Thanksgiving, a time for reuniting with family members and scaring the living shit out of them. Since bringing a hooker home and introducing her as your fiancé gets pretty expensive after a couple of hours, we've come up with a cost effective way of making your mother cry. Just write the following entries into a journal and leave it lying around the house for concerned relatives to stumble across.
Life in New York is great, though I have no idea why they call it "The Big Apple." I think "The Big City" would be more appropriate, as Manhattan is more like a city than a piece of fruit. Apples aren't filled with people trying to kill me.
I saw a number of blonde women who looked attractive from a distance, but up close they had really ugly faces. I asked all of them if they were Paris Hilton. None of them were. Some were flattered at my mistake, others offended. I marked the flattered ones with one dot, and the offended ones with two dots. I didn't make the same mistake twice. Actually, I did, but just once. One of the women had put on headphones and I couldn't see the dots I'd drawn on her head.
I bought a hot dog from a street vendor. He asked if I wanted mustard or ketchup. I flew into a rage because I'm allergic to mustard. Asshole.
I set a tree on fire in Central Park today.
I walked into the tallest building I could find and asked to see the most important person in the building. I reasoned that the most important person in the tallest building in the biggest city in the world must be the most important person on Earth. They didn't let me see the most important person on Earth because I was covered in blood and mustard. I guess all important people are allergic to mustard.
I saw a beggar. He asked for change. I asked for advice. Nothing. We saw a man get out of a really nice car, and figured he had both, so we dragged him into an alley. He didn't have change, only dollar bills, and when he tried to give us advice, we ended up more confused than before. The beggar wanted to kill him, but I said that he didn't deserve it, so we let him go to his meeting.
I walked to Central Park. A tree was on fire. "That' weird," I thought. I walked closer. A fireman asked me if I had seen how it started. I looked around and pointed to the first person I saw with really nice shoes. "Him," I declared. "HIM!!!" They directed the hose at him, and I ran off screaming.
While my collection is not yet complete, it's time to head home for Thanksgiving, so I figured it's time. When I got back to my sewer, they were all there: the Paris Hiltons, the street vendor, the important people, and a few others. "Why?!?" I demanded to know. "Why are you trying to kill me?!?" They were groggy and unresponsive to my interrogation, so I beat them all to death with a trash can and slept in the first unlocked car I could find.
I hope mom doesn't use celery in her stuffing this year. I hate celery.
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