FRIDAYS DRUNKEN RANT PRESENTS: MY FIELD TRIP TO THE MET
Howdy, everybody! I am back and as drunk as ever. Tonight’s drunken rant is brought to you by green beer, unfortunately left over from St. Patrick’s Day.
I just got back from New York and I had finally made it to the Met. No, not the baseball team, you sports-minded jerkoffs—the damn museum. Well, they were having a display of this lady’s photos. It was a retrospective of her career. The photos were all displayed on the wall in frames. They were great. But there were a few problems I had to endure and each one made me as sick as a person who had just eaten an extra-crispy bucket of chicken at KFC and realized that it’s extra-crispy going out too.
The first problem was that people felt the need to stand about three inches from each photo display. Their heads are just jammed right up to the pictures so no one else can see anything but their lice-ridden head and their serial killer profile. In fact, some people were so close I could have sworn they were French kissing the damn things. Now, how can I go and look at a picture when it’s got drool and pieces of food all over it. So instead of seeing some great photos, I got to see the back side of jackasses!
The second problem was when I did find a photo to gaze at that didn’t have some horny prick trying to dry hump it, I got the person who felt they needed to educate me on their vast knowledge of photography, and then their life. Why do I always find these loose-lipped molesters when I do happen to go to a museum? First they start off by telling me how “exquisite” the picture is. Then they go straight into telling me how they are a photographer themselves. Then they go on to tell me why they came to the museum that day. Hey, chuckles, isn’t there a toilet in the bathroom you can start regurgitating this crap into? I mean, these “sophisticated” snot-mongers are the kind who’ll keep yammering on all day. I finally had to tell one motor mouth, “Sorry, sir. I didn’t bring enough money with me today to be able to purchase your bullshit. I only brought enough for some cotton candy.”
The last problem was a doozy. I finally get away from the dry humpers and the oral assholes and just find normal people who just want to look at the pictures in silence. Yeah, all is going good—that is until I breathe in and realize one of these nimrods has farted. Doesn’t anyone have any shame, or at least sphincter control? I quickly move to another picture and find that someone has done the same thing over there too! At first I get all paranoid like some loose-asshole freak is following me around trailing his stench around. And what makes this worse is that this museum was packed, so it was quite hot, and nothing is worse than a sweaty-filled room that smells like human waste and cottage cheese.
So I know from now on when I hear people talk about the Met in New York City, instead of thinking about all the beautiful art and culture flowing through the walls, all I will think about is getting violently sick at what is really contained within those walls—dry-humping, air-slippin’ jack-holes!
I just got back from New York and I had finally made it to the Met. No, not the baseball team, you sports-minded jerkoffs—the damn museum. Well, they were having a display of this lady’s photos. It was a retrospective of her career. The photos were all displayed on the wall in frames. They were great. But there were a few problems I had to endure and each one made me as sick as a person who had just eaten an extra-crispy bucket of chicken at KFC and realized that it’s extra-crispy going out too.
The first problem was that people felt the need to stand about three inches from each photo display. Their heads are just jammed right up to the pictures so no one else can see anything but their lice-ridden head and their serial killer profile. In fact, some people were so close I could have sworn they were French kissing the damn things. Now, how can I go and look at a picture when it’s got drool and pieces of food all over it. So instead of seeing some great photos, I got to see the back side of jackasses!
The second problem was when I did find a photo to gaze at that didn’t have some horny prick trying to dry hump it, I got the person who felt they needed to educate me on their vast knowledge of photography, and then their life. Why do I always find these loose-lipped molesters when I do happen to go to a museum? First they start off by telling me how “exquisite” the picture is. Then they go straight into telling me how they are a photographer themselves. Then they go on to tell me why they came to the museum that day. Hey, chuckles, isn’t there a toilet in the bathroom you can start regurgitating this crap into? I mean, these “sophisticated” snot-mongers are the kind who’ll keep yammering on all day. I finally had to tell one motor mouth, “Sorry, sir. I didn’t bring enough money with me today to be able to purchase your bullshit. I only brought enough for some cotton candy.”
The last problem was a doozy. I finally get away from the dry humpers and the oral assholes and just find normal people who just want to look at the pictures in silence. Yeah, all is going good—that is until I breathe in and realize one of these nimrods has farted. Doesn’t anyone have any shame, or at least sphincter control? I quickly move to another picture and find that someone has done the same thing over there too! At first I get all paranoid like some loose-asshole freak is following me around trailing his stench around. And what makes this worse is that this museum was packed, so it was quite hot, and nothing is worse than a sweaty-filled room that smells like human waste and cottage cheese.
So I know from now on when I hear people talk about the Met in New York City, instead of thinking about all the beautiful art and culture flowing through the walls, all I will think about is getting violently sick at what is really contained within those walls—dry-humping, air-slippin’ jack-holes!
posted by Cruzbomb at 11:29 PM
2 Comments:
Ahhh, the seamy underbelly of New York City! Only you, Cruzbomb, could conjure it up so vividly. And be careful of that green beer: it can sneak up on you, just like the title character in "Leprechaun 8: The Flatulence."
Bruce
Ah yes, imagine when you're sitting in Jesus's presence in deep prayer thinking about what sinners we all are and then, oh then what comes wafting from the adjacent pew, but a "P.U!" I only that since the man upstairs invented the bodily act itself, that it has to be forgiven. So, therefore, I myself puke, because that is a god given right also.
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