posted on December 20, 2012 08:00
This is it, folks…24-hours. Almost 42-years of my life and however many of yours will come to an apparently violent end by the end of tomorrow, at least according to the Mayans.
You have 24-hours to climb that mountain, do some blow or take that fantasized pegging from a lifer at The Potosi Correctional Facility. Lace up your boots, lube up your ass or chop your breakfast on a mirror (Metallica shout-out!), but do it soon, time is ticking.
Will tit-bars and “massage” parlors experience record nights, skydivers be seen dropping from the sky like a hailstorm and everything from mild squeaks to gut-wrenching screams be heard around midnight, as wives everywhere finally concede to anal? For the record, they shouldn’t be wives in the first place if that chip was never on the table, but I digress (goddamn I LOVE digressing!).
Some of you may be packing a bag for the alien ship that carried the Mayans away in the first place, or hunkering down in some mountainside cave or underground shipping container like those fucking nut-jobs on The National Geographic Channel, right as I type this.
Then some of us will go about our daily routine of work, tucking in the children, incessantly poking the significant other in the back with a 5”-chubby and finally retiring to the crapper to be alone (again) with said chubby, an old “Maxim” and a thumb in our own ass.
I fully expect to wake up tomorrow, like any other day, and tell the Mayans to join those Hale Boppers and other Kool-Aid drinkers on the Go Fuck Yourself Express, and have myself a nice cup of coffee.
Besides, the definition of me “taking a chance” or fulfilling some bucket list item, at this point in my life, would consist of wading beyond shin deep into the ocean, mounting a horse or snow skiing. I’m pretty much a “feet planted on dry earth” kinda’ guy, not to mention I’ve seen “JAWS” and know who Sonny Bono, Michael Kennedy and Christopher Fucking Reeve were.
That being said (“that” just always seems to be “being said”, doesn’t it?), I thought I’d compile a short “just in case” list of miscellaneous statements and confessions for those left to pick through the rubble and to let the aliens know just how fucked up I was:
I know it was college and you were just “experimenting”, big fella’…but I wasn’t (wink-wink).
Suzie, “just the tip” was NEVER my intentions.
I once had a cousin, BY MARRIAGE, who I was actively trying to bang.
Yes, your ass DOES look fat in those jeans, that dress AND that house.
I once emailed Billy Ray Cyrus and expressed how moved I was by his love for his daughter. This is very true and I’m prepared to deal with the consequences of the admission.
Jimmy Hoffa is buried under the Arnold Water Tower – I mean, who the fuck would look?
I have an unnatural affection for Bette Midler, “The Rose” is my absolute favorite song and I watch “Beaches” once a year to remind myself that I know how to cry.
I accidentally saw a man eat his own spunk…don’t ask.
I stole and sold a radar detector in my life, and was neither a junkie nor hungry – of this I’m not proud.
I’ve pooped on a windshield, a doorstep and in a freezer bag. Alcohol is a horrible thing.
At fifteen years of age, I got caught sniffing my Aunt’s panties by her 9-year old daughter and explained myself by claiming to “see if they were clean” for purposes of doing laundry. One – she WASN’T blood related (see a pattern here?), two – it worked, and three – I’ll tell this story if we live.
I stole “Little Debbie” cakes form the junior high lunchroom like a goddamned fiending crack-head.
My entire freshman year was a continuous quest to look up skirts…many of yours reading this.
I once jerked off at a rest stop bathroom in Illinois on the way to Chicago.
If you die thinking that Dane Cook, “Two and a Half Men”, Howie Mandel, Russell Brand, Brian McKenna or ANY of the “Blue Collar” comedy guys, with the exception of Ron White, is funny, a sad life you have lived indeed. Should we live, expand your horizons immediately and do a fucking Sudoku already to kick-start that mush you’ve obviously allowed your brain to become.
I stole the license plate off of a cop car.
I threw a bucket of horrid contents through a screened window (AND birdcage) and onto a passed out man in an easy chair. I felt sorry for the bird.
My real name is Keaton Milton Frederick Peterson. All of this is unfortunately true – except for the first one…
I could go on, but still may have to walk amongst you and need to maintain a small shred of dignity, I suppose. Plus, there’s this thing called the “statute of limitations”.
I’ll close by saying that I hope Tim Tebow at least finds some pussy tonight. Give David Freese a call, dude; that guys so inundated with ass that he’s swerving to miss it on his hometown back roads – still too soon?
Save yourself, fuck a Mayan…KMFP-out!
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