You'll Get Nuttin and Like It

So. I was at a deli this a.m. ordering an egg & cheese roll to feed my hangover when I heard some jackass non-ironically say, "Can't we all just get along?" What a homo. Apparently, this was his aghast reaction after another guy cut in front of him at the register. Of course we can't all just get along. I mean, take this Snooty McLadypants, for instance. I want nothing to do with him. I loathe him, if you really want to know about it. Tolerance, shmolerance. If you're lame enough to say something like "can't we all just get along" in response to some fat guy cutting in line ahead of ya, well, you deserve to be inconvenienced. Carrying it further, there's just no fucking way I'm going to ever get along with some damn honkey who wears dreads (for example). I mean, forget about it. I see one of these guys and he's immediately on my list [of things that make me want to barf -- see my last post]. Granted, I'm not exactly the most easygoing person in the world. But. I'm not "just getting along" with everybody for the sake of getting along -- most people suck donkey balls (that's a fact) and need to move it (or lose it). God, I should have kicked McLadypants right in the nuts.

And that's how my day started. I knew I should have just gone to Dunkin' Donuts like I always do, but my sorry, lazy ass chose the closest feeding hole, this lame-ass deli that known collie-molesters frequent (according to sources; I'm gathering proof). God, this day is just ruined. I don't think I can recover from the McLadypants incident. Call me I.R. Pissed. But. I have things to do, including the following (in no particular order):

1. Pick up the copy of Angry John Sellers' book that I ordered from an indie bookshop in Brooklyn. Holy crap, you should have seen the guy working the info counter when I placed the order -- what a fruit! I'm pretty sure he's the type that wears, well, ladypants. Thank god I don't have any proof.

2. Buy some pants. I usually go to Daves New York there on 6th Ave for my kit. Good stuff. But you get cased like eight times whenever you're in there -- I'm an adult! I'm not a shoplifter, goddammit! And I can find my own pants! If I don't find my size (yes, usually some sort of "husky" measure, although I prefer the term "relaxed fit") I'll ask (or more likely flee).

3. Possibly have some beers with the person that I'll be subletting from starting Tuesday. That'll be a game-time decision, ladies and germs.

4. Vomit. Yeah, I probably will need to evacuate my guts the hard way -- there's some serious super-sized Beck's rot in there, plus the lousy egg & cheese roll I ate.

5. Do another Top 150 Things That Make Me Want to Barf list. Yeah, that monkey-fondler (I have proof) Angry John Sellers has challenged me to do another. What a rube! That's like daring a fat guy to eat a free slice of pie! Of course I will do it. It'll be so easy that I can't even believe it. There are lots of things that make me want to hurl. Plus, I gotta fill this stupid blog space with some kind of pap, yeah? (pap: that word -- and the stuff behind it - really makes me want to barf)

6. Move my truckster to a Thursday-side parking spot. I own a Ford Ranger pickup truck (jealous much!? Hmmm!? My question to you is: How the hell do you haul stuff? I can haul pretty much anything, except ass, in my truckster.) which is useful. It's not a bad truck, but it's not great either, is it? Still. It's not like it's a Corsica or something gay like that.

Okay, this act has grown tiresome. See you in the funny papers, suckers! Larson out! buh