Note From My Fridge
Guys,
I don’t mean to alarm you, but if you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. I’ve headed out to the grocery store as it’s my turn to buy eggs and TP, and after the events of last night, we’re out of both. Lets agree to never do a greasiest omelet contest ever again. You win Trevor, you win you son of a bitch.
On my way to the grocery store I will likely encounter our three local homeless people. Unable to resist their street charm, I’ll deposit a shame token in each one of their Big Gulp collector cups. The one called “Socks” , will likely offer his usual dollar piggyback ride down the block, a steal when your stomach is still turning from Trevor’s four onion, jalapeño laced devil omelet. I’ll climb aboard and with a kick of my heal, off Socks will go! I’ll forget all my worldly troubles with the cool breeze in my hair, and Sock’s meth grip on my thigh as we gallup down State Street.
Socks will ask for a tip and I’ll scratch him behind the ears as I realize the money I’ve spent on him was for eggs and TP. With rent being due, and the rest of my wart removal lawsuit money tied up in GNC protein powder, I will realize I too must ask strangers for money. The remaining two dollars in my wallet will immediately be spent on the sickest, most awesome wrestlemania collectors Big Gulp available at 7 Eleven.
There I’ll sit for the rest of the day watching the superior begging skills of Socks, DJ Cheeze, and Twignut collect all the money, while the rest of Chicago snubs me over and over again. At sundown the four of us will go to McDonald’s where I will buy them dinner with my Visa in exchange for safe passage into a meth den, crack house or any other damp bum netherworld.
Dinner will be filled with enlightening discussions of Sartre and Niche. Twignut will make a convincing case that he is the second coming of Joseph Stalin, while DJ Cheeze will piece together how MTV was solely responsible for 9-11. I’ll explain why the correct order to watch Star Wars is 4,5,1,2,3,6, and they will accept me into their bum collective. We’ll pass the crack pipe and laugh of our brilliance living outside the harsh parameters of society.
Having never smoked crack, I’ll be having the time of my life, feeling more jacked up and paranoid than the time I stole and ate an entire 4th grade class’s supply of fun dip! I’ll take to Lower Wacker Drive like a bum king, stealing sleeping alcoves next to building vents, crushing day old bagels between my teeth because I haven’t lost em yet„ defecating in the most primo corners, and wondering around CVS smelling pretty girls! BUM KINGIN IT.
So if you’re reading this note, and I never returned with eggs and TP, It’s fair to say the Jim you know is dead. I’m now probably called Cherry Bomb. Forget about me and move on. None of this would happen if Trevor’s omelet didn’t mess with my stomach so hard. Damn you Trevor, you perverted little egg assassin. No one should have to use that much TP in one morning. Damn you for possibly forcing me into this new soap-free lifestyle that I can’t help but love so much. We’re also out of hot sauce. I’ll pick some up and add it to the group spread sheet. Suck it Trevor.
