN!"
"Get the hell out of my apartment. And put down that bag of chips. And whatever the hell you're on, get off."
"Jeez, man...who put the bug up your butt?"
"Out. Now!"
"Fine...but I'm taking the chips with me. Fascist."
---
Mm...randomness. I don't feel quite like writing, you know, something that makes sense. Until I can actually find something that resembles a plotline I'll continue typing out dialogues that have nothing to do with anything.
"Don't get what," the sudden statement elicited a nonplussed expression on the part of (insert name here), "what the hell is 'to get'?"
"This whole thing, man. You know, the Superbowl. Mass marketed, nothing but slugs bashing into each other on a green rectangle while the proletariat watches on, gets drunk and or high, and makes general idiots out of themselves. They should know better."
The slightly confused expression turned to one of pure annoyance accompanied by a scoff. "Don't tell me you're on another God damned 'the masses are asses' kick, man. It totally harshes my God damned mellow, and when my mellow's harshed, I get the sudden urge to experiment, you know, as in how small of an opening can this," He shook the tupperware bowl in his right hand, "can fit into. You dig what I'm saying?"
"Whatever, man."
"If you were going to start bitching, why the hell did you come in the first place? And you'd better get your hands off those damned chips, that's greasy sustenance for the people who don't know anybody. Feel free to help yourself to the moldy bread on the counter."
"Screw you, man. As a member of the intellectual class I can stuff my face with anything I damn well please," he retorted, spewing orange crumbs in every direction.
"Right...well, help me clean up this mess."
"Again, screw you. I am the anti-superbowl, I do not condone this...what you call 'partying' and what I call unnecessary hedonism in celebration of stupidity. I AM THE MOTHERFUCKIN' ANTI-SUPERBOWL, BITCH! BOW BEFORE ME AND SURRENDER YOUR WOMEN!"
"Get the hell out of my apartment. And put down that bag of chips. And whatever the hell you're on, get off."
"Jeez, man...who put the bug up your butt?"
"Out. Now!"
"Fine...but I'm taking the chips with me. Fascist."
---
Mm...randomness. I don't feel quite like writing, you know, something that makes sense. Until I can actually find something that resembles a plotline I'll continue typing out dialogues that have nothing to do with anything.