Friday, December 10, 2010

Knife Fight

I fucking HATE short socks. The ones that peek out from underneath low tops, all off-white and going nowhere, the ankles showing like 17th century cleavage. But knives are ok, I guess. For a while I lived in a Euro country and I started carrying a little pocket knife with wolves on the handle cause I'd stumble home drunk as fuck from O' Carolans on quiz night when the winning team gets a bottle of whatever they want and my homie George Reynolds was a trivia super-genius and for whatever reason I would check car doors and if one was unlocked I'd get in and just SIT THERE for a few minutes then finish stumbling home but feel paranoid, hence the knife. Guns are cool though. Right now I'm obsessed with toy guns. And kittens, for whatever reason (no joke). But I hate cats. Anyway, I'm thinking about investing in pepper spray, which I could've used the other night when I was at the Soda Bar and I threw a coaster at my good friend Nick Haskel and accidentally grazed the shoulder of some aggressive caveman in a mint green hooded sweatshirt who subsequently tried to fight me despite my genuine apology until Kelvin swept in like a super-hero and scooped the aforementioned douchebag up and out and far far away. Thanks Kelvin. I was gonna break a bottle and shove the glassy end into his face but I'm more of a lover and less of a fighter. Plus I broke one wrist skateboarding and one of my hands being an idiot so I'm basically Glass Joe from Punch-out. Or more like King Hippo, I guess, cause during fights I just run my mouth like “Blurp, blurp blurp” and throw an upper-cut every five minutes.


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