Friend: You know Bob, you are looking a little overweight. You need to be active, to do something with yourself.
Me: I am touched.
Friend: What?
Me: You are the first person to ever call me a "little overweight." Usually they just call me fat ass and wish me a good day.
Friend: You need help.
Me: Not when I have concerned friends like you, asshole.
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Remember Corey Feldman, well this is what he does now.
I am a semi-fan of the Puppet Master series, so I am actually going to sit through this Sci Fi Original, that and I don't have a social life--my Saturday's are empty from now until ad infinitum.
By the way, Vanessa Angel is still hot and she still can't act, too. I miss the days of Weird Science (T.V. Series) and the lotion aided glory that came with watching Vanessa Angel playact as a computer jinni.
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Me: Loading furniture sucks...I don't like this part of the business
Dad: Yea, there is a lot of nigger work in the antique business.
I considered scolding him for being a racist, but that has yet to work, so I went with another strategy.
Me: Dad, you told me that blacks were lazy and, by in large, wished only to live off of government aid.
Dad: Yea, they are no good.
Me: If blacks are lazy, then how is loading furniture "nigger" work? You have told me, time and again, that they (Africoons) don't work unless forced to, and then, only for short periods of time; therefore how can any sort of labor--physical or otherwise-- be associated with them (Antique Farm Equipment). Isn't black the antithesis of work--or was that white.
Dad: What are you trying to say?
Me: Well, I know of a very industrious race, a group of people that work hard and often find themselves engaged in menial, physical labor. Perhaps you should have said "Yea, there is a lot of wetback work in the antique business."
Dad: I like that. I like that a lot, son. Let’s go get lunch, I am buying.
Racism--The key to a good father-son relationship.
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A young lady, her sister and mother decided to shop in my store. The mother was old, the sister was frumpy (lard ass) and the young lady was cute--in an East Coast, no breasts to speak of way. They spent an inordinate amount of time (thirty minutes)--the store front is 15 x 10', at most--looking over our wares, however; I was willing to forgive their malfunctioning internal clocks, since, as I said earlier, the young lady was relatively attractive. I attempted to engage in small talk with the young lady, sadly the only thing that to mind was "hello." She nodded in acknowledgment, or was it a stifled sneeze; regardless, "hello" was the extent our conversation.
Several minutes later the fat sister smiled at me, which has to count for something--especially for lonely, fat me. The mother, apparently dismayed at the obvious lust the obese daughter was showing, deemed it time to go. The sans breast girl brought up her purchase, several political pins and I proceeded to write up a ticket.
Earlier in the afternoon, mother gave me a Slim Jim in lieu of allowing me to go to lunch. I greedily chewed it down, as if it was the last piece of beef jerky in the world. For whatever reason, call it kismet if you wish, the Slim Jim meal didn't sit well with my ironclad stomach. My daily diet has killed lesser men: I am the eater of 5,000 daily calories, the drinker of three Mt. Dew two-liters in ninety seconds, the swallower of week old, unrefrigerated pizza. Yet, this single strand of jerky would not sit still; my gut rumbled like laughing belly of Ganesh. It would know gastric freedom and so it did.
Right as I was telling the pretty, flat-chested New Englander her total, I violently exhaled an unholy air--which reeked of stale Slim Jim and rotten eggs--right into her face. In other words, I belched in the pretty girl's face.
We finished the transaction in silence, though her fat-ass whore of a sister laughed like a retarded bitch, while her mother simply shook her head in disgust.
The store made $3.00; I lost what little remained of my self respect.
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Where does charity end and free publicity for whores-on-poles begin? I wouldn't have accepted the gifts, either, however; I would encourage the unwed, welfare moms--who live in the housing project--to look into stripping as a way to provide for their children.
Give a baby's mamma a dollar and you feed her fish scales habit for a a day. Teach her to gyrate on a pole and she will smoke crack for a lifetime. (The Analects by Bob, p. 353)
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