Re: Rugby World Cup Wagerstation 2011
09-17-2011, 02:17 AM
TRIP REPORT
Day 7
The dumpster I slept against was cold, cold as a dumpster. It took me about three minutes, give or take, to realize I was awake. I grapped the edge of the dumpster in question to hoist myself up on my good leg. There were three other men here with me and I had to be careful not to wake them up -- not that I knew them; it was just etiquette. And maybe they're the crazy type that always carries a gun. I shook a little urine out of my pant leg.
"What happened last night?" was probably the question on everybody's mind that morning. Cliched as it was, I was suffering through a hangover and didn't have time for thinking of fresh new takes on every day phrases. I checked my pockets -- wallet, gun, phone -- everything was in order. But as my brain began to fire its marbles at the jacks called thoughts, a anxiety gripped me -- DID ANYBODY TALK TO ME ABOUT RUGBY LAST NIGHT?!
I grabbed my phone and dialed my best friend. Then I threw my phone in the dumpster. If he had talked to me about rugby last night, he'd likely want to talk about how we talked about rugby, and that counts as talking about rugby. I'm dead without my coffee in the morning! I clutched my gun and ran to the nearest coffee shop.
"20 shots of your hardest espresso!" I shouted to the coffee barista.
"No! Small talk instead!" she barked back. I think she was a dog? "Did you hear about the Rugby game last night? I like to smell butts."
I covered my ears and ran away. She was crying. Do dogs cry? Reality and fantasy were blending into an maddening, unintelligible medley of guns and dogs. Suddenly, I was in an alleyway, cramped as it was open. There was a lamp there, which I assumed to be my only defense and friend in this messed-up world. I stripped down to my underwear and climbed a fence. Werewolves were everywhere! I fought them off with my trusty silver lamp, but then I looked down at one of the werewolves -- she was crying. Aren't werewolves people too?! Could this monster be the dog?! Then it lunged at you. Crocodile tears. You decided it didn't matter if this werewolf was the barista or not, it was a murderous bitch through and through.
You turned around to grab a tombstone but when you turned back around, the werewolves were gone -- and in its place was the US rugby team! You threw the lamp at them and they began to transform into werewolves, their bulging muscles ripping their clothes off as they grew. Why would you notice that, you weirdo? They're gonna talk about rugby or murder you! You came to your senses quickly, repressing your gay gay thoughts, and took the closest escape route available -- the portal into Hell you uncovered by lifting up that tombstone.
There, your dead dad greets you. He's also Satan. He embraces you tightly.
"Come, Son, let us go be gay together. You look beautiful."
To be, or not to be? Ah, that is the point of it now! To watch and wonder, to bust a move, to start a psychedelic jug band that ends up recording novelty tunes. These are a few of my favorite things. You run out of there like a bat out of Hell, and then to your house. You notice a thread on the table, and knit to make a shirt out of it. It takes 3 hours and you don't seem to make any progress until the last second. But just as it's getting good, I woke up. The dumpster I slept against was cold, cold as a dumpster. It took me about three minutes, give or take, to realize I was awake. I grapped the edge of the dumpster in question to hoist myself up on my good leg. There were three other men here with me and I had to be careful not to wake them up -- not that I knew them; it was just etiquette. And maybe they're the crazy type that always carries a gun. I shook a little urine out of my pant leg.
"What happened last night?" was probably the question on everybody's mind that morning. Cliched as it was, I was suffering through a hangover and didn't have time for thinking of fresh new takes on every day phrases. I checked my pockets -- wallet, gun, phone -- everything was in order. But as my brain began to fire its marbles at the jacks called thoughts, a anxiety gripped me -- DID ANYBODY TALK TO ME ABOUT RUGBY LAST NIGHT?!
I checked my wallet -- inside was a note reading "No." My money was missing, but this simple reassurance was worth more than any dollar amount. I clutched it against my chest and had a few gay thoughts about it.
Day 7
The dumpster I slept against was cold, cold as a dumpster. It took me about three minutes, give or take, to realize I was awake. I grapped the edge of the dumpster in question to hoist myself up on my good leg. There were three other men here with me and I had to be careful not to wake them up -- not that I knew them; it was just etiquette. And maybe they're the crazy type that always carries a gun. I shook a little urine out of my pant leg.
"What happened last night?" was probably the question on everybody's mind that morning. Cliched as it was, I was suffering through a hangover and didn't have time for thinking of fresh new takes on every day phrases. I checked my pockets -- wallet, gun, phone -- everything was in order. But as my brain began to fire its marbles at the jacks called thoughts, a anxiety gripped me -- DID ANYBODY TALK TO ME ABOUT RUGBY LAST NIGHT?!
I grabbed my phone and dialed my best friend. Then I threw my phone in the dumpster. If he had talked to me about rugby last night, he'd likely want to talk about how we talked about rugby, and that counts as talking about rugby. I'm dead without my coffee in the morning! I clutched my gun and ran to the nearest coffee shop.
"20 shots of your hardest espresso!" I shouted to the coffee barista.
"No! Small talk instead!" she barked back. I think she was a dog? "Did you hear about the Rugby game last night? I like to smell butts."
I covered my ears and ran away. She was crying. Do dogs cry? Reality and fantasy were blending into an maddening, unintelligible medley of guns and dogs. Suddenly, I was in an alleyway, cramped as it was open. There was a lamp there, which I assumed to be my only defense and friend in this messed-up world. I stripped down to my underwear and climbed a fence. Werewolves were everywhere! I fought them off with my trusty silver lamp, but then I looked down at one of the werewolves -- she was crying. Aren't werewolves people too?! Could this monster be the dog?! Then it lunged at you. Crocodile tears. You decided it didn't matter if this werewolf was the barista or not, it was a murderous bitch through and through.
You turned around to grab a tombstone but when you turned back around, the werewolves were gone -- and in its place was the US rugby team! You threw the lamp at them and they began to transform into werewolves, their bulging muscles ripping their clothes off as they grew. Why would you notice that, you weirdo? They're gonna talk about rugby or murder you! You came to your senses quickly, repressing your gay gay thoughts, and took the closest escape route available -- the portal into Hell you uncovered by lifting up that tombstone.
There, your dead dad greets you. He's also Satan. He embraces you tightly.
"Come, Son, let us go be gay together. You look beautiful."
To be, or not to be? Ah, that is the point of it now! To watch and wonder, to bust a move, to start a psychedelic jug band that ends up recording novelty tunes. These are a few of my favorite things. You run out of there like a bat out of Hell, and then to your house. You notice a thread on the table, and knit to make a shirt out of it. It takes 3 hours and you don't seem to make any progress until the last second. But just as it's getting good, I woke up. The dumpster I slept against was cold, cold as a dumpster. It took me about three minutes, give or take, to realize I was awake. I grapped the edge of the dumpster in question to hoist myself up on my good leg. There were three other men here with me and I had to be careful not to wake them up -- not that I knew them; it was just etiquette. And maybe they're the crazy type that always carries a gun. I shook a little urine out of my pant leg.
"What happened last night?" was probably the question on everybody's mind that morning. Cliched as it was, I was suffering through a hangover and didn't have time for thinking of fresh new takes on every day phrases. I checked my pockets -- wallet, gun, phone -- everything was in order. But as my brain began to fire its marbles at the jacks called thoughts, a anxiety gripped me -- DID ANYBODY TALK TO ME ABOUT RUGBY LAST NIGHT?!
I checked my wallet -- inside was a note reading "No." My money was missing, but this simple reassurance was worth more than any dollar amount. I clutched it against my chest and had a few gay thoughts about it.