07 December 2005

That bastard, Fred

“We’re all gonna die.” Said Wheezing Fred. “And that just sucks.”

Fred fancies himself a philosopher, and in fact was surrounded by a bevy of young ladies earlier this evening. He is better looking than I, and I despise him for it.


I went to the commode.

“Blessed are the red heads…” I heard him exclaim as I was walking away.

I have been experiencing a mild form of food poisoning, exacerbated by the fact that the local grocery store is run by an ex that I have treated poorly. I retreated to a stall.

I could hear Wheezing Fred through the thin bog walls. He was espousing universal sisterhood.

This approach is more successful than one might expect, due to his bald pate, prodigious girth and orange robes. People rub the bastard’s belly for good luck.

I’m restrained from emerging for a bit and eventually, the giggles and loud proclamations subside. When I emerged, he had vanished, and I was presented with the bar tab of Fred and his feminine entourage.

If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.


And that's the way I likes it.