So Sunday night I went out with James St. James to meet Serotonin and some of her super hot friends. The post I promised on Saturday having not yet arrived is due primarily to my being overserved Sunday night. By the time James St. James and I arrived home that night it would be safe to say my normally ballet-dancer-esque balance and poise was suffering under the influence of heavy Jagermeister consumption. One moment, while in the kitchen, my Jager infused blood and the heady fervor coursing through my slowly functioning brain caused from watching the latest Arrested Development episode found my legs giving up beneath me and the left side of my beautiful, Apollo like melon crashing into a granite counter top in my kitchen before my body collapsed to the ground. James St. James rushed into the kitchen hoping to find me in a weakened and dazed state making it easier for him to dispatch me once and for all. Fortunately, my faculties were still enough about me keep James St. James at bay with my sharpened, toenail-daggers. The lump above my left eye formed instantly and I was very tempted to have James St. James cut me Rocky Balboa style but the sidelong glances I kept catching from James St. James told me that giving him a blade and allowing him access to my face camera was a recipe for a speedy death.
When I woke up yesterday morning my left eye was swollen completely shut and was the magnificent hue of one of those dead babies people are always finding in trashcans. Plus, it appeared that a second head was attempting to grow out of my skull which was mildly terrifying since I have enough sworn enemies as it is without one growing out of my head.
However, the whole point of this post was not to discuss the arch nemesis that's growing out of my head but how amusing it is that not one single person believes that I just slipped and hit my head on a granite counter top. I honestly don't know why it's so hard for people to believe but every time I tell the tale, even with James St. James there supporting my story, I'm met with looks of skepticism. More interesting is that no one wants to offer up a hypothesis on how they think it happened; they just don't believe me and don't know why or don't want to tell me. The first thing Il Duce said when he saw me was, "were you drunk?" What the fuck kind of question is that? No sympathy, no "what happened?", just a look of disgust and an irritating question. Naturally, I lied and said "no". In lieu of the complete lack of trust on the part of anyone I've told my tale to I've decided to fabricate a number entertaining lies that, strangely, are more palatable to the minds of these jimmies I talk to. My favorites include:
When I woke up yesterday morning my left eye was swollen completely shut and was the magnificent hue of one of those dead babies people are always finding in trashcans. Plus, it appeared that a second head was attempting to grow out of my skull which was mildly terrifying since I have enough sworn enemies as it is without one growing out of my head.
However, the whole point of this post was not to discuss the arch nemesis that's growing out of my head but how amusing it is that not one single person believes that I just slipped and hit my head on a granite counter top. I honestly don't know why it's so hard for people to believe but every time I tell the tale, even with James St. James there supporting my story, I'm met with looks of skepticism. More interesting is that no one wants to offer up a hypothesis on how they think it happened; they just don't believe me and don't know why or don't want to tell me. The first thing Il Duce said when he saw me was, "were you drunk?" What the fuck kind of question is that? No sympathy, no "what happened?", just a look of disgust and an irritating question. Naturally, I lied and said "no". In lieu of the complete lack of trust on the part of anyone I've told my tale to I've decided to fabricate a number entertaining lies that, strangely, are more palatable to the minds of these jimmies I talk to. My favorites include:
- I was at a bar and some asshole grabbed a girl's ass but blamed it on me. The girl, furious at being so abused, struck me in the head with her stiletto pump. In a rage I lunged onto the girl dragging her to the ground and began choking the life out of her. The club bouncers dragged me off of the girl and once my story had been told they kicked the girl out of the bar.
- James St. James has been hitting me again.
- In the process of being arrested for a DWI I took what I thought to be my only chance at escape and wrested the police officer's gun from his holster. Waving the gun around in a drunken rage and making random threats the police officer offered up my freedom for the return of his weapon under the pretense that he would be heavily reprimanded for allowing a drunk to commandeer his sidearm. Being a reasonable man I returned the officer's gun, he subsequently clubbed me in the side of the head with his flashlight, but instead of arresting me stole the radio and loose change out of my car and left me on the side of the road.
- At a dog fight the reigning champion was slain by a young up-and-comer. In a blood rage the new champion's owner hacked off the head of the dead, one-time rival and heaved it into the crowd where the mastiff's enormous skull slammed into my temple. The dog's head is in my freezer.
- I was in a terrible car wreck driving back from a basketball game with my family. Fortunately, since I wasn't wearing my seat belt my body was thrown safely clear of the wreck, I was knocked unconscious upon impact, but when I woke up there wasn't a scratch on me except this black eye. My family, however, was not so fortunate; none survived.
