Yesterday, I called my landlord to tell him I was short on rent. I was obviously a shitball hole of stress, a churning stomach, and a face full of hives, but I just nutted up and went to the dentist on this one.
He goes, “So you’re behind personally, too?”
“Ya Chuck, obviously. If I wasn’t behind, I’d pay you.”
“No problem, no problem. Just give me the money when you get it. I know you, I know you, I have no problems with you. You’re a good kid.”
Excuse me? All those lessons about the “real world” were making my face fall off, I was fucked up, freaking out about it, and guess what? It’s straight, it’s all good.
Dr. Doom, aka Master Peezy Captain Pinot Grigio, slipped by once again. Is it luck? I mean, seriously, after 24 full years of 100% slack ass shit, cutting corners, speeding, driving around with weeds in my car, doing drugs, I have only really gotten busted once. Not that I’m proud of it or anything, I read somewhere that each person who gets busted with a DUI has, on average, driven drunk at least 100 times before they finally get caught. I didn’t get a DUI, but we can go somewhere with the numbers. So I’ve probably been through about 199 instances of being a fuckhead at this point, because I’ve only gotten busted once, and I can just smell the Police, or whatever, right around the corner.
Last week, went to court on Wednesday. I didn’t feel the need to follow up, but I will now. I was in court for driving with no insurance, driving with no registration, no california driver’s license, and not insuring and registering car within 10 days of moving. The clerk at the desk told me I was in for at least an easy $1k, which the judge MIGHT cut in half, given the fact that I got my insurance and all my other shit, showed up to court and was nice. Well, I showed up and everything, and the Judge Lady was like hmmmmmmmmmmm that’ll be $200 for the whole thing. I went from looking at an easy grand, to looking at $200, just like that, for no reason or excuse other than that I showed up in court and had my shit done.
When I got busted for being a jackasshole in Texas, I got a lawyer. He did some B.S. finnagle, and I got out for free, granted I didn’t fuck up for 6 months. 6 months later, I’m back in court for the shit, and the judge gets to my name in the docket. She looks up at my lawyer, sitting by me at the back of the courtroom, and nods at him to come up. I sit in the back by myself. He goes up to the judge, whispers at her for about 30 seconds, clearly not talking about any case or anything, gestures to me in the back, laughs it up for another 15 seconds, and then comes and sits back down. Case closed, no gavel, no nothing. I couldn’t believe it, this crazy judge bitch had just totally anal-raped this kid in front me, and then didn’t look twice at me because I had hired someone that the judge went to law school with. Cake.
To close out the series, the first time I got busted for shit, also got a lawyer (all of these lawyers paid for by the Firm, aka Pa Dukes Incorporated). The cop, whilst accusing and identifying me in court as a vagrant drunkard, did not specify which city the crime occurred in. Despite the fact that the courtroom was built in and served a specific gay-hole city (williamsburg, gay, virginia), the judge was confused by the cop’s inability to properly place me in the city at the time of the crime, and threw out the case on the grounds of “did not place the dude at the scene of the crime.” Nice one.
Sorry for the diary, I know you’re all used to more spaced-out illogical rants. My point was, little bitches, that you are in the internet-presence of a lucky one. I’ve got people watching out for me, whether it’s my daddy paying for my lawyer fees so I can get off scott free, or whether it’s my landlord telling me that “he doesn’t worry about me,” despite the fact that I can’t pay for the room that I’m living in.
Charlie Buckets, that’s what Suityourself used to call me. I’ve got the lucky ticket, big time, in a big way and in the little things. Daily, it seems like life just opens up for me, so I can walk through unscathed and blissful. Now of course it’s ridiculous and unsafe to assume that my luck will continue forever. If you play the house long enough, you will get burned, and I have been playing against the proverbial house for years and years, and I can still nut up to my stupidity and come away with a somewhat clear soul. What does that mean, really? Nothing, I just made it up as I went along, and by the end of the sentence, a philosophy had been born. Half the fucking time I’m writing a sentence, thinking 4 out, and by the time I’m 4 sentences in, I’m about 4 rotations into the thought, so you get A plus Z equals a theory of religious economics, if there is such a thing, which I would doubt, “NO.”
But hey, at least I’m not whining, right? As we all know, I am a student of the vicious emotions, quick to judge and lash out in bitterness. As sad and shitty as that is, I think I’ll leave that one up there, despite some other obvious hypocrisies inherent in there.
In some other sweet news, my old tennis buddy, Ryler Deheart, is in town playing a big-dog professional tennis tournament. Now I know that exactly zero of you reading this cares about some tennis, but I respect the savagery of someone willing to sacrifice himself for the love of the game. I’ve known my homie RD since I was 12, and he was always sick nasty at the game. He’s ranked probably 350 in the world right now, and just beat someone ranked in the 250’s yesterday. In tennis, you really only need a few good weeks, a few big wins in tournaments back to back, and you will be a player, a high-roller. I was bitching yesterday about that I’m getting old and shit, and all these younger kids are pimping it much harder than I am, getting shit done. RD is one of those kids, a year younger than me, but a lot more of a professional athlete than I will ever be. RD = savage.
Charlie Buckets will come through in the end, though, I have faith in myself. Clearly, I wasn’t born to be a professional tennis player or a savage rocker. Clearly, my brain-dumps on this piece of shit internets are doing something to my insides. My gears are obviously moving, I can feel them, I can feel them right now as I write this blog.
Maybe I’m going to be a professional Interneter. My boss is, and he’s all rich and shit, in addition to being a short, twisted sociopath with zero respect for other humans. At least I have some respect, or at least I try to.
Except for Roughty and Dank. Nice try, little bitches, but I am still the king of this piece.