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Steve Likes to Curse
Writing, comics and random thoughts from really a rather vulgar man
Two . . . er, three voices 
Saturday, November 7th, 2009 | 11:37 pm [humor, personal, random]
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“Oh man, dude.”




“You look like stepped-on, scraped-off shit.”


“Sorry. Rough night.”


“No kidding?”


“A few simple words of advice: If you ever want to know how big your DVD collection is — not in the sense of a number, but to truly know how big it is — accumulate your DVDs slowly over a period of many years, storing them in piles on the floor surrounding your television. Then, decide all of a sudden to move the piles from the floor onto two large bookcases — bookcases which first must be assembled, I should add, said assembly requiring a screwdriver which you do not have and for which you foolishly substitute your Swiss Army knife — only to find, when both shelves are stuffed to capacity, that there are still several dozen movies, television shows, and wrestling compilations left stranded on the floor. Then—”


“Is this going to take much longer?”


“Why? You fucking asked. You got somewhere to be?”


“No. I just was observing that you don’t look so great. It wasn’t a prompt for an extemporaneous speech. I’ve got my own problems, anyway.”


“Okay, I’m about to demonstrate why I’m such a better person than you are. Ready?”


“Um . . .”


“Tell me about your problems. I’m here for you, my friend.”


“No, I—”


“Unburden yourself.”


“Okay, you asked for it. My girlfriend read me the first sentence from The Virgin Suicides the other day.”


“. . . And?”


“And it was brilliant. It was a staggeringly good sentence. That one sentence was better than anything I’ve ever written.”


“What do you expect, though, really?”


“Meaning what?”


“Meaning, how many hours of his life do you think Jeffrey Eugenides has spent writing torturously long fantasy wrestling shows that no rationally minded will ever read?”


“I don’t know. Probably none, but then between the writing Pulitzer Prize-winning novels and sodomizing your grandmother, I imagine he’s a pretty busy guy.”


“I cannot believe you fucking just said that, that was the most fucked—”


“Can I just break in here and say that Red Eye is the least funny show in the entire combined history of comedy from all civilizations throughout the universe?”


“. . . Did you just say that?”


“No. I thought you did.”


“No, if I had said it there wouldn’t have been a paragraph break.”


“Oh, right. So who said it?”


“I said it.”


“You did?”


“No . . .”


“Yes! Yes. I said it.”


“Well, whoever said it, you’re right. Red Eye is the worst. Greg Gutfeld should be dropped out of an airplane into the spinning rotors of a helicopter.”




“Which one of you said that?”


“I did.”


“I can’t tell who’s who!”


“I’ve wanted to make love to you for the longest time.”


“Who has?”






“Aaaaaagggccckkkhh! I don’t know who’s talking!”


“Since the Yankees won the World Series, I think we should all kill ourselves.”


“I have no fucking clue who’s talking, but a good idea is a good idea. I’m in.”


“Me too.”


“. . .”


“. . .”


“. . .”


“Is everyone else dead?”


“. . .”


“I’m not.”

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