whatz up my bitches?
That's how I'm going to roll on the facebook. Everybody is not my friend, but my bitch. "How did you become Roger's bitch?" "Well, it's complicated. You see, he has this blog that a hand-picked tens of people read and one day he just said we were all his bitches and so it is and so it shall be."
Anyway, I am glad that you've all stepped up to the plate and whatnot, because it appears that I have like 3 times as many friends as I normally do. Now to me the distinction of a friend is someone obligated to help you move. Right? If you don't help your friends move, you're not friends, you're like "dudes." Hey, who's that guy movin' the fridge you're not helping with? Oh, it's just this dude I know. Speaking of moving, Westlake cops have pick-up trucks. Not like all of them - some of them have pick-ups. Strange right? I'm not sure why, but I bet they hate it when all the other cities call them up to help move shit. Right? "I gotta get this couch from my mom's and take it to the station. Can you bring your truck?" That's gotta be the number one reason not to buy a pick-up - people wanting to use your FLATbed constantly. You have to help your friends and "dudes" move. Crap. The number one reason TO get a truck is you never have to drive co-workers to lunch. Unless it's really nice out and I want to ride hillbilly style.
By the by, what is the word for paranoia induced by the obsession that someone has stolen your chair and replaced it with the exact same chair except the new chair makes a hideous grating noise from one of the wheels? G-nuts? Ok. Thought so.
Labels: wasted label