Meandering Nonsensicalities

Buckle up, kiddies, this post is going to swerve around like a souped-up Honda on a Tokyo drift. Giddyup!

Let's start with me, as important (and devilishly handsome) a topic there is. I'd like to tell you that I've got life by the short and curlies; that I've got it all solved. Look, I Get It, and have for a couple years, but when night's like last Saturday happen I question whether my personal apocalypse is closer than I think. The evening started innocently enough, drinking champagne and shootin' the poop with friends. We decided to up the ante a bit and lower the collective sobriety of the room with good old fashioned drinking games. I played with my own bottle of bub because, hey, I'm a classy dude.

Pennypacker and I outlasted everyone, so we returned to his compound to continue the merriment, though by then Lady P. had retired to her chambers. We carried on like a GD sewing circle; me with my Andre and he with his peasant swill. The cards became sloppy and my cerebellum got itchy. Yes, it was indeed time to call it a night.

If only it were that easy, dear reader. I could, and should, have taken a cab, but my palate begged for a taste of adventure. One would have no trouble coming up with a word other than adventure for my 3:00 a.m. inebriated, mile-plus stroll through seedy sections of our federal district. I'm not talking seedy in the hipster, "real" people sense; it was straight sketch.

If I ended my tale here, one might say "what were you thinking, Wick?" Or "you're lucky you weren't on the business end of a shiv." But it isn't the end, oh no friends. I somehow managed to remain lucid enough to patronize the 7-11 as my journey neared its conclusion. On the menu, two Go-Go Taquitos and a Stouffer's microwave mac and cheese. I cracked open a beer I didn't need, and fortunately didn't drink, sat on my couch with my gastronomic delights and watched Dawson's Creek. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Now with the great taste of failure and vanquished dreams

It was a sad state of affairs when I came to; bits of crunchy, melted cheese and plastic in my hair and Joey Potter showing off a vocabulary beyond her years whilst sassing Pacey Whitter for his childish shenanigans.

This is my life...

Birdman Checks in Wit Ya's Again

How ya doin', kids. Dis here's Birdman again. Boy, it's been tough lately for us sooper Philly Phans. Wat wit' da Flyers losin' an' all. Dose fuckin' Pittsburgh hicks. Dey don't know wat real hockey is, do dey! Fuckin' Sooper Mario my ass. My hairy Italian ass!

Wat? Sit da fuck down, Louise! I told you, I'm talkin' here!

Fuckin' woman don't listen, ya know? Hey! How do you tell a woman wit a black eye to shaddap? What, you already told her once! HA!!!

Anyways, it's a fuckin' shame about da Flyers, ya knowhaddamean? I mean, we beat dose fuckin' Caps (who never should have made it to Game Fuckin' 7), den we beat da fuckin' Canadiens, and den...fuck. It's always somethin' wit Philly, ya knowhaddamean?

I mean, shit, when's da last time Philly won anyting? I tink I was just a little bastard runnin' around beatin' up terd graders cause I tawt I had a big set of googats.

Wat do you want, Joey? No, I ain't got time ta take you to da library for dat school shit. Can't you see I got important stuff here? Now run go get your old man anudder can of Bud, will ya's?

Jesus. Fuckin' kids don't know what's right dese days, wat makes sense. (chuckles) It ain't school, I can tell you dat! I never finished seventh grade, an' I'm doin' pretty fuckin' good! I mean, I got my season tickets to da Iggles, don't I? How's dat! Stick dat high school diplorma up your ass, pussies!

Alright. It's gon' be a long summer, kids. We gotta long way until da Iggles play, an' we gotta put up wit' anudder Phillies collapse. But hang in dere. Training camp starts soon, and dat's when the dream starts again. Dis is Birdman, signin' off.