Shallow End of the Gene Pool

So how come the girls who are smart are either cunts or they're ugly, and the girls that are hot can barely concentrate on one thing for more than three fuckin seconds? Is this a genetic thing?

I mean, damnit, I got the total package here! I may have a boozing problem and be prone to throwing my life to the gutter once in a while, but I'm a dangerously good lookin fella who is smarter than shit and has the body of damn welterweight fighter. Not to mention, women don't know how misguided I am until after it's too late.

Of course, I've only met a handful of girls that can keep up (and are good looking at the same time) in the quarter century that I've been punched into this place.

Maybe it's time to do what colleges do when they want a better football team and lower the admission standards?

I've already given up looking for brains- I'm going purely for looks nowadays; I've come to the conclusion that as soon as any woman looks at me and opens her mouth to speak, my life becomes miserable.

As a result, my strong deductive reason has lead me to believe that if a woman never says anything of consequence, then my life will never be miserable. They keep talking about shiny things or what song is on the radio, and I'm fine. And like most men, I'd rather have a good looking dumb girl than an ugly smart one... although it is getting to the point now where I really wonder how ridiculously idiotic someone can be and still function day-to-day in life successfully (and I think by "successfully" I just mean feed and clothe themselves and end up in the same place they woke up).

Do I sound bitter? I'm not. It's more incredulous, I guess. People are strange fuckin creatures.

On the bright side, I found out that not only can I change the colors on the display of my Mustang, but I can make my own colors by combining the three primaries on the display.

Between that and the marvelous creation called "interior ambient lighting", I swear this car is like a damn fireworks display. I don't so much want to drive it as just sit in it with my sunglasses on and sling people the six shooter all day as they drive by. Maybe I should be a cop. That's what they do, ain't it?

Hey Trash... man i'm drunk....and that poison, it's thick... trying to resist... it's like motherfucking cancer... she's under my goddamn skin..

Bragging

I am tired. I say my obligatory goodbyes, and begin making my way out of the bar that I frequent so often.

I parked down the block some because the cops pass by there a lot less often, and if I am a bit merry when I walk out, I've got a better chance surviving coming out of down here. As I walk, I see a guy fall into step with me behind me.

He's far too drunk to mean any harm, and if he did I'd end his day very quickly because I'm sober as a priest and on my guard.

"Hey bro.. you need a ride?" I ask.

"Ahh, I'm walkin home dude, I live like, I don't know, down there, not far. It ain't bad."

"You sure?" I ask.

"Ahhh well.... if you don't mind..."

Being as I walked three miles last Saturday morning trying to get home, I feel this poor bastard. It was an hour before someone I knew pulled over and told me to get in because I was obviously too drunk too function, even at 8 in the morning.

"C'mon fucker. It's over here."

As we walk into the vacant lot, he asks, "Which one's yours?"

I point to her. She's silver and the light is gleaming off every corner, and it's clear in my mind that I've replaced women with material things and I am fucking FINE with that.

He opens his gaze through drunken eyes. "Wow... nice ride man," he says, a kind of stunned sound in his voice.

"Goddamn right," I say with a grin. "You puke in her, and I'll kill you."

I say it with a smile, and he half-laughs, like he knows I'm kidding...kind of.

Later on I will gun it through a red light even though I shouldn't, but I can't help it.

I did what I went to the bar to do, and even did a good deed on the way, and walked out sober. Some days, you feel like you ate your goddamn Wheaties.

Who'd have thought...

When I had initially looked at the twisted scrap metal that has become my once glorious black Dodge truck, I could only shake my head as I blew smoke out of my nose and mouth simultaneously. My mother thought I would cry when they towed her away, the shattered wreckage the constant reminder of why women should not be allowed to drive.

She's come around the corner hard, and hadn't seen my poor old girl parked on the road. She's lucky to be alive.

But if there's one thing that can make life a little bit better, and make you realize that certain things are blessings in disguise, it's looking at the brand new silver Mustang that resides where your old girl once was. Leather interior, old school grill, and a purring engine... and it's like the movies, when the lights fade out in the background and "Blue Moon" starts playing and the object of your affection comes to the forefront of the scene and your heart skips a couple dozen beats.

I've got my Eleanor now... and my God, she is straight fuckin' pimpin.

Someone in my family looked at me, and looked at the car, and shook their head. "You know, as you get older, the guido's startin' to come out in you more and more."

"Oh I know. It's horrific... but I can't help it... all I need now is that red pepper thing that those fuckers hang in their rear window."

"It's a horn."

"Whatever."