Drunk on truth to stupid baby power.

Hey, How’s It Goin’, Chief?


Hey, it’s good to meet you, dude. I’ve heard so much about what a charmingly goofy person you are from our mutual friend, Samantha.

You know, Samantha? Your purely platonic friend, who– in case she hasn’t told you, and in case you didn’t guess by my overly-aggressive body language, has been casually hooking up with me for a whole week now? Samantha, who just had a really difficult breakup recently, and is increasingly dating guys who are more less or just cries for help? I’m that cry for help, bro. ‘Sup?

You like that handshake, dawg? Pretty intense, right? Like I was trying to pull your arm out of your socket? That’s how I do things, bro, to establish dominance over you. Like an animal. You know, like when you see animals in the zoo? That’s how I’ve chosen to live my life, and the universe has only rewarded me for it. Same reason I literally have not stopped yelling since we got here, haven’t let anyone get a word in.

You okay, bud? You feeling alright? You look upset. Do you need anything? Can I get you anything? Water? Advil? A warm shawl? You okay, squirt? You feelin’ okay? Can’t hang, can you? Because you’re a sickly child, right? You an orphan with cholera, bro? From Victorian times?

See what I did there? I know nothing’s wrong with you, but now everyone’s pitying you, bruh, because they think you’re some waif. They believe it just because I yelled it a lot. Either they believe it, or they’re too polite to say anything, they don’t want to make a scene. That’s the kind of shit I take advantage of, sport, because my heart is an endless blackness and I have no ability to communicate on a meaningful level with other human beings.

I’m terrified, champ. Terrified of how no one wants to get close to me except for in brief and instantly regretted bursts of carnality. Terrified because I look like someone gave steroids to the College Young Republicans Club President. Because I look like Stretch Armstrong’s enemy. The red guy, remember him?

I’m so lonely, chief. Hey, you’re doin’ a shot with us. Come on, don’t be a bitch.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Basic HTML is allowed. Your email address will not be published.

Subscribe to this comment feed via RSS

%d bloggers like this: