Guess what? Brittany Murphy died. Only, it happened five months ago. I am bad with current events. I found out about it on the news tonight, while watching a news story about how her widower husband just died. Weirdness.
I am really pushing it tonight with my bedtime. Dammit! I've really just painted myself into a sleep corner, again. Now I've done it. I pounded two whole Red Stripes tonight. Red Stripe is a decent lager. I like the pudgy shape of the bottle. The shape of the bottle makes me want to bottle someone. You know? It's all little and easily concealed, like a Saturday Night Special. It's like that part in A Bronx Tale where the kid is like, "This gun makes me want to fuckin' shoot somebody," or something like that.
You know where you can buy Red Stripe? The local Pioneer supermarket! Yes, you may! It's probably virtually impossible to find it elsewhere. So just head over to Krap Slope, "Kra-Slo," to the corner of Parkside and Ocean Ave., and stop in and make the freakin' purchase. And don't even try to get it at the Park Slope Food Co-op, because they have never heard of it. That shit is so underground, you can't even begin to know what it's like to hear of it. Listen to me when I tell you how much people in Park Slope haven't heard a sound about it.
The chicken in the KFC commercial looks dry. I like the commercial, though. And the chicken, I think.
I seem to be blogging myself to sleep, here. My girlfriend is trying to fall asleep next to me, because she thinks she's cool or tired or something. What a jerkstorm. I just gave her the finger and she doesn't even know.
I never understood why Al Bundy didn't want to have sex with Peggy. She was totally a sexpot. I could never suspend my disbelief enough to buy into that part of the show.
I am yours in the bowels of Christ. Be well.
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