Where Is My Fucking Memorial You Shits
Well kick my ass and call me a bitch, the plant gave old Petey a day off tomorrow! That's right, those SCROOGE MCBITCHES stopped SWIMMING IN A PILE OF GOLD COINS THAT'S FUCKING PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE long enough to give us a day off besides holidays like TWO FUCKING WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS. Christ on a PLANE, I'm normally a calm guy, but it's shit like this that makes my TICKER WANT TO TOCKER.
Luckily, I'm not dead yet, even with the GOVERNMENT PROBABLY TRYING TO KILL ME, and so I can enjoy what I have coming to me tomorrow. Let me explain, shits:
"WIFE," I said cheerfully when I got in the door on Friday, my hands open and closing already to grab some of her hair in case she was trying to crawl past me on the floor like a FUCKING FLOOR FUCKER. Of course she didn't come within the two seconds that I expected, so I jumped up on the OL' SUPPER TABLE and ripped the ceiling fan down ("I'M NOT A FAN OF YOU DISREPECTING ME BY BEING LATE," I explained).
"Hi honey," she said, already looking like she was ready to BITCH about the fucking HOLE IN THE CEILING. "What's going on?"
"HOLY JESUS ON A FLOOR, ONE QUESTION AT A FUCKING TIME," I advised. "I don't have work on Monday because those shits at the plant are giving us a HOLIDAY SHIT. WHAT THE FUCK HOLIDAY IS COMING UP THAT YOU DIDN'T WRITE ME A NOTE ABOUT IN MY FUCKING MASHED POTATERS LIKE I ASKED?"
"It's Memorial Day," she said, CORRECTING ME LIKE ALEX FUCKING TREBECK and crying like ALEX FUCKING CRYBECK. "And I don't remember you talking about a message in your potatoes --"
"POR-TA-TERS," I kindly reminded her. "MASH THEM, WRITE IN THEM, TELL ME ABOUT FUCKING HOLIDAYS."
But as I prepared to stomp the ceiling fan into a mush to demonstrate the principle of FUCKING MASHED PORTARTORERS, my mind was on the holiday that I had been explaining to my FUCKING FEEBLE wife. Memorial Day. A day when people who are important have shits built to honor them. Usually WASHINGTON FAT CAT SHITS, probably. JESUS ON A FLYING POTATO I HATE THOSE SHITS.
That's when I had my idea. I quickly reached my arm through the hole in the GOD DAMNED CHEAP CEILING and grabbed ahold of the leg of one of my LITTLE KIDDIES.
"Daddy, I'm scared of this hole," he said, DOING DRUGS AND GETTING GIRLS PREGNANT.
"HOLY BITCH, CAN YOU SHUT UP ABOUT HEROIN FOR ONE JESUS FUCKING MINUTE," I said in a fatherly way. "Monday is Memorial Day, even though your FLOOR MOTHER tried to keep it from me, and so I need you to build me a FUCKING HONORABLE STRUCTURE TO HONOR ME."
"What do you mean, Daddy?" he said, and HOLY GHOST AND MARY JESUS POPE, LOOK AT THE SASS ON THAT DRUGGIE. "I learned that Memorial Day is about honoring soldiers and --"
"YOU HIPPIES AND YOUR DRUGS LAY OFF THE FUCKING SOLDIERS," I said sternly, teaching an important lesson about America. "Now, I expect my Memorial by Monday morning, during our traditional Memorial Day Fucking Ceremonies. AND STOP PLAYING IN THE FUCKING CEILING HOLE."
But that was only part one of my famous Two Part Memorial Day Festivity Plan. I jumped off the table onto my wife's back, which she knows is the signal to start giving me a FUCKING PIGGYBACK RIDE around while I tell her things.
"POP QUIZ TIME, ORVILLE FUCKING REDENBACHER," I said. "What other part of this FESTIVE FUCKING HOLIDAY did you forget to tell me about in my FUCKING STEAK GRAVY?"
"BZZZZZT!" I said playfully, flapping my lips around in her ear to create a realistic buzzer sound because THAT'S HOW MUCH I LOVE HER. "The correct answer is, 'THE FUCKING HERO PARADES'. That's right -- I need you to make a parade for me, and we need to practice it now, so everything will be as SMOOTH AS A FUCKING MASHED GRAVY PIE."
So we marched out onto the street, with me still on her back shouting helpful directions such as "WAVE TO THE FUCKERS" and "ANNOUNCE THAT I AM THE WINNER OF MEM-FUCK-ORIAL DAY 2005." She almost fell down a few times, probably because I weigh 200 pounds and she weighs 100 pounds because SHE WON'T JUST GAIN SOME FUCKING WEIGHT AND STOP BEING A FATASS like I tell her to, but it was overall a great practice parade, except for a few NOSY FUCKING NELLIES.
"What the hell's going on out here?" said one NELLIE NEIGHBOR like a MR. ROGERS FUCKING SHITTER. "I was just PLAYING WITH MY GAY PUPPETS when I heard something that's NONE OF MY QUEER SWEATER BUSINESS." (I added some of this myself.)
"He's the winner," said my wife, crying because she was so happy for me. "He's the winner of Memorial Day 2005."
"HEAR THAT, YOU PUPPETEER SHITTER?" I shouted. "I'M THE FUCKING MEMORIAL DAY KING! WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW YOU SHIT!"
And that's just what I'm doing right now. Tomorrow ol' Pete Dunson, the man PRACTICALLY EVERYONE WISHES WAS DEAD BECAUSE HE WORKS TOO DAMN HARD, will finally have his Memorial. If that shit ass Mayor doesn't give me the key to the city, I'm going to CRUSH HIS FUCKING NASAL CAVITY.