your tude is rude dude
Thepascualperez (12:23:52 AM): the brown bunny was one of the best pictures ive seen all year
D: You know what Jason to be completely honest with you I’m not very interested in that information right now, and as a matter of face I’m not really interested in even speaking to you at this moment so I’d appreciate it if you’d allow me to cut it short and you can spend the rest of the day impolitely fucking yourself. No, no don’t give me that bullshit. Why? Do I really have to tell you why? The loose lips Man, I can’t take it any more understand me? Every time I let you shimmy your way back in, I open up a little to ya, and I put a little trust in you, what the fuck happens? You spoon it all right the fuck up and proceed to make it more moronic and mischievous than it is, and then bounce over to him like someone shoved a hot poker up your ass beaming with the good fucking news.
I tell you I had a good night over at the Ice Palace the other night and what the fuck does it turn into the second it gets filtered through his grubby hands. A knock on the door and "Hey Den so I understand you have been bragging about engaging in low-life lascivious liaisons on a nightly basis over in Hackensack? Is that what I’m too believe?" You know, he won’t leave me alone with the bullshit. He uses all the tape on my answering machine, he bombards me with these taunting emails till I got them coming out of my ass, and he beeps and screams every time he drives past my house. IT DOES NOT STOP. I don’t have time for him, ok, I’m working six nights a week driving the cab over at Marty’s. You know, I’m doing double shifts whenever I can because EBAY is not pulling in what it used to, you know, and I’m trying to relax. So when I come home from work the last thing I need is him showing up on my doorstep looking to frag my ass on what he thinks are, um, social improprieties and accusing me of giving out free tongue baths to 80 percent of the queens in Bergen County.
Maybe it’s because he’s jealous, you know, that I’m, um, engaging in activities he’ll never have the opportunity to enjoy? I’m coming into this way younger and with a full head of steam than he ever had the chance to do, and it’s possible. It’s possible, that it’s twisting his guts good. Because he’s saddled with the wife and the screaming kids, and whatever the fuck have you. So now I’m the villain for going out and having a good time even though I’m single, you know, I don’t have anyone at home like he does. And I can do whatever the fuck I please. It kills him to see me contented. All of the sudden he tries to play little white willie on me, when I bet you balls to breadcrumbs that he’s had more than his share of rest stop cock-knobbing over the years. You can bet your ass on that fact. And another thing, how many fucking times does he expect me to see the same movie over and over and over again.
On Sunday night he was looking to shit-can my ass for not agreeing to go see The Village a second time. He’s totally over rating the picture, mind you, he’s really off his rocker with this one. He’s calling it one of the best pictures of the year, the cinematography, he says the use of color was phenomenal, the evocation of little red riding hood, the whole thing. I thought the picture sucked, it was over rated trite nonsensical garbage with a say nothing plot twist and a humbungled ending that left me ice cold. Of course, I tempered those feelings the second I saw his eyes light up after getting a quick drink at the water fountain.
"I know I’m swimming against the tide of the entire critical establishment by saying this but I think that picture we just saw was superb, spooky, substantial and surprisingly moving," Sam said.
I rolled my eyes.
"Oh c’mon don’t tell me you’re gonna jump in on that game, this is the kind of thing that’s right up your alley. I can’t believe you of all people, with your obsession with any and every thing apocalyptic, would have a problem seeing the better qualities of a first rate sophisticated horror/thriller/adventure story like this."
I wanted to extinguish my cigarette on the insides of his eyelids. But I just smiled and nodded and left the cock sucker alone to get off on his masturbatory pretentious, pseudo-intellectual bullshit until the plate was licked clean.
Two-thirty that morning the phone rings. I had just accidentally jerked off all over my stomach and I was trying to use a sock to. . . .what the fuck are you laughing at? You said you wanted the whole story. Oh and am I to believe you’ve never accidentally blown your load somewhere it shouldn’t have been before? Or maybe you don’t jerk off, is that what you’re trying to tell me? FUCK You. So where the fuck was I.
So I’m not really in any position to pick up the phone and I figure nobody’s calling to say hi how are ya at that hour anyway. Machine picks up.
"YOU HAVE TURNED INTO A RIDICULOUS PRETENTIOUS FRONT-RUNNING BULLSHITTER BY PANNING THE SHYAMALAN PICTURE. YOU HOLD YOUR ENDORSEMENT LIKE A PALMFUL OF PEARLS AS IF ANYONE GIVES A FUCK. YOU CALLED THE PICTURE TRITE WHEN EVERYONE KNOWS YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE WORD EVEN MEANS. YOU’RE TOO FAINT HEARTED TO GO AGAINST THE ESTABLISHMENT ON THIS ONE SO YOU’RE HIDING BEHIND YOUR USUAL HYPERBOLIC SUPERLATIVE STATEMENTS AND ELIMINATING FROM CONSIDERATION ANY POTENTIALLY VALUABLE QUALITIES THE PICTURE HAS, OF WHICH THERE ARE MULTITUDES! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF."
He hangs up. Bing, what the fuck do you think happens, he calls again. And again. Until finally I picked up the phone and we got into a half hour screaming war over everything, we went from the movie, then he pulled that thing you told him about the Ice Palace right out of his ass and then he was accusing me of trying to trump him with the whole gay thing, saying I’m not gay, I’m just a failed heterosexual. Degrading me. Listen if I wanna be put-down all I gotta do is start talking to myself, so I don’t need him there to do the job.
So please, drop the double talk man or else it’s goodbye sayonara I’ll speak to you on Oscar Night and for Christmas and then that’s the fuck it.
D: You know what Jason to be completely honest with you I’m not very interested in that information right now, and as a matter of face I’m not really interested in even speaking to you at this moment so I’d appreciate it if you’d allow me to cut it short and you can spend the rest of the day impolitely fucking yourself. No, no don’t give me that bullshit. Why? Do I really have to tell you why? The loose lips Man, I can’t take it any more understand me? Every time I let you shimmy your way back in, I open up a little to ya, and I put a little trust in you, what the fuck happens? You spoon it all right the fuck up and proceed to make it more moronic and mischievous than it is, and then bounce over to him like someone shoved a hot poker up your ass beaming with the good fucking news.
I tell you I had a good night over at the Ice Palace the other night and what the fuck does it turn into the second it gets filtered through his grubby hands. A knock on the door and "Hey Den so I understand you have been bragging about engaging in low-life lascivious liaisons on a nightly basis over in Hackensack? Is that what I’m too believe?" You know, he won’t leave me alone with the bullshit. He uses all the tape on my answering machine, he bombards me with these taunting emails till I got them coming out of my ass, and he beeps and screams every time he drives past my house. IT DOES NOT STOP. I don’t have time for him, ok, I’m working six nights a week driving the cab over at Marty’s. You know, I’m doing double shifts whenever I can because EBAY is not pulling in what it used to, you know, and I’m trying to relax. So when I come home from work the last thing I need is him showing up on my doorstep looking to frag my ass on what he thinks are, um, social improprieties and accusing me of giving out free tongue baths to 80 percent of the queens in Bergen County.
Maybe it’s because he’s jealous, you know, that I’m, um, engaging in activities he’ll never have the opportunity to enjoy? I’m coming into this way younger and with a full head of steam than he ever had the chance to do, and it’s possible. It’s possible, that it’s twisting his guts good. Because he’s saddled with the wife and the screaming kids, and whatever the fuck have you. So now I’m the villain for going out and having a good time even though I’m single, you know, I don’t have anyone at home like he does. And I can do whatever the fuck I please. It kills him to see me contented. All of the sudden he tries to play little white willie on me, when I bet you balls to breadcrumbs that he’s had more than his share of rest stop cock-knobbing over the years. You can bet your ass on that fact. And another thing, how many fucking times does he expect me to see the same movie over and over and over again.
On Sunday night he was looking to shit-can my ass for not agreeing to go see The Village a second time. He’s totally over rating the picture, mind you, he’s really off his rocker with this one. He’s calling it one of the best pictures of the year, the cinematography, he says the use of color was phenomenal, the evocation of little red riding hood, the whole thing. I thought the picture sucked, it was over rated trite nonsensical garbage with a say nothing plot twist and a humbungled ending that left me ice cold. Of course, I tempered those feelings the second I saw his eyes light up after getting a quick drink at the water fountain.
"I know I’m swimming against the tide of the entire critical establishment by saying this but I think that picture we just saw was superb, spooky, substantial and surprisingly moving," Sam said.
I rolled my eyes.
"Oh c’mon don’t tell me you’re gonna jump in on that game, this is the kind of thing that’s right up your alley. I can’t believe you of all people, with your obsession with any and every thing apocalyptic, would have a problem seeing the better qualities of a first rate sophisticated horror/thriller/adventure story like this."
I wanted to extinguish my cigarette on the insides of his eyelids. But I just smiled and nodded and left the cock sucker alone to get off on his masturbatory pretentious, pseudo-intellectual bullshit until the plate was licked clean.
Two-thirty that morning the phone rings. I had just accidentally jerked off all over my stomach and I was trying to use a sock to. . . .what the fuck are you laughing at? You said you wanted the whole story. Oh and am I to believe you’ve never accidentally blown your load somewhere it shouldn’t have been before? Or maybe you don’t jerk off, is that what you’re trying to tell me? FUCK You. So where the fuck was I.
So I’m not really in any position to pick up the phone and I figure nobody’s calling to say hi how are ya at that hour anyway. Machine picks up.
"YOU HAVE TURNED INTO A RIDICULOUS PRETENTIOUS FRONT-RUNNING BULLSHITTER BY PANNING THE SHYAMALAN PICTURE. YOU HOLD YOUR ENDORSEMENT LIKE A PALMFUL OF PEARLS AS IF ANYONE GIVES A FUCK. YOU CALLED THE PICTURE TRITE WHEN EVERYONE KNOWS YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE WORD EVEN MEANS. YOU’RE TOO FAINT HEARTED TO GO AGAINST THE ESTABLISHMENT ON THIS ONE SO YOU’RE HIDING BEHIND YOUR USUAL HYPERBOLIC SUPERLATIVE STATEMENTS AND ELIMINATING FROM CONSIDERATION ANY POTENTIALLY VALUABLE QUALITIES THE PICTURE HAS, OF WHICH THERE ARE MULTITUDES! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF."
He hangs up. Bing, what the fuck do you think happens, he calls again. And again. Until finally I picked up the phone and we got into a half hour screaming war over everything, we went from the movie, then he pulled that thing you told him about the Ice Palace right out of his ass and then he was accusing me of trying to trump him with the whole gay thing, saying I’m not gay, I’m just a failed heterosexual. Degrading me. Listen if I wanna be put-down all I gotta do is start talking to myself, so I don’t need him there to do the job.
So please, drop the double talk man or else it’s goodbye sayonara I’ll speak to you on Oscar Night and for Christmas and then that’s the fuck it.