Friday, June 24, 2011

The Funeral

I was raging one night, as usual, when I recieved a phonecall from bitch ma. Buzz fucking kill. She was in hysterics; sobbing and bawling her eyes out. So much so, that the whore couldn't string together a fucking sentence. And after about 10 seconds, the little patience I had vanished, and I kindly asked, "Bitch, I am hammered and a tad belligerent and am finding it hard enough to control my anger as is. Can you please either say what you need to say or shut the fuck up?", to which she responded, "It's your great aunt Mildred. She's dead."

Since I could not recall ever meeting an Aunt fucking Mildred, let alone knowing I had one, I went off. "You interrupted beer pong for this cockymamy bullshit. Do you know how hard it's been to get on the table tonight? And who the FUCK is this lady? Actually, nevermind. I don't want to know. Because even if I did know who she was, I wouldn't give a flying fuck knowing that she associates, let alone is related, to my shit-for-brains mother. So I would advise you to either give me a reason why I should continue to put up with your bullshit, or hang up the phone before I drive home and do it for you." To which she solemnly responded, "You're in her will."

At home the next day, I was eagerly awaiting a sit-down with my mother (there is a first time for everything). I was pacing, ancy to know what the bitch left me. The mood, however, shifted when bitch ma had the audicity to withhold what was rightfully mine unless I attended Morbid Milly's funeral. Fuck Funerals! They're depressing as shit; buncha weeping pussies decked out in black. Might as well be wrist-slit night at the goth kid's house. Naturally, I couldn't attend that bullshit without knowing whether my inheritance dough was worth it.

To my dismay...actually I wasn't dismayed, I was fucking livid. Scumbag Milly left me her baseball card collection. Who the fuck does that? I was about ready to bring her back, beat her savagely, and ironically, with a Louisville slugger until she was ready to be eaten by the flock of blue jays that I captured on my daytrip to Toronto.

I decided that the appropriate time to exact my revenge would be at the cunt's funeral. So on the prior night, I prepared an elaborate feast: 10 crunchwrap supremes, baked beans, a dollop of sour cream, a fresh tin, jalapenos and a fifth of jack all broiled into a magnificent stew. I downed the concoction minutes before the shindig began, trying to figure out what to do when  my bowels finally moved. But the moment arrived- and boy, did it ever arrive- and I had no plan. Forced to think on my feet, I shot up, and hurried to the aisle in the middle of the eulogy. As I ran to the pew, the grievers diabolical stares made me feel like the great Tupac Shakur (all eyez on me). But the glares quickly transformed into howls of exasperation and rage as I ripped off my pants and approached the open casket. Ass naked, I gave Milly a menacing scowl, turned around and shit all over her disgusting, whorebag face. When the rocketshits and low-toned toots finally ceased, I secured  my place in the badass hall of fame by uttering the now immortal phrase, "You mess with the bull, you get bullshit all over your dead face."

No comments:

Post a Comment