THE SEAN DIARIES: A MEAL RUINED. A LIFE
SHATTERED.
WARNING: THE FOLLOWING STORY WILL
SIGNIFCANTLY SHORTEN YOUR
LIFE.
I was in a Bus Accident. It’s true. 5 months after
being mowed down by the uncaring world-destroyer known as the
Soccer Mom in a Blockbuster parking lot whilst purchasing a
delightfully discounted copy of Dexter Season 2, yet
another chose to ram the back of the vehicle that was
transporting me across town on my harrowing quest for cheap
knock-off Affliction-wear and even cheaper nourishment at the
one-two tag-team punch of both the in-Wal-mart McDonalds and
Taco Bell, respectively. A CONSPIRACY THIS EXAGGERATED HAS TO
BE TRUE.
It was like a thousand suns exploding
at once…on a bus. The noble chariot that is the Lansdowne coach was
BRUTALLY AND MALICIOUSLY ATTACKED by yet ANOTHER Soccer Mom,
this time in a small car, which rocked my shit by crashing
headfirst into the back of said bus whilst I was listening to
1980’s power ballads on my MP3 player in the manliest of
moments. I don’t know what it is, but these women have it out
for me. And not in the exciting sexy way in which we secretly
fornicate in the back of their mauve Mini-van amongst a giant
netted Soccer ball bag under the wire before their little
tykes return from their super-important life-affirming game of
whatever.
Anyway, FIRST a little foreshadowing of this
dark assault—a beginning to the black cloud that would
eventually shake me to very core. Or lightly jostle me in my
seat causing me to gingerly bang my knee on the metal-framed
chair, wince slightly, then go back to trying my darndest to
will the clothes off the woman sitting two seats down from me,
JEDI-MIND-STYLE.
So, peep this shit,
yo. I’m at Wal-Mart. Looking for knock off Affliction T-shirts
because I’m an unapologetic sell-out who desperately wishes to
appear like a legit shoot-fighting tough guy—but am too cheap
to pay full-market value for the brand name. Anyhoo, I enter
said Wal-Mart with all its pageantry and fat people with
motorized carts with ubiquitous orange flags, and between
creepily leering at a 17 year old girl’s ass in her painted-on
pants, and seriously considering following that up with the
always crowd-pleasing pick-up line, “Hey, Baby, Wanna take a
bath or something?”, I spot a rack full of Tees with Skulls
and random bad-assery, and like a moth to a flame, I run,
trying not to merrily skip, so to not shatter the renowned
“street-cred” I’ve earned in the fair borders of my hometown
of Peterborough. (Seriously. I’m HUGE here. Like SEAN CULLEN
big.). So, running, then doing a full 450 gainer over a stack
of hound's tooth hoodies, I attack that rack with the
joyous fury that only a man about to unnaturally enjoy cheaply
made apparel made by starving children while Kathy Lee Gifford
cracks a whip can. BUT GET THIS SHIT.
Every
single Tee is size SMALL. In the MEN’s SECTION .
This flagrant faggotry WILL NOT STAND. And after flinging the
shirts from the rack and using the discarded metal pole to
scare the remaining shoppers in the vicinity with my best
Gandalf cry of THOU SHALL NOT PASS! I
swallow my pride and take that shit to the change-room with
the best of intentions. BUT T’WAS NOT TO BE. Because, you
see, I AM A MAN. A manly man with man
parts and literally brimming with man-filled masculinity, and
I don’t fit into SMALL t-shirts because that shit is
weak-sauce and will get you totally kicked out of the
club. Seriously, NO MAN ON EARTH SHOULD FIT INTO
A SMALL T-SHIRT
.
And if you can, before you purchase it, you should be forced
to remove your penis and hand it to the check-out clerk,
because that just ain’t right. GROW ALREADY. I did it EASILY,
and I have like no practice at it.
So, ya, point is I
got no Bad-ass knock off Affliction T-shirts. But I did split
the one I tried on up the back 1970’s LOU FERIGNO HULK-STYLE,
so it wasn’t a total waste.
Anyway, from there,
broken & defeated, at the adjacent Mickie D’s I bought
a MAC-WRAP, the greatest invention EVER, despite what
my girlfriend kept telling me two weeks ago, before
conceding after a bite and CHANGING HER TUNE TO THE SWEET SIDE
OF QUESTIONABLE MEAT, BABY. It’s BEEF AND A SOFT TORTILLA.
It’s like sex in your mouth. Only without the awkward
penis. (although, this IS McDonalds. Who knows what it’s really
made of.). OH! And I must tell you that I had a young mother of
3 hit on me in line, because she could tell I was super
awesome and attractive by the way I kept telling her I was.
But unfortunately, she had a complexion that looked like
the moon’s surface, so that went nowhere fast. Seriously. I
kept expecting Neil Armstrong to land the Lunar shuttle on her cheek
and plant the U.S. flag for future generations to bask in the
wonderment of space travel and the limitations we as men can
overcome if we just put our minds to it.
What was I
talking about again?
Oh, ya, I left
Wal-Mart and headed home, tackling a Michaels store first
because I’m man enough to say I love bettering my home décor,
but woman enough to not say it too often, and then I headed to
Taco Bell from there, because despite what you’ve heard, a
simple crumpled faux-beef paddy stuffed into a Tortilla is not
enough to curb this Gladiator’s appetite, so I hit Taco Bell
like I was a CONQUERING HERO
, mostly because,
holy shit, I am. I rode in on my steed and claimed the Big
Beefy Melt in the name of SCOTLAND (FREEDOM!), and then ate a
very pleasurable meal that warmed the cockles of my heart,
whilst also likely destroying it completely. (Cockles will
only get you so far).
So, yes, for one of you keeping
score, it was AWESOME. I mean, just check this
out:
On the 8th Day God created Fries Supreme. I’m telling
you. Right after the earth, animals & oceans, he said
“Holy shit, I could go for some beef paste poured on French
fries!" But unfortunately he had that whole “no killing rule”
amongst others he just hung on the tree of knowledge, so he
had to wait until Adam & Eve fucked that shit up to get
his fix. But holy shit, did he! And that’s how it happened.
It’s in your Bible. Right before the suffering and
intolerance. If you get to that part, you’ve gone too
far.
I then washed it down with a tasty beverage of
syrupy Diet Pepsi, to SEXY RESULTS.
See:
MMM. What a delicious treat! And the drink ain't bad
either! That's right.
I left Taco Bell, fulfilled, having came
away with lessons learned and a slew of new life-long friends
made, regardless of what they’ll tell you, while running
away in terror crying, “I only handed you a napkin! That’s
all! No, you can’t come live with me! I swear, I’m
calling the Police! Help!”
And that’s when it
happened. I catch the Lansdowne, and sit in the back of the
bus, where I know no one will see me unbutton my pants if the
situation indeed calls for it (and when doesn’t it?), and
POW, this banshee careens right into the back of the
bus destroying my innocence forever. I now know what rape
victims feel like. Only minus the actual penetration and
long-term mental pain. I then question why I didn’t follow the
brave Rosa Parks’ grand example and sit at the FRONT of the
bus. To think I could have been spared so much pain that
didn’t actually happen if I did.
Anyway, we’re then given the
option to wait for the next bus, which the chariot of elderly
fossils jump at, but FUCK THAT SHIT, I get up, try one more
time to will the hottie naked as I pass, and take this picture
of the wreck for insurance purposes and general laughing at
misforetunes before walking home like the man I am, all
manly:
BAM.
YA, THAT’S RIGHT. I AM A DRAGON MADE OF METAL AND BRAWN AND
YOUR SHIT IS WEAK. REAR-END ME? I THINK NOT.
So, ya. The woman driving
survived unscathed. Mostly because I’m convinced she’s a
cyborg-- sent back in time to destroy me because I’ve
convinced myself that I am very imperative to the survival of
the future.
Ok. That’s my story. Next time I’m just
going to say “The bus I was on was hit by a car”, and save you
5 incredibly absurd minutes.
Maybe.
Suckers.
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