Everyone likes hanging out with their friends. Everyone likes having a good time. So why are you hosting your birthday at a loud shitty bar.
A loud shitty bar charging $10 for a Bud Light. A loud shitty bar where I can’t hear anything but shitty Rihanna layed over a shitty house beat. I make better sounds when I take a shit.
A dark shitty bar where I can’t tell how ugly the girl next to me is. How far petruded her new herpes sores are.
Complex 1 or complex 2.
I can’t tell.
The only thing indicative of my movement through the packed shitty crowd is different body odor. I love being smushed between two fat macho guys with a short girl fighting for oxygen. Fight woman FIGHT.
Oh, you think a gas mask is your ally, you merely adopted the gas mask. I was born in cologne, molded by it. Your scent of pinewood and squirrel testosterone smells like shit. Girls don’t swoon over your Drakkar . When you spray a bottle on your chest, neck, wrist, pits, ears, etc., you fumigate the entire city. Rats and children will follow out of town–over the bridge, under the tunnel, back to the hellhole that spawns vacuous waste.
Nobody wants to go out and deal with meathead ego. Hulk smash doesn’t play well with other guys. Beta fish and gerbils–trying to rule the world one 3 a.m. bar at a time. Lacoste shirts and Yolo.
Bark loud and fast. They travel in packs.
Shower them in cupcake vodka and light their cigarettes. One’s bound to keel over.