Life Is too Short to not be Pissed all the Time

Some of you have undoubtedly heard of the events that I am about to relate to you. Some of you may find what I say unbelievable, and some may even say that I have past the bounds of good storytelling and have started to compose outright lies.

The naysayers among you will point to the tale of one named Spiffy McFrugalberry and see more truth in it than in what I say. I pity you, for your eyes are so blind to the truth that you are as an infant among scholars in the realm of learned knowledge and experience. Now I will digress and attack Spiffy’s character.

He is a liar. And no good poop-pants motherfucking liar who can’t tell a story for shit and just tries to purposely be as humanly boring as possible. And that’s just his writing. As a person he is truly evil. I have personally seen him punch pregnant women in the stomach while smoking cigarettes (who can say which action is truly more evil, not I) all the while singing songs about how cool it is to hate “inferior” races. And if I hear the phrase “blast beats” one more time I’m going to kill him.

Now since that has been cleared up, I now present to you with the truth. Everything here is accurate and non-fictional and has been retold without a sense of ego on the writer’s part. All in the name of truth.

            It was a rainy day in march, the nuclear wars had ceased for a time, and I was bored of my harems and constant goings to battle. So I decided to go visit my friend (in the loosest sense of the word) Spiffy. Upon my white steed I strode into the bastions of Wilmington, and after negotiating my way through its slums and tenements I eventually came upon the humble shack of a warrior far past his prime. His name was Josh.

            Josh had once been a noble knight in the service of the 302, but now he’s just a dick, who is bald. No more will be said of him.

            Upon entering the Nameless-One’s abode I encountered his gnome of a son. Spiffy has already been described in enough detail as is necessary for this tale, so all I will say is that I grabbed him by the neck, put a leash around him, and tied him to my steed; whose name was Ass-Fucker the Triumphant. A horse’s name is always important to a story.

            I inquired as to what there was to do on a rainy day such as it was. Spiffy being the bore that he usually is told me about a musical order that was occurring in the far off land of Philadelphia. He also said something about it being “punk” but I assume that was him trying to form large thoughts that he is simply unable to handle.

            Naturally I consented, as I was bored with getting laid twice every hour, and eating three full meals a day, all in between romps to and from the battlefield. We set out on our quest.