A Messed-Up Tale Of Randomness, Now With Jokes

I come here to work every single weekday that isn’t a holiday or a day I’ve taken off, and just sit here and stare at the walls. It’s because someone broke in and drew graffiti on the walls. I think it was Banksy, or that rip-off guy Creditunionsy. It’s hard to tell because my eyes are closed. I could open them, but that would ruin the mystery. I hate ruining the mystery, because then Scooby Doo doesn’t have anything to solve. Ruh-roh!

The guy across the aisle (I’m in a grocery store) (not really, I’m at work) (I don’t work at a grocery store) (well I do, but as an escort) has a well-stocked pantry at his desk. He’s got food all over the place. Chips, and raw fish, and protein bars, and Christmas candy, just everywhere. Why am I telling you this? Because I don’t want to talk about my window.

My window is covered by blinds right now. We had an active shooter drill, and during one of those, you’re supposed to close the blinds so someone walking down the street with a gun doesn’t shoot you, but you can still shoot them. I think that’s why. They haven’t really sent out information about it, but I’m heavily armed just in case. Well, not really heavily – I have two arms, just like nearly everyone else.

I don’t mean to be a total fucking asshole, but I once worked at a Starbucks in a district where a manager at another store had only one full arm, and one that ended at the elbow. She was very beautiful, but was arrested for stealing money from the store and covering it with the barista tips. She was a one-armed bandit. See? Why did I have to do that just for a cheap fucking terrible pun? However, the story is true. Her name was Denise. As far as I know, it’s still Denise to this very day.

Speaking of that (not really), my family started complaining about my obsession with the show Friends. In fact, the person who has the biggest problem with my Friends obsession is my son, Monica. He fucking hates that show. My daughter Gunther isn’t too keen on it either. Whatever that means. Keen on it? Yeah, no idea.

When is this stupid fucking post going to end? Ugh. I hate this guy’s blog. I mean, the poetry is all cryptic and morbidly depressing, and then he writes some dumb shit like this and you can’t see the point of it. It’s like he just writes in a sort of stream-of-consciousness style with no regard for fucks or giving fucks whatsoever. Does he hate his readers? I don’t know. I’ll ask him…..

After the break.

What break? See? He just inserts random references to Ryan Seacrest and no one watches that show (The X Factor). Who’s going to get the reference? The librarian? I asked her for an autobibliography like 45 minutes ago, and she said there was no such thing. She was kind of hot, so I was like, well then how about we go behind the stacks and shag? She said ‘Sir! This is a library!’ So I whispered ‘how about we go behind the stacks and shag?’ She said ‘shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhure’. We made sweet love. I was expecting Dewey Decimal System. I wasn’t prepared for her Library of Congress. I stuck my atlas in her travel section, and then she got on top of my biology. That’s hot, right? I checked her out many times, renewing to the limit, until we finally had to return it.

I can tell she enjoyed it. She said she loved my big dictionary.

 

16938845_754267828076078_3560825152854238402_n

 

Advertisements

56 thoughts on “A Messed-Up Tale Of Randomness, Now With Jokes”

  1. All of this shagging lends the imagery of an International Man of Mystery. It would seem, due to the unfreezing process, you have no inner monologue…

    “Austin, it is shit!”
    “Oh good, then it’s not just me…”

    Liked by 1 person

                    1. Written in the comments section of this post with Tamara of Sharpest Perception a Road Less Traveled

                      Girl, are you a library book? Cause I wanna check you out, take you home, tear your jacket, spill a drink on you and bring you back late

                      Alright now…Not before I feed your bookworm, stroke your genius, climb your mind, tightly, erupting your pinky

                      Then I’ll lick your spine, get under your covers, engage in a little foreword, and put you on the table.

                      And I’ll pull you out my dream, put you back in deeper, make you speak in tongues, drive you til you shiver.

                      I’ll use my fingers to hold your places, get deep inside you, study your white spaces, run my fingers along your meaning.

                      Not to waste a taste of the milkshake at hand, I sit on the unbending of your mind’s creamy circumstance .

                      I grasp your definition, and slide into your syntax, licking the creases and folds of your dripping climax

                      2 hands I grab your standing jolly rancher, rubbing the lady slipper with your crowns determination, before my sweet tooth’s proof melts you down by skilled persuasion .

                      Promising aural pleasures everlasting, I stand at your attention, listening to you playing my instrument while I conduct our harmonious sections to crescendo

                      Momentum speeds up as musicals smacks, makes the wall cave in spraying, the long instrument follows suit spilling its juice, as the tight cradling, continued displaying. ❤ it!

                      Liked by 1 person

Share your amazing thoughts with me!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s