Gay Barry

 

(Tucker Carlson interviewed one of Obama's old boyfriends.)

Yesterday, I got home at 6 p.m. and did a couple loads of laundry. Then I walked across the street and bought a loaf of French bread and eight donuts. After that, I sat on my fat ass and watched a couple episodes of Peaky Blinders. The only thing I don’t like about the show is the anachronisms. For instance, it’s set in the 1920s, yet heavy-metal music is often blaring in the background. What’s up with that?

Rice-Boy Larry got home at 7 p.m. He had been playing basketball with his friends.

I said, “How are your zits doing?”

“My friends say that they’re getting smaller.”

“So is the medicine working?”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“Do you want me to make you dinner?”

“I already ate with my buddies.”

“Where are you getting all this money?”

“We take turns when it comes to the bill. It’s Korea style.”

My poor boy was completely worn out with fresh air and exercise. So he took a quick shower and went to his room. Now that the Dragon Lady is gone, we both seem to sleep better. Evil is no longer lurking in the house. With that said, I do miss my dog quite a bit. She used to bring me a lot of joy.

At 9 p.m., I had a quick wank before dozing off. My fantasies are often quite weird and counterproductive. For instance, I never imagine performing coitus with beautiful ladies. Instead, I focus of women with whom I might actually have a chance to score in real life. Therefore, my pleasure is often blunted due to grim reality. I need to expand my horizons.

The alarm sounded at 5 a.m., and I walked outside for a quick smoke. Then I enjoyed a shit and a shower before frying bacon and rice cake for Larry. He devoured the vittles in no time flat.

I caught the bus at 6:45 a.m. and got to work at 7:10. I drank a cup of instant coffee and called my mother using Facebook messenger.

I said, “I haven’t spoken to Ken the Chicken Man in a coon’s age. He keeps ignoring me.”

“That’s not true. He’s just so busy these days that he doesn’t have much time to communicate.”

“What’s he been up to?”

“The same old, same old. He’s still working at Chick-fil-A and going to school fulltime.”

“I often wonder if he’s angry at me. Does he ever insinuate that I’m an asshole or a bad father?”

She shook her head vigorously from side to side. “Never! In fact, he wants you and Larry to return home as soon as possible. That’s all he ever talks about.”

“He thinks that’s what he wants, but he’s going to feel a great deal of shame if his daddy is a waitress at the Waffle House.”

“Nonsense. He doesn’t give a crap about stuff like that.”

I changed the subject. “Tucker Carlson just interviewed one of Obama’s old boyfriends.”

“No kidding?”

“That’s right. He and Barry had sex while smoking crack together.”

She smiled. “I’m not surprised. All those politicians are horrible perverts.”

“I’m not surprised either. But I still like that sodomite more than John McCain or Mitt Romney.”

“Well, we can agree to disagree on that point.”

I’m really worried about my future if my mom were to die. She’s the only person in the world who actually talks to me. When she finally pops off, I might be the loneliest man in the universe. I’m simply hoping she can hang on for years and years.

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Werewolves and Feminism

(The vast majority of famous writers are outrageous libtards.)

Yesterday, I read a tale with my middle schoolers called The Wive’s Story. It is written by Ursula K. Le Guin, and it’s about a female wolf who falls in love with a werewolf. However, she has no idea that he’s actually half a man until her angry sister eventually rips the poor fucker’s throat out.

One girl said, “That’s a very strange piece of writing.”

Another female said, “I really liked it.”

I nodded. “I figured you would. Ursula was a real strident feminist, and this particular work is all about girl power.”

The first girl wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a feminist. Those women in America are crazy.”

I smiled at her. “This tale also has racial overtones. Notice the color of the dude. He’s a white guy who is guilty of both oppression and cultural appropriation.”

She shook her head. “I just don’t see it.”

“Of course you do. You simply have to look harder. The evil white man tries to break into a cultural circle that is foreign to him. He does this through seduction and emotional manipulation. But his heart is full of malice, and his motivations are base and self-serving.”

She closed the book with a big bang. “Now I hate the story. Thanks a lot, Mr. Jack Woodd.”

Everybody laughed.

Later that day, another teacher used my room to teach his math class. He pulled my projection screen all the way down, and the damn thing wouldn’t go back up. Imagine a window shade. You’re only supposed to pull it down halfway. If you go all the way, it ends up getting stuck.

Needless to say, I was fit to be tied. My face remained placid, but my heart was a cauldron of burning anger.

He looked at me sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.”

“Not a problem. Next time, you’ll do better.”

“I have an appointment, and I fear I have to leave you with this pile of shit in your lap.”

“OK. I’ll take care of it.”

I’m not mechanically inclined, so it took me about an hour to fix the fucking thing. Eventually, I had to climb on top of a desk to jamb my fat fingers into the contraption. I finally found the lever which activated the spring. But this kind of shit happens all the time in life. Therefore, I must learn to stop overreacting. Big fucking deal, right? If it breaks, so what? It’s not like I actually own the fucking thing.

I eventually got home at 6 p.m. Rice-Boy Larry was in his room banging away on his computer.

I said, “I don’t feel like cooking tonight. Let’s go to a restaurant.”

“Where? The chicken house again?”

I nodded. “Why not? It’s right across the street.”

So we had bird and beer for dinner. Well, I had beer, and he drank Seven-Up. I stuffed a fuckload of poultry into my mouth like it was going out of style. In fact, I made a real pig of myself.

I pointed at my son to lend gravity to my words. “Get on the internet and order me a ton of sausage. I also want French bread.”

“Can I get some new headphones?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Sounds good to me.”

The total came to fifty bucks. So my items should all be delivered to my door by today or tomorrow afternoon. 

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Pedro Is an Asshole

(My mom really hates my stepbrother.)

Yesterday, I got home at 6 p.m. and noticed to my horror that I was out of jelly donuts. So I took the elevator to the bottom floor and enjoyed a smoke in the parking lot. Then I went to the store and bought my favorite breakfast item. At this particular location, I can get eight donuts for six bucks. There are probably better deals out there, but I’m paying for the convenience.

I returned to my apartment and vacuumed the floor. While working, my mind was flooded with a particularly disturbing childhood memory. I grew up in the New England countryside before moving to a chocolate city at the tender age of sixteen.

Anyway, there was a low-IQ family in Connecticut who lived about twenty minutes away. The smartest member of the clan was a kid named Thomas. Tom was certainly no genius, but he wasn’t nearly as retarded as the rest of his kin. He had a low-IQ brother named Raymond. And they both used to pork their low-IQ sisters in order to get their twisted jollies. The entire town knew of their misdeeds,--including the police--but nobody said a word. Incest amongst weirdos was tolerated back in those days.

Rice-Boy Larry walked through the door at 7 p.m. He had been playing basketball with his friends, and now he was covered in sweat.

I said, “How was the bus ride home?”

He frowned. “It was terrible. I had to stand the entire way.”

I nodded. “Same here. We were all packed in like sardines. What’s up with that? It’s been awful lately.”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. But it gets worse each day.”

Even though public transportation is far from ideal, I try not to complain too much. I find the bus to be an excellent source of exercise for an old eunuch like me. In fact, my physical health has improved vastly since the Dragon Lady ran away. My elbows and knees no longer ache like they used to. And I’m sleeping through night without having to wake up and take a piss.

I cooked dumplings for dinner, and then I sat on the sofa while watching Netflix. I’m now on season 2 of Peaky Blinders. And let me tell you assholes something. Netflix is absolutely wonderful. It costs about eleven bucks a month here on the peninsula, and I get great entertainment 365 days a year. The subscription has really brought me a ton of joy.

I finally went to bed at 9 p.m. and slept like the dead. The alarm sounded at 5 a.m., and I called my mother using Facebook Messenger.

She said, “I really fucking hate your stepbrother.”

I said, “What has Pedro done this time?”

“Not a thing. It’s his attitude that burns my ass.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Did you know that the son of a bitch watched me cut the grass without even offering to lend a hand?”

I smiled weakly. “Well, in Pedro’s defense, he did have a serious heart attack a couple years ago. It almost killed him. Perhaps his doctors want him to take it easy.”

She shot me the stink eye. “You never take my side!”

“It’s not about taking sides. But you wouldn’t want to kill the poor guy. Next time, get Chicken Ken to help you out.”

“I can’t. He’s always working, and he doesn’t get home until 10 p.m. most nights.”

“Have him do it on his day off.”

“I don’t care what you say. Pedro’s an asshole.”

We finally agreed to disagree, and I eventually caught the bus at seven-thirty. 

The Ritual

 

(I always go to a restaurant on Fridays.)

On Friday evening at 10:30 p.m., I took Rice-Boy Larry to the chicken house for a gnosh. It’s our weekly ritual. He met me at the crosswalk in front of our apartment building, and we walked to the restaurant when the light turned green.

He said, “There was a drunk woman dancing in the middle of the street around 7 p.m. I was really worried that she might get hit by a car.”

I shrugged. “That happens. It’s all the soju these people drink. It rots their brains.”

“You used to drink soju all the time.”

I held up my hands in a sign of surrender. “That’s true. I was young and dumb at the time. But these days, my poor old body can no longer handle the joy juice. I have to stick to beer.”

“You should have seen her. She was strikingly beautiful.”

I smiled. “Trust me. Those are the types you want to steer clear of. The last thing you need in your life is an alcoholic spouse. Find a nice Christian girl who takes the Scripture seriously.”

“I never said that I wanted to marry the lady. I simply said that she was attractive.”

I smoked a cigarette in the parking lot while my boy ordered the food. We got the same as usual. A platter of fried chicken and a pitcher of beer. It tasted great.

Larry said, “Mom left me a message.”

“What does she want?”

“She got a ticket for running a red light, and she thinks you should pay.”

“Why? I wasn’t the one driving the car.”

“She says that it’s your fault. The traffic camera snapped the image more than six weeks ago.”

“Tell her to take a picture of the fine and send it to me. I want to match the dates before I give that woman a dime.”

“She won’t take my phone calls. She’s too busy working in the factory.”

I laughed out loud. “Somehow, I kind of doubt that she even has a job. Do you ever notice how the story always seems to change every time she tells it?”

“What do you want from me? I’m just a kid.”

We got back to the house at midnight, and I made a beeline for my bed. I was so exhausted that I could barely keep my eyes open. When I eventually woke up at 8 a.m., I soon noticed that I had a pounding headache. Sadly, a pitcher of beer is too much for an old eunuch like me. Soon, I’ll be reduced to drinking Shirley Temples. That’s what age does to you. Life certainly isn’t for pussies.

I took the elevator to the bottom floor and bought a cup of coffee. But the damned convenience store had raised its prices by more than fifty cents. I promised myself that this would be my last time frequenting their jip-joint. Who the fuck do they think they are? Starbucks?

I called my mother on Facebook Messenger while puffing on a Marlboro.

She said, “You’re not smoking again, are you?”

“Yes, but only about three or four a day.”

Mom sighed heavily. “You’re gonna die of cancer just like your father.”

“Everybody has a bullet with their name on it.”

“Listen to the way you talk. Who are you? Steve McQueen?”

“I was never a huge fan. I always thought he was a bit overrated.”

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Sunday

It's Sunday, and I can't be bothered writing a word. So here's a video of Pastor John MacArthur badmouthing the homosexual community instead. But have no fear. I shall return tomorrow with more mediocre tales about my pedestrian life. God bless.

Saturday

It's Saturday, and I can't be bothered writing. So I uploaded a video about the famous movie The Shining instead. But have no fear. I shall return soon with more stories about my less-than-perfect life. God bless.

Grammar Problems

 

(Even though I'm a teacher, I still have brain farts.)

Today, I woke up at 5 a.m. and rushed to the bathroom. I had to piss like a racehorse, but the task proved difficult. Why? I was sporting a rock-hard Woody, so it wasn’t easy getting the urine into the bowl. After that, I smoked a cigarette and drank a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Then I wolfed down three jelly donuts before taking a shit and a shower.

I caught the bus at 7 a.m. and got to school by seven-thirty. I had to a lot of stuff to do such as grading essays. However, I managed to complete the work by 9 a.m. before running to another building to cover an absent teacher’s classes. This lady is down for the count with Covid. She’s had the illness three times. Ain’t that a bitch?

I gave the children the worksheets that their instructor had left for me. Then I spent the next hour pouring over my thoughts. A recent dream came to mind. I had had a nightmare about Brad Pitt a couple nights ago. In it, the cops had shown up at my door in the early morning hours. It was still dark outside.

One of the officers handed me a restraining order. “Leave Mr. Pitt alone.”

“A restraining order? That’s crazy. I’ve never met the man.”

“Look, buddy. I just work here. But keep your distance, or I’ll throw your ass in jail.”

“For what crime? I’ve haven’t even spoken to a single famous person in my life.”

“If you keep giving me problems, I’m gonna bust you right in the mouth. You won’t be so pretty anymore, will you?”

Then Mr. Pitt showed up right out of nowhere. He gave me the stink eye and waved his fists violently in front of my face.

“Look, Jack, I don’t know you, and you’re not my friend. So leave me the fuck alone.”

I tried to explain to him that I’m not a stalker. But it was no use. He kept threatening to kick the crap out of me.

One of the students tapped me on the shoulder. “Why are you smiling?”

I looked at her with a big goofy grin. “I was remembering one of my nightmares.”

“Do bad dreams always make you laugh?”

I shrugged. “Sometimes. I only become afraid if the devil is involved.”

Which is true. Satan has always frightened me to no end. I made the mistake of watching The Exorcist when I was twelve years old, and I’ve never been the same since that awful day. The film really fucked my life up.

Later in the afternoon, I gave a grammar test to a bunch of seventh graders. One of the questions confused me. The correct answer sounded clumsy to my ears. We’ve been studying comparatives and superlatives, and the solution to the problem was this: Which four cars performed worst on the recent road test? To my sensibilities, the sentence seems kind of awkward because it’s missing the article the before worst. It really screwed with my head, and in response I gave everybody full credit no matter what they wrote down on the paper.

I felt kind of ashamed afterward. If seventh-grade grammar is turning me into a loon, then there isn’t much hope for a loser like me. The only place left might be The Waffle House.

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