I am not sure what time it was when the hysterical shrill of the coyotes just outside jarred me from my stupor bowl slumber. Bolting to my feet in an attempt to fend off the snarling, rabies infected hoard of flesh eaters I managed to knock the table over that had a number of half-empty beer bottles on it and most importantly, a bone dry bottle of Patron. Phew, that could have been a tragedy of the worst kind. There should be some kind of penalty for spilling even a drop of that wonderful agave nectar.
There it is again. The coyotes or whatever evil thingees that roam the woods at night.
Shit, again, that maniacal, evil, screech. A sound that could only come from the pen of Stevie King. Damn, those bastards seem to be right outside.
Whoa, I better sit down, my living room floor seems to have a few waves in it that it didn’t have a few hours ago and they seem to be getting bigger.
What the fuck happened? I remember we started with a great base. Eggs, sunny-side up. Three of them with crispy bacon and a double order of wheat toast.
It is so critical to have enough toast to soak up to yoke.
Soak the Yoke!
Then it was a stop at the liquor store. Time to load up for the big game. Good thing I got me a truck. I remember lots of beer, tequila, and synaptic provocateurs (SP for short). Then it all gets a bit blurry.
There is no picture on the television when I jump to my feet, once again, propelled by the sound of the Coyotes.
Damn, the fucking DVD recorder had long shut off. The room is filled with that gray glow from the television being on but no video source being provided.
Sort of like that gray glow you see when you look deep into Dick and Dubbya’s eyes. TV on but there ain’t no video….
I take a deep breath and swallow. Yum, nothing worse than 3 hour old tequila spit.
Looking at my phone which was now lying in a puddle of warm Sierra Nevada beer I notice I have a few text messages.
Text messages – now there’s a great evolutionary step. A generation from now the spoken word will be lost. Every one will simply text one another….Fuckers.
The first four messages read:
congrats; great game; Giants suck; Baby vomit
Shit, fuck. I almost forgot the Giants won the super boll or was I simply playing with a super ball.
They beat the Perfectriots. HA!
I think the Perfectriots were moving in for the kill when Tom Petty came into the game and over the outstretched arms of a screaming squirrel in a clown costume standing in the middle of the road he threw a bottle of coke into a bag of dorrito’s. Then there was a giant baby that vomited all over the field and then the Giants road some kind of Giant blue Clydesdale Lizard to victory.
It’s getting clearer now.
For weeks, maybe months the Perfectriots had been beating Obama and Clinton in all the games. Routing them if I recall. Towards the end they even whipped McCain and Romney. The Perfectriots, dare I say it, were perfect.
All the meteorologists predicted a blow out win and two feet of snow in the Happy Valley. Not only were the Perfectriots the best of all time but they were also going to win the election in a landslide and plow the roads and shovel the sidewalks in less than 24 hours. Shit, they got my vote.
Their leader is a little gnome. He’s known as “the genius.” Legions of followers blindly drink the kool-aid from his cup, wear his hoodie and chant, “In the gnome we trust.” I fear that if they don’t come to their senses soon we could be looking at some form of mass suicide. Like cuddly little Lemmings to the sea.
Damn, what really happened, how did the Giants actually win.
Did they have inside information from Michael Milken? Did they have photo’s? Dare I ask if they had videos……
Side Note: Hey Senator Specter – good thing you have important things to do…..then again your single bullet theory was brilliant when you sold it to the warren commission….nice job
Yum, another tequila burp.
Where the heck was I? I need more sp’s. The Giants really won?
Fuck it, I can’t remember. Oh yes, the Perfectriots didn’t win the game or the election and we didn’t get two feet of snow but the meteorologists kept their jobs and while Lennon read a book on Marx, the quartet practiced in the park…..Yikes….that was weird.
Where the hell are my pants?
Perfectriots, not sure it will help, however, I offer the following from Salvador Dali who once said,
“Have no fear of perfection – you’ll never reach it.”