What? What’s going on? I’m so groggy and confused…where’s my pants? All I remember is going out to “Hall of Fame” with Tipper after her speech here at UWS. She was saying that she usually goes to the “End Zone” to pick up guys, because they’re the most pathetic and desperate, and then everything got fuzzy.
Now, here I am, waking up behind “The Cove” with no pants on and a “Vote Gore” button pinned to my shirt…cool!
Okay, normally I wouldn’t have done an opening this childish, but none of the places that I pretended to sue called me back. So instead, this column will be filled entirely by random filthy crap, such as this next piece.
The other day, my dad won $66 playing golf. Because he was feeling generous and was heavily medicated at the time, he decided to give that money to me. Seeing as I have never received $66 from my father before, I did what any grateful and intelligent college student would. I promptly ran like hell back to Superior, changed my phone number and refused to answer the door for the next three days, in order to make sure that he couldn’t ask for it back.
Right now I’m pretty sure that he’s wondering what I spent that money on. So, for his pleasure, I’ve listed exactly what I’ve used his hard-earned golf booty to purchase:
—$20 for paint thinner and various household cleaners to snort and drink, to help me think up the crap I write about in this column.
—$5 for mesh “Wine ‘em, dine ‘em, 69 ‘em” hat at Walgreens.
—$10 trying to get the girls at the RSC info desk to take off their clothes (the offer’s still on the table, ladies).
—$25 worth of 25 cent a cup tap beer at “Hall of Fame”, poured by an incredibly hot girl in leather pants who gets paid to giggle at whatever I say and fill my plastic cup almost entirely with foam.
—$6 for a new belt at Target, which sucks and is really pissing me off right now, and which I might later use to whip and violently beat Target employees with. I’m now thinking that I should have saved the six dollars and instead just cut a switch from a tree in my backyard to use on the unsuspecting Target employees.
While I’m busy trying to figure out what a switch is and how the hell I would cut one from a tree in my backyard, feel free to give your undivided attention and filthy, filthy love to this next piece.
Every year, thousands of ugly children in the Northland put masks over their hideous faces and go around looking for candy from strangers, who most certainly poison it, stick pins in it, or at least touch it loosely against their butt over and over before giving it to the children. This final day in October is considered a holiday by most, yet Paul sure as hell didn’t get the day off from work, now did he?
Halloween has already passed, but here’s some things I said to trick or treaters who rang my doorbell:
-I’m bigger than you, so why don’t you give me some damn candy?
-Stay right there while I go get the hose.
-Sorry, we’re all out of candy. You’ll have to take this can of Pabst Blue Ribbon instead.
-If you don’t put that Unicef box away, I’m going to kick you in the face.
If you have a comment to make about something I say in this column, or you just have something slanderous to say about me or other people you know, feel free to drop an anonymous letter in the envelope hanging on the Promethean’s door behind the snack bar (RSC room 3). I’ll print any lousy tripe you’re willing to put on paper, especially dirty, dirty things you’ve made up about me. If you can’t stop by, you can always leave a message at (715) 394-8335. (Address and phone number are no longer valid)
Paul Ryan, Columnist
