Hey, believe it or not, there's ACTUALLY gonna be a winning endorsement here for people who live there.
I'd been led to believe, perhaps with due cause, that if ever confronted with a gaggle of testosteronally-challenged ne'er-do-well's from the Bridge, the spectacle would include some sort of simian bug-picking from each other's greasy manes, lots of goofy dancing, and an absurd fixation on the music of a crappy early-90's Swedish shit-group.
Well, hey, they got two out of three.
Now, I can't fucking tell you how many fucking times I fucking said the fucking f-word last fucking night, but you fucking know it was a fucking fuck-load of fucks fucked out of my fucking fuckmouth. Such is the fucking nature of the fucking game fucking known as fucking Kings where your fucking opponents like to fucking fuck you over every fucking way they fucking can.
Something I've noticed. It's sort of a running trend here. Whenever Kon's around Andres, and there's drinking involved, through no fault of Andres whatsoever, Kon's a complete DICK to me! What the H E Double Hockey Sticks is up with that? I'm just lookin' to have a good time, get my drANK on, and Kon's looking to pick fights! I'm not gonna lie to you, C-man, this aggression will not stand! Gettin' Andres to hit me, kicking me out of the band (of which I OWN the rights to the name Big Sarah, so you're FUCKED! I'm the Axl Rose in this scenario), tryin' to single me out in your rule-making in Kings. The writing's on the wall, C-man. Your revolution is over! THE BUMS LOST!
What's it like to be in a room full of estrogen after getting four hours of sleep and you're STILL drunk, but not in a good, squishy kind of way, you ask? Well, being the Ultimate Sacajawea, I'd have to say being called Stevie Bear repeatedly only made me want to kill myself (on a ten-scale) about a 6. Oh, you KNOW that's lower than you thought.
Does anybody else really fucking hate these God-Damned Duffle Bag commercials? I kinda wanna shoot that douchebag with the furry hat in the knee cap, tie him up to a tree, pour peroxide in the wound to cleanse, pour honey in the wound to sweeten the deal, and release my pet shark, because you know that when a shark senses blood, it goes crazy. And the honey? Well, shit man, my shark don't want no bitter blood face.
Let me just say this about last night. I didn't break any glasses, I didn't lose any identification, I didn't break any eyeballs, I didn't puke all over my unconscious body, I didn't run to Queen Anne, I didn't bicep curl any 3 pound weights, I didn't throw any broken televisions off of any high places, I didn't do TOO much Lil' Jon, and I didn't say NEARLY as much dumb shit as I have in the past. Car didn't break down, got all my cd's and my radio-face, made it home with only a slight headache, and I've still got Champagne of Beers in Big Sarah's house. I've gotta say, this ranks very high in my drunken jaunts to Seattle on the Non-Idiocy scale.
P.S. You know a surefire way to kick that nasty smoking habit? Lose your license and sit on your thumbs for a week so you can't buy anymore. It helps if you look like you're 12.
Current Mood: AND I didn't soil their toilet bowl with my feces after breaking the seal
Current Music: Megadeth - Symphony of Destruction
Hey US (Ultimate Sacajawea)/Steviebear,
You know you had fun, and you know you love the B Islanders much more than you ever thought possible. Atleast you had some great belly laughs right? Atleast we made it home from Redmond, and I let you sleep in my house until like 1pm. Atleast I stopped the guys from really beating you up on Saturday night, and didn't join in with the kidney punching. All in all, it was glorious.
Cheers,
Sarah