Thursday, March 11, 2010

Tanning Salon Hero

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I,ve got to start going to bars more often. They,re gross. I went to one last night and within the short amount of time that I was there so many great things happened. I saw people that I went to high school with that I never planned on seeing again. In fact, they were so removed from any component of my life that matters that I forgot they existed. I stumbled trying to figure out their names while they, for some bizarre reason, immediately knew mine. They all seemed swirly and stoned and tall.

I got a good dousing with beer. For some reason, a girl that I supposedly knew at the bar thought that, rather than handing a glass filled so full with cheap Patriotic Pabst Blue Ribbon that the surface tension made it look like an over-inflated red rubber ball from fourth grade, she would toss it backwards to a nonexistent person. I and a few other people got to walk around sticky for the night thanks to her generous showering. But it was a good kind of sticky. It was the kind of sticky that the Southerners felt when they walked away from a hearty battle covered in Yankee blood. Good old Pabst.
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Caribou - Swim

There was no where to sit so I stood awkwardly for a while next to some girls with weird tattoos that looked like castles drawn on graph paper and birds. Everybody had tattoos relating to peacocks that night. So many feathers. I finally found a seat on top of a big speaker next to this adorable middle-aged couple that were busy hugging each other and making strange racist/Fleetwood Mac jokes.

I have been eating a steady diet of fifteen-bean soup and undercooked Pizza Hut cheese pizzas for the past four days so let,s just say I was, and still am, seismically active. The speaker I was sitting on quickly converted all potential energy into kinetic energy and shifted my tectonic plates causing violence the likes of which the Haitians and Chileans know all too well. I don,t know why I just used so many earthquake and seismology references. I farted a whole lot and it smelled bad. That weird Fleetwood Mac team kept looking at me every time a delicious tremor caught their attention. Of course all I could do in return was gaze lovingly back at them.

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