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Habla, my lovely fuckfaces...

As I sit here, alone listening to my Johnny Cash, I'm drifting off and am reminded of a moment on my vacation over Christmas that I swore I'd never write about...but seeing as how I'm slowly getting loaded at a rapid pace, here goes it. I went to Florida to visit some friends and relax over my holiday tour break. I figured this would just be my standard theme park hopping drunken extraveganza that I usually have when I go to that state, but no, I had to go stay with my friend Tim. But seeing as how he probably doesn't want me using his real name in this email I'll just refer to him as...Tim. "Tim" is one of my many my Florida friends, who when in time of need, is allways there. Now that's a true friend. So, I've got this plan put together to go on this vacation, and all I need is a place to stay. And for those of you that know me well enough, I just don't give a fuck when it comes to sleep. I'll fucking pass out anywhere, even standing up, until I'm damn well ready to wake up and face the current situation. But, Tim being the cool guy he is, I didn't have to face this option...at least not outside of his home.

We'd all gone out for a drink, of course, and it was a regular party. Some old friends showed up, and I even remember breaking the bathroom door off its frame, or ripping the deadbolt out of the wall, something like that. But that's all irrelevant. We caught a ride home with whoever was sober enough to drive us, only to discover that "Tim", genius that he is, has locked us out of his home. Let me back up a moment.

Tim's place was one of those unfortunate homes in the middle of Orlando that got hit by that hurricane last year. His front porch was on top of his roof, and you could see the sky through the holes it made in the roof of his garage. The fence was ripped up...just all sorts of shit was fucked up, and I personally think his home should have been declared a disaster area before the hurricane.

There we are, drunk out of our skulls locked out of Tim's house. So, what's Tims great plan to get us inside, after we checked all of the doors and windows and shit, but to climb into one of the holes in his garage, crawl through the roof, and somehow miraculously find a way into his home. By this time I don't even know my name anymore, so of course I was all for it. Next thing I know I'm on all fours with Tim standing on my back trying to lift his old ass into his roof. Now he can't wiegh more than a buck thirty, but that feels like 500 pounds when your drunk. But, the fucker still made it...I remember the moment vividly because I imagine that's how you feel the moment after giving birth...thank god that fucker is away from me. And as I sat there, in my exaustion, I look beside me and there's a fucking ladder not even two feet from me.

Being the genius that I am I decide, after a few moments of non-contemplation, to drag the ladder over and follow him in the cieling (this is not an attic, just a cieling). It was exactly like you might imagine, crawling over 2x4's and rolling around in fiberglass, everything you shouldn't be doing when you're drunk, or for that matter, at all, ever. But none the less I was now in Tims cieling.

The house must have been built in the late 60's because there was zero room to move, all you could do was fuck fiberglass. I don't remember seeing Tim up there, he must have the world record for drunken "stuck in roof" navigation. I crawled and crawled, until the inevitable. I was lost in Tims cieling.

If the rest of the scenario was recorded, it would have gone something like this:

"Tim, where are you"..."Tim, I'm stuck in your cieling and I don't know where I am"..."Tim?"..."TIM?"..."Hey you fucker, TIM, where the fuck are you?"..."TIIIIIIIM!".

"Broion, whr ar yu"..."Bron?"

"Tim, is that you...I'm stuck in your cieling!"

"Wht ar yu dong up ther?"

"Fuck you Tim, how do I get out?"

"Wy ar yu in da celin?"

"Fuck you, Tim...I'm stuck and I don't know where I am."

Now remember this well ladies and gentlemen...if you're ever stuck in a roof it's best to guide the person poking the cieling with a broom appropriately.

"No Tim, I'm over here."

"Here?" Poke, poke.

"No Tim, I'm over here."

"Here?" Poke, poke.

And when the fucker below you finally gives up and just opens the attic door, well, you have my permission to kill them.

"Ah, there you are...what are you doing above my kitchen?"

I still needed the drunk bastard to guide my way out with my lighter, it was darker than a sheeps asshole in there. Not that I've ever been stuck in a sheeps asshole, as far as you know...

I do recall at this point falling about 8 feet to the ground out of the cieling, but I'd have fallen 100 feet if I knew there was a beer at the bottom.

So, I've decided to go back to FL again to visit all of my friends in a few weeks. It just goes to show you you can't train a monkey nor polish a terd.

For those of you that have missed my occassional email, sorry for the long wait and I'll try to do better. For the rest of you that are appalled you're still on my mailing list, well, you can just go fuck yourselves.

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