The Art of Stealing Beer

I run a business, ya see? You know those uh… frat parties? Yea, well I am the guy that comes in and steals beer. The thing about frat parties is that nobody knows what the fuck is going on. All you need is a couple of hot girls with ping pong paddles swinging in the air and slapping asses and you have everyone’s attention. So, that’s what I do.
Alright, I’ll tell you in a little more detail. I go to parties with my friends, Jasmine and Amanda. We are pretty much guaranteed due to the majority vaginal presence in the group. Once we get in, the girls hug the guy at the door and thank him profusely. Then, we proceed to the beer. Here is where you either make or break the shit, OK? The beer typically either chills out in the open, or catches some fresh air out the backdoor. If it’s the latter, we don’t even need any hot girls, the mentally challenged frat boys have long lost their beer. If it’s inside, that’s a whole different story. A story where a man with a keen intellect and eye for opportunity often prospers– a man like me. So, I put the girls to work. Almost every frat house has a ping pong table. Almost every frat house keeps the beer by the ping pong table. It’s called easy access for “Beirut” or “Beer pong,” depending on where in the world you’re from. We’re from New York so we’ll fucking call it beer pong. While all the mindless fuckers are playing beer pong, I make sure my girls pick up ping pong paddles. They proceed to run around the room dancing and slapping asses with the paddles. At this point, you could walk a camel, an elephant, then even fucking Siegfried and Roy, along with all their tigers and shit right through that room and nobody would notice. So, I wait until all the important asses are being slapped, the glazed eyes are directed at girls’ faces and asses, then I grab two thirty racks of beer from the bar.
The next part is key: You can’t be some fucking little dipshit, looking around nervously every time you lift beer from a frat, you’ve gotta be calm, cool and collected as fuck. I’m lucky cause I’m handsome as shit. I just pop on a pair of sun glasses, wear a blazer, and even the president of the fucking fraternity would help my ass carry the boxes up the stairs. So, that is how you steal beer from a party.
If you’re wondering what to do with your beer after it’s stolen, that’s entirely up to you. If you’re in the “getting drunk” business, by all means, oblige yourself. If you’re in the “selling beer” business, by all means, make a little money. Either way, it’s pretty cool to acquire this skill– I suggest you give it a shot sometime.

Scarves for sale!

It started when I was a wee lad. My ma and pa would pack my eight brothers and I into the Pinto, and we’d make off to the French Market. In case you haven’t heard of the French Market, it’s a place in New Orleans on the outskirts of the French Quarter where goods are sold. You can find just about anything there, and in essence it’s a fancily named flea market. When arrived, my ma would take me along with her and, knowing I was prone to the girly aspects of life, she would take me along to look at clothes and jewelry with her. I never even thought to object.

My brodas would be off swiping something here or there from bloody misers while my pa haggled with the scum until his throat was soar. Oh yeah, it was a scene. Any onlooker would tell you it was a goddamn riot. The ten of us must have seen the oddest people in the place, with my ma and me as the most normal of the bunch.

Well, I’d notice mi motha putting on this or that scarf and then her eyes would peacefully still themselves as they gently lay on some heavenly cloth. She was prone to become entranced in scarves, because they were usually the cheapest items at the market. Our troupe had a natural attraction to cheap stuff. While watching her fawn over a scarf like it was courting her or something, I could lend advice on which was best, but insidiously became entrapped too. Looking at the fine scarves every Saturday for my bloody childhood, I couldn’t help but enjoy them. I didn’t realize what was happening.

It was more than enjoyment that I felt for the scarves. It was something more exhilarating something so exciting, an eight year old would never have sense enough to be wary of it. Scarves became my object of fetish. I’d try ‘em on in public, prance around in them, and I start a modest collection after taking up thievery with my brothers as I got older. I wore them for the other paupers to gawk at in public, but they’d never look over. They noticed nothing extravagant about my garb and saw nothing abstract about me wearing them as often as I did (even in the summertime.) I felt alone in my obsession. It couldn’t be relieved from my person onto society, it was my burden.

At twenty-eight my new wife didn’t get it. I refused to consummate our marriage until she wrapped her are skin in a sea of scarves. She refused, calling me sick. We divorced quickly and I headed to a remote part of Southeast Asia where I married a scarf by the name of Joe. We have lived happily together for ten years now. It is a scarf and I’m a merchant. We have two kids. They don’t say much but I love the rascals all the same.

Grimey Dundon

A grimey man plagued our parts once. If youre not familiar with the  term "grimey," you might be a idiot but i'll explain it anyway. "Grimeyness" is something everyone is blessed with but always in different proportions. It is the attribute of vileness but not an evil vile but instead more of a ridiculous vile. If something is grimey it is ridiculously uncalled for. 

As I said, there once was a man who roamed our parts, our parts being the east coast. His name- Adam Dundon. His profession- being a Grimey Man. He was grimey incarnate. Adam would cheat in any game he played. I swear everyday he lived he whyled in a gimey way.  He would swindle kids on the play ground yard way back in Kindy-garten. The lad was a millionaire by the time he was 14. His own kin would never call him out on the matters, atleast not in public, but every kid,adult and veteran within 50 miles of his dwelling knew the stories of Dundon. That didn't stop him from continuing his legendary grime. 

The grimeyness didn't stop at money. Dundon would grime in all ways. He was the master of grime. Once during a game of Slap-pong (which everyone knows originated in the humble town Binghamton), Oliver Kammerman and Adam Dundon had a falling out over the score. Dundon uttered the phrase "fuckin jewbag" and from then on Oliver Kammerman coined the name "Grimey Dundon" and the phrase spread. 

You need to know this.

just another day

The boy comes out of the wind.  He turns to his left then right, sees no way out, so goes down a nearby tunnel. Darkness. Ha!  Just his luck to be eternally trapped. Karma is a bitch. No wind down here. Crap. No air. Suffocating. He falls to his knees. Limp, Chan’s face starts to turn blue. Is this the end? Our story over so soon? Come on! Give us more than that. Don’t pull the old and dirty wool over our eyes this time. He wants to live! We want him to live! He lives.  A surprising turn of events, you ask? No, not at all. The witch gave him fairy potion to stop death right in its tracks. There were skid marks. He rises, and then runs down the tunnel corridor.

         Mary? Why is she here? Chan sees her. She’s near. She’s queer. Get over it.  Chan doesn’t like thee dark. When it gets dark, he gets angry. Chan smash brains. Chan eats brains. The onslaught went on for about ten minutes. Mary lay writhing on the ground. Tis a shame, she was such a helpless, beautiful, victim. “It couldn’t be helped!” he screams. No reply. No one wants to here it. No one is there.  He has to get out. He wants them to know. He feels the guilt running through his veins. He feels the apathy creeping through his arteries. Veins say, “act quickly.” He stands above the now still body, and runs. His pace is unbelievable. How could he be going so fast? He has rocket boots. O that explains it. Tricky writer, we’ll get you next time! He finds an exit and waits by it. He needs to be here right now. He needs to punch the walls that have kept him penned like a wild beast for so long. It had been about 15 minutes. He punches the wall, but there is no satisfaction, just pain. Karma is a bitch?

         Exiting was easy; reorienting himself was the difficult part. He could tell he was somewhere in Macondo, but he couldn’t tell exactly where. “Such a confusing little place,” the inhabitants always thought. Why couldn’t Chan think? He felt like he deserved the right as much, and maybe more so, than anyone else. He stepped forward only to fall to the ground.  Damn you psychosomatic symptoms! When the seizure came to an end, he discovered that the city had grown dark.  It was happening again. Such an annoying sickness this was. Bouts of greed and bloodlust, plagued him, but he was free of remorse at least. What a typical day. What a bore. He galloped down the street in a silly fashion, so that he might choose his victim. The first to speak, after taking notice of his odd performance, would be in a world of delight. His delight. His monstrous control. Wow this is weird. Why am I still reading this? Maybe the biggest waste of 3 minutes ever I’m guessing. Shut your fucking mouth.

         Carren was his brother’s ex-girlfriend. She hated long walks on the beach and anything living. She was his friend.  She hated him, and Chan was not her friend. She noticed his ridiculous progression, as she walked down the cold and desolate street. She was on her way to the children’s hospital. She wanted to tell the losers off since no one else would. Fuckin kids. Chan’s distracting stupidity made her furious, so she began to shout insults to him and anyone else who might be listening, but no sooner than the second word erupted from her stupid lips Chan could be seen rushing towards her with a look of glee, sorrow and lust in his eyes.

         Chan hit her pretty hard. He had hoped not to see anyone he knew, but now that he had he couldn’t play favorites. He really enjoyed her company and all the nice things she said to him, but this was happening. He believed her to be his soul mate. After he separated the head from its body, he decided it had been a grim but special night. T’was a good night for Chan, and really for the entire remaining world, fore the world hadn’t seen his wrath. Nugget. 

Ireland pt. 2

Pat, what is this vile sludge ye be spewin' on our wall, chap? Ganky Hoebag. Anyways, shit. Shit be poppin' up in this little island right here, I'll tell ye what. The cab drivers really do have the gift o gab, that's for sure. After meeting every person, I keep tellin' meself, "now that there's one of the funniest guys I ever met." Seriously. The bartenders, too. They're all hilarious. What's that about? New Year's eve was tight. Right at midnight I was at a bar called Farrington's ordering a guinness. It was pretty cool except I know I would've enjoyed meself much more if I had some friends wit me. Sheeit. A little after midnight, we wandered down this area called "Temple Bar," which is basically Dublin's French Quarter. We were dancing and walking behind a band of Hari Krishna's which were causing quite the stir. Tonight we're going on a literary pub crawl, where motherfuckers are going to be acting out scenes from different Irish novels like Ulysses and Picture of Dorian Grey and shit. Should be poppin'. Catch ye. Fructose munch.