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Friday, July 22, 2005
Alcoholic Review
I had a friend for a few years named John Tacopina. We called him Taco. Computer game type guy, really skinny, smoked menthols. He moved to New York to be a restaraunt host or something. His uncle is a famous lawyer who goes on CNN all the time, so he wanted to be around the successful branch of the family, I guess. One night when I was drunk and pissy I told him the only reason we were friends was because we were worthless shits who didn't want to smoke marijuana by ourselves. He took offense. Never spoke to me again. Fast forward five years. Somehow he tracked me down.
Dear Steve,  Been a long time. I heard Tim wrote you a letter to reconcile your differences and make up. How sweet. I'll do no such thing. I'm writing to shit on your carpet. I remember back when we used to sit in your garage smoking joints, playing Star Wars CCG, listening to your crap ass music. I guess I had nothing better to do. I shoulda stayed the fuck at home. You'd try to convince me that Sigur Ros' music was ethereal heavenly genius. You know what it was? A bunch of castrated Icelandic fucks mourning their severed cocks. That's what I think. You know what else? Sleater Kinney and Le Tigre are for butch lesbians, not you. And Bono is a cunt, and U2 sucks. The Clash is fucking noise, not music. You need a lobotomy. Badly. And what's with all that Motown shit? I don't even need to explain what that says about you.  You were always such a loser. Who pops pills so he can chug a whole case of Budweiser in a single sitting? Who buys comic books and passes them out to strange kids who wander up to his garage to try and steal his marijuana? Who gets so drunk from gin that he tries to wrestle with police while his mother watches, crying, asking him to stop? You, that's who. What else? Okay. I'll tell you. Who dirty dances with middle-aged women who stop their power walks to gawk at the drunk moron dancing to old Talking Heads calypso songs? Who pukes his gin so he can switch to beer? Who drinks cups of microwaved nacho cheese and burps up preservative heavy green pepper chunks? Then sticks them out on his tongue, amused at his digestive genius? Steve Fucking Giles, that's who. Plus, you almost never cleaned that place. You had that nasty old green chair with burn holes and puke stains all over it, and you were proud of it, too, like a baby with a full diaper. You just threw all your trash on the floor, and it stacked up halfway to the ceiling. That is fucking horrible and you know it. That throw rug was glued to the floor, man. I bet it took a paint scraper to get that thing up after all the piss and beer that soaked that thing.  The worst thing about you was the spiders. Letting your tarantula crawl on your face ain't cool. You tried soooo hard to be weird and different. It was pathetic. I bet that thing hated you. Not to mention the purple spider living on the ceiling by the light bulb. Sure, I may have swatted the occasional june bug in there to watch the spider trap it and eat its brain, but you did it every single night. You really enjoyed it. Why don't you find a spider to fuck? You're not getting any chicks with a wardrobe you sewed together yourself. Slow down on the action figures and maybe you'll be able to afford some threads. Oh, and keep voting for Ralph Nader. Dipshit. Keep getting drunk. Stay the same. I want your life to suck. I hope you hate yourself right now. I'll bet you never even learned to drive yet. One day I'll come back, point my finger, gloat, and say I told you so. Fucktard. Eat shit, John Tacopina 3:17 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm 
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