Thursday, May 26, 2011

God Bless British Petroleum

Damn. That oil spill made Louisiana go from "party-state" to "fucking epic super-party-state." When BP kicked down the most recent installment of dough, my buddy Harris calls me, and he's like "Get your soggy woodchuck-lovin' ass down here, bro! I am RICH!" I could hear music thumping in the background, and the particular squealing/giggling/splashing that a Man of the World recognizes instantly as a hot-tub full of loose women. "I haven't put pants on in a WEEK!" he shrieked into the cell. "You're a turtle, Harris," I said. "You don't wear pants. And I resent the woodchuck remark. I haven't messed with woodchucks since college." The phone muffled and got dropped; Harris said to someone "Don't bogart, man! Pass that shit..." He got the phone to his face again. "Whatever, dude. Just grab the next plane and follow the trail of bikini bottoms to my place."

Christ's balls, what a couple of weeks. Those Louisiana motherfuckers can party. I woke up at odd hours, sore, dehydrated, greeted by the bleary sight of a revolving cast of tousled bottle-blondes with tramp stamps and food-themed first names. I gave out dozens of fake numbers. (There was one unfortunate scene where some shirtless butter-face chased me around the condo, wielding a barbecue fork after trying unsuccessfully to sext me on a bullshit number. I probably wouldn't have hit my head on the bidet if I hadn't been mesmerized by those wildly swaying funbags...)

The last morning I was there, I was rudely awakened by some hippie broad in a caftan and yoga-pants, trying to put me in a plastic tub to wash me. I scrambled out of the cold bath, shouting "Yo, step off, bitch! If you're gonna massage my junk, you'd best have a stellar rack and lose the handful of Boraxo. For your information, I'm sticky from wrestling in Hershey's syrup with both Olsen twins -- it's not oil."

Helluva vacation. Not sure how I got the small burn-scar on my inner-thigh. It's probably best that I don't remember, because I know at one point I was trying to out-drink a certain former-vice-president, and that guy is one kinky sonofabitch from what I've heard.

Any paternity-related inquiries should be directed to my attorney. Thanks.

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