The Return of the King

Bitches, Hoes and any other fuckwit who would come to this POS site, welcome me back with loving arms to your fond readership. I really don’t respect you, and imagine that “you” is a lot smaller and less interested in this shit than I could even imagine. I am writing this for no one.

Here’s a recap and some rants.

What have I been doing? I got slammed at work with a ton of more shit, and it looks like it’s going to stay that way.

I went to the dentist yesterday, and it was horrible.

Last week, my mom said, “You should go see a psychiatrist,” because of my stupid Britney Spears bullshit. I am impulsive, non-committing, do not think things through, etc. Does that mean I need to go see a psychiatrist? I don’t think so. I go to work everyday, have held a job for 1 1/2 years in a company that has a higher turnover rate than McDonalds, I’m in a good relationship with Lady T (1 years old tomorrow), I don’t have massive credit card debt (but I do have some, just don’t know how much [does that mean I have major issues?]), I don’t get in fights, I drink beer about everyday, I’m out of weeds (having smoked my ounce in a little over 2 weeks)….the list can go on for a while. But, the fact remains, I get up to go to work everyday, I did my taxes this year, I pay my own rent, the only person or thing I owe anything to is my parents for giving me life and helping me stand on my own, blabla. I graduated from a great public university with deep feelings of mistrust for anything and everything. I like to read books. I’m 23 years old.

To sum up, I’m a fucking badass, straight chillin.

I also have been listening to NWA, Wu-Tang and other such shit to try to broaden my horizons. “Straight outta compton, crazy motherfucker named ice cube, in a gang called niggaz with attitude.” etc etc.

So, the only thing I would go to a psychiatrist for would be to get a prescription of xanax, so I can not be so hyper. Xanax please! Thank you, come again.

Here’s a story about how I told Roughty’s little sister he was a crack head.

Roughty at the time was going through major psychological issues. Roughy is a skinny white boy, who WAS fast. He ran on the track team in high school, and was always overshadowed by Alan Webb, who holds a fucking SAVAGE record for the mile at like 3:53 or some such fucking ridiculous shit. Anyway, Roughty is a pretty savage runner, and he was on our college cross country team, but then he broke his ankle and ran it for a year. He had to have surgery and was laid the fuck out for a while. Then he dropped out of college and worked full time at the substation, working for a Nazi named Jeff who had a swastika tattoo on his right hand. ANYWAY, sorry for blowing your cover, homie, but it’s all true.

So there we have Roughty, with a fucking gimp ass foot, someone who had dreamed of running in college, only to see his goals and all the work he put into turn into a big, disgusting purple scar on his foot, that I would make him show to people….like “hey roughty show falk your fucking disgusting scar, that shit is gnarly….” i think roughty picked up like 4 girls at the bar visa vi my scar introduction.

To sum up the intro, Roughty was kind of tripping out because he couldn’t run anymore, and all his track buddies were dissing him because of it. Call it a Sea Change.

So there I was, at the Roughty Compound in the gayest place in the whole fucking goddamn country….Northern Flaming Virginia. The Roughty Compound is a bastion of savagery in a land full of fucking entitled douschebag losers who want to go to school and be like their daddy in the Treasury Department. As an aside, Fuck NOVA, I hope the bird flu starts and ends there, wiping out the whole piece of shit 200 mile radius, including DC and all the fuckass politicians who are running are country. FUCK YOU NOVA.

Anyway, Roughty has a little sister named Julia, she was 14 at the time. I was “addicted” to cocaine at the time, and was doing it in roughty’s bathroom solo style, getting WASTED on beers. To put it simply, I was fucking TOAST.

So there we were, me, Roughty and Julia, downstairs watching TV. I decided “Hey, I’m going to tell Julia that Roughty is on crack, and that’s why he’s been kind of having a hard time lately.” AND I decided to get the convo going when Roughty was out of the room, to enhance the seriousness by acting like I was trying to help his addiction. He went to get some more beers upstairs.

Me: Hey Julia, I need to tell you something that’s kind of serious. Don’t freak out or anything, I just wanted to tell you that Roughty has been smoking crack a lot, and I’m worried about it. I didn’t want to tell your parents or anything, but I wanted to tell you so maybe you could say something or do something about it. He’s getting really fucked up.

Julia: Really?

Me: Ya…He’s been acting crazy lately, smoking crack all the time and it’s just freaking me out a little.

Roughty (just back with the beers): What did you say?

Me: I was just telling Julia that you have been smoking crack lately, and you need to chill…I’m not trying to bust you or anything, I’m your friend and you need help.

Roughty laughed for a second, but I didn’t.

Roughty: I don’t smoke crack, shut the fuck up Peezy, don’t listen to him, Julia.

Me: Roughty, dude it’s not a joke, please stop smoking crack…I just told your sister so that you can see that we love you and support you, and you need to get some help.

To this day, I don’t think Julia thought I was serious. Of course Roughty isn’t smoking crack. But it struck a nerve.

R: Peezy, fucking say it one more time, and I’m going to punch you as hard as I can you fucker, don’t say that shit to my little sister. I’m fucking serious.

To make a long story short, I kept pushing it, and eventually, Roughty flipped the fuck out. He got up and punched me as hard as he could, aiming at my head. He got me twice, but I think it probably hurt his hand more than my skull, because he hit me right on top like a fucking idiot nancy.

That was only the second act of violence Roughty had committed in his life towards another human being. The first was when a group of people starting throwing beer bottles at his friends, and one of them got his skull cracked open by the bottle. Roughty picked up a 2X4 and broke some dude’s jaw off his face, got thrown in jail, and then got off for self defense. In some ways, what I said to Julia about Roughty’s drug addiction put him in the same place as getting violently assaulted by strangers with beer bottles. He didn’t break my jaw off, but he did punch me in the head, and go upstairs and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day. It was like 3 AM, but still, the night was done (except for when I took naked pictures of Julia after Roughty went upstairs and kept her retainer for a keepsake)……

Anyway, that was just a quick story. I’ve been off the blogs for a bit, and wanted to bring home some turkey bacon for you faggots. Another time, Roughty almost became violent with me for bleeding onto his sock, but that’s a whole different story.

Salute, Roughty, for putting up with me and my shenanigans. I would feel bad about all the shit that I’ve done to you, but I’ve picked you up from jail one too many times for those pangs of guilt.

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3 Responses to “The Return of the King”


  1. 1 Roughty May 10, 2007 at 12:11 pm

    Please, if by, “drop out of college” you mean take a year off to convalesce, then yes. Furthermore, girls dig scars and the stories behind them. I think you suckers learned that many times over.

  2. 2 stoneywageslave May 10, 2007 at 12:12 pm

    if by “year”, you mean 2 1/2 years, then right on

  3. 3 GuessWho May 11, 2007 at 8:42 pm

    Hey Nitwit–I didn’t say psychiatrist. I said behavioral psychologist who could teach you strategies to deal with your COMPULSIVE behavior. And, yes, you have made a tremendous amount of progress, and we are very proud of you.


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