Top two terms in the emails that have been going back and forth among the people I am going to Big Sur with that are making me regret my decision.
1. French press
2. Braised fava beans
We need a motherfucker who can kill a bear on this trip. I should have invited Internerd.
Dear Mr. Dickheadface,
Clean up the graffiti on the outside of the building*. Don’t want to clean up graffiti? Sell the building and go buy something in Walnut Creek, asshole. And fix the leaks and heat and shit.
I look forward to your anticipated cooperation.
*Obviously wait until I photograph and glamorize said vandalism by posting it on the internet.
Kind of radically at the moment. I get to write nasty letters and yell at slumlords on the phone, which is what I think I was born to do.
Tenderloin and The Mission. I don’t really dislike anywhere. I mean, I wouldn’t hang out at bars in the Marina, but it’s pretty enough. Over by Stonestown is pretty wack. I’ve lived here over seven years and still have no idea what Ingleside or Crocker Amazon are.
Probably, now that I have more time, until I get fired by Subcomandante Kevmo.
A friend who is a teacher sent me some jokes that the nine and ten-year-olds she teaches have been hurling at each other in the last week. I think there’s some solid material here.
Your mom is so fat that she sucks my mom’s dick for two cents.
Your mom is so fat, and she has dick in her mouth and in her ass.
If she had a beard, that sounds just like me.