You wouldn’t guess it by looking at me, but your old Uncle Willie was given extensive training as a silent ninja warrior. In fact I am a master of the dark arts. Of course a ninja doesn’t go unnoticed forever, the key is to make sure that when you do attack it’s a surprise to your victim and you can take them unaware so that they have no chance to prepare themselves for the onslaught. Swift and violent, that’s my motto. Let me give you an example.

As anybody who knows me can attest, I have a powerful lactose intolerance. A couple of swigs of milk and don’t nobody want old Uncle Willie around no more. And god forbid I eat some cheese. I can clear out an entire pool hall in two minutes flat if I get me a cheese pizza. In fact Fat Tony’s Billiards down on Grant street actually has a sign next to the pizza oven that says “NO CHEESE on Willie’s Pizzas. EVER!” That’s just how powerful my lactose intolerance is. I actually told a judge once that it was a handicap and that I had no control over my condition so he couldn’t throw me out of his courtroom for farting, but he put me out anyway. Prejudiced bastard.

They figured it out pretty quick while I was in jail this last time, and I didn’t get no dairy the whole seven months I was in there, so you can understand why I was awful thirsty for a big glass of milk. I had a little hankerin’ for a hunk of fresh mozzarella too. This morning I went to the Johnson’s grocery and got me some dairy, wolfed it down in the parking lot, and went back inside to do some evil. I found some good targets too, and I crop dusted every one of those motherfuckers.

My first victim was an ornery ass kid. The little bastard was about eight years old and he’s yelling at his mother like he runs the god damned show and she’s his serving girl. “I want this” and “I want that” and acting like he was going to get what he wanted or he was gonna kick some ass. Well I don’t take to that sort of behavior from children much, and I learned my lesson about hittin’ other folks kid in the supermarket years ago, so it was great stroke of luck that his head was about the same height as my ass.

I strolled by about 2 feet from him and let it roll out nice and easy, silent as could be. Sometimes my wrath is so terrible that I can’t believe there ain’t a blue cloud following me around, and this was one of them days. I stopped about ten feet away and pretended I was taking a close look at some breakfast cereal, and watched my victim. I looked at him just in time to catch his reaction.

When he caught that first whiff his face scrunched up like he just tasted something awful, and his mouth snapped shut. Nobody wants old Willie’s ass in their mouth. I’ve seen jaws snap shut hard enough to crack teeth after I get into some dairy and let loose. That means the second breath is all through the nose, and that never wins me no fans neither, but I’ve never seen a reaction quite like this one.

The little bastard actually looked right at me with a look of horror in his eyes. It was clear at that moment that he knew exactly what I’d done to him and he knew it weren’t no accident either. I grinned a little bit and looked right in his eyes so he knew I was relishing the moment. And that’s when I lost respect for the entire younger generation and for this kid’s daddy, because he actually started bawling. Not even a little whimper or some tears, but honest to god bawling out loud. That boy’s daddy raised a sissy.

He pointed at me and screamed like hell as I walked away grinning, leaving another trail of deadly poison to keep em off my trail and his mamma came over to comfort him and find out what the problem was. I glanced back once to see her face all scrunched up too, and I knew I done my job. They even made the mistake of coming down the aisle the same way I went, fighting their way through an invisible cloud that would have cleared trenches in World War 1. The kid was hollering and bawling for a good two minutes. I could hear him all the way on the other side of the store while I was busy with some other folks.

I have to admit, I did get a little cruel. Sometimes the power goes to my head and I start just blasting folks that didn’t do nothing to deserve it. The nice old lady behind the deli counter couldn’t go anywhere to get away, so I blasted what sounded like a fat man playing a tuba full of jelly on the way by her counter and gave her a big wink. She looked appalled at the sound, and when the smell hit her she looked like she was going to be sick. Good worker though, she couldn’t go anywhere, so she defended her post as best she could and started covering up the deli meats and throwing towels over all the baked goods. It probably didn’t do any good, that pastrami probably tasted like rotted cheese and dead things after that kind of up close exposure, but at least she made the effort.

As the deli lady covered things as fast as she could, almost in a panic, I was already on my way over to the customer service counter with a half eaten block of Parmesan. When I get into some dairy I’m Karma come to life, punishing slow customer service and bad behavior, but I try to give them a fighting chance so I didn’t roast him right away.

“Excuse me, I would like to return this block of cheese.” I said to him as I walked up.

“What’s wrong with it sir, it looks you’ve eaten nearly half a pound of it already and there are teeth marks on it.” he says, like I would be returning cheese for no reason.

“It gave me some awful farts, about the worst I’ve ever had. It ain’t right” I replied, giving him more than enough reason to refund my money for this awful cheese. This was his last chance.

“Sir, maybe you ate too much of it, Parmesan is meant to be enjoyed in smaller quantities, grated over pasta or as a small side dish. You appear to have eaten this as if it were an apple, just biting off chunks.” he said “The cheese is not the problem, it’s simply your consumption of it. In any case, we are not able to take returns on a product that has been partially consumed unless it is flawed or spoiled, and what’s left of this block of cheese appears to be fine.”

At this point it was obvious that he needed to be enlightened as to why there was a serious problem with this block of cheese and he needed to experience it for himself, so I let loose a ripper that sounded like the devil himself was tearing his way out of my ass.

“Judge for yourself.” I said as he looked grumpy at me over the sound of my blast and my now regal bearing. The ninja enters as a shadow, but leaves as a king. “I’ll give you a few minutes with that and when I come back you can tell me again how you think there ain’t nothing wrong with that cheese.”

I heard him gagging as the smell hit him a few seconds later, but I was already on my way over to the bulk foods aisle to dispense some justice on all the folks that eat chocolate stars without paying for em. My chocolate star does not like to have it’s brothers stolen and it defends them ferociously as a brother should.

When I stopped back by the customer service counter the fellow had my money ready and the cheese was up on a shelf behind him. I turned my head and I could see the cheese counter from where I was at. Sure enough there was a stock boy pulling all the Parmesan down off the shelf and throwing it in a big garbage can. Apparently they didn’t want any more cheese returns. I also got a hell of an apology from the customer service guy who was very sorry that their cheese had such a terrible effect on me.

On my way out the door I saw the kid and his mom paying for their groceries and I dusted the whole area in front of the baggers to make sure the little fella got a reminder that the Karma Ninja is always watching.

Buy a shirt and join the Ninja Union!

And follow me on twitter @WastedWillie

OK, I’m out of the joint, and the judge done made me write an apology letter to everybody as part of my probation. The nephews told me to post everything I write here on the interweb pages, so here’s the letter. I ain’t heard from the judge about it, but it’s an apology letter, and that’s all I’m legally required to do.

“Dear folks that I wronged,

I’m real sorry. I got into some fortified wine that some fella brought in from Detroit, and any time I get to drinking that stuff I end up bein’ chased around by a bunch of angry folks and the police take me to jail. I ain’t gonna drink it no more, and if that fella shows up with another bottle of it I’m gonna beat his ass like a misbehavin’ cabin boy.

In the order in which I offended folks throughout the evening -

To the lady who was walking by as I left the house after drinking the bottle of high test: I’m real sorry I told you that you were pretty and asked you if you wanted to go see my favorite fuck spot in the park across the way. That was rude of me. I should have said “love nest”.

To the lady’s husband: I didn’t see you there buddy. Sorry about that. I shouldn’t have said that kind of stuff to your wife in front of you. When you got in my face about it I probably shouldn’t have poked you in your eye or kicked you in the knee or hit you with that shovel. My reaction was bit extreme, though you were kind of being a dick.

To Joe the bartender at the Union Bar on 9th street: I’m sorry I came into your place drunk, pissed in the garbage can, took a dump in the urinal, and wiped my ass on the roll of hand towels. I often relieve myself in unacceptable places when I’m that drunk, and I know I shouldn’t. I’m also sorry I swung that shovel at you when you tried to talk to me about where I was moving my bowels. I should have been more open to that discussion and I should not have been carrying around a shovel anyhow I suppose. I’m glad nobody was hurt too bad.

To Tom Moorehouse who owns the Union Bar: I still don’t remember starting no fires, but folks tell me I done it, so I’m sorry. I’m sure the insurance money was good, and the new bar looks a lot better than the old one. I also don’t know why I got charged with breaking a window in a place that burned to the ground that same night anyway. It’s not like anyone had to fix it or buy a new one.

To the folks in Lafayette Park that night: I know I was cussing up a storm and I probably should have been so loud or hollerin such awful things, but that park ain’t known for it’s peace and quiet or nice company. Maybe you folks should take your kids to fucking Chuck E Cheese instead of a public park full of bums and crazy drunkards yelling foul things. You won’t see my ass at Chuck E Cheese ever again, so it’s much better for your kids.

To the folks at Chuck E Cheese: I’m real sorry I came into your establishment all liquored up and pissed off. I know you folks serve beer in pitchers there and I just thought a few beers might help me get that wine out of my system. I know drinking ain’t usually the best way to get sober, but I test that theory once in awhile to make sure. I’m sorry I threw a stool at the fella that told me I was too drunk, and I’m sorry I bit that big fella who came to escort me out, but he shouldn’t have put his hands on me.

And I’m real real sorry I kicked and spat at that manager with the big forearms, because he beat the almighty livin’ hell out of me. I ain’t never been punched in the balls that hard or that many times, and I sure as hell would not have guessed that he was dragging me up them stairs just to throw me back down them. That man has a serious anger management problem and you may want to get him some classes or something. You definitely won’t see me around no more.

To the Police Officers who arrested me that night: I apologize for all the things I said about your wives and mothers. I wouldn’t do them things to any woman, and especially not one whose child or husband was a policeman. I’m sure that the women in your life have never done any of those things, not with me or any of them other people I said were involved. I do really wish I had not pissed through the screen on to the back of that officer’s head in the police car. I soiled a nice police hat and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ought to behave that way, but I was having a rough night after that fella at Chuck E Cheese busted my nuggets and tossed me down them stairs all them times.

Seven months in county jail will humble a fellow a little bit and I’m takin’ it easy these days. I’m only drinking beer for a few weeks until I get things figured out, and I ain’t gonna hit nobody unless they’re really asking for it. And I sure as hell ain’t even walking down that block on 8th street where the Chuck E Cheese is.

I guess my nephew Tyler ain’t comin’ over for a good while. His mom just called me and she was real pissed. He’s my brother Tom’s kid and I was kind of getting to like him. We were hanging out once a week while they had their little “date night” where they went out for dinner and a movie and pretended they weren’t married and didn’t hate each other’s guts. Anyways I guess I can tell you the story about why Tyler ain’t going to be around for a little while seein’ as how his mom says I ain’t allowed to see him no more.

Tyler is four years old, and the first time they dropped him off at my place Mrs. Gutierrez from next door was watching out the door and said hello to him. She don’t just come running up to kids I got with me ever since she got a kick in the shins and an uppercut to the groin from my other nephew Steven a few months back. She’s more careful now and don’t just run up to every kid she sees pinching their cheeks and shit.

Well anyway she says hello and waves at Tyler and he waves back at her and we go on into my apartment. I didn’t want Tyler getting too friendly with that old bitch, so when we got inside I told Tyler that Mrs. Gutierrez was Puerto Rican and that he should learn to speak Puerto Rican to say hello to her properly. I showed him how to hold his middle finger up, which means “Hello” in Puerto Rican and I told him how to say “Fuck you Puerto Rican whore!” which of course means have a nice day in Puerto Rican.

Tom and Jeanie shelter the boy quite a lot, and I don’t think he has ever really heard any cuss words, so he didn’t know them words from real Spanish and he learned it real good. I told him that you only greet Puerto Ricans that way, and never say that to other people because they won’t understand. I figured we could keep it our little secret and I wouldn’t get in no trouble and Mrs. Gutierrez wouldn’t get all friendly with the boy and start bothering us every time we walked down the damn hallway.

When we walked back out of the apartment to head down to the liquor store, sure enough she cracked her door open and waved at little Tyler again, and he greeted her proudly with his new Puerto Rican vocabulary. She looked aghast and slammed the door, and I told Tyler that Puerto Ricans were very strange people and sometimes they had weird reactions to things. I told him that you never can tell about Puerto Ricans and that you just greet them properly a few times and eventually they warm up to you.

Everything worked out fine, and for a few months Mrs. Gutierrez left us alone and we had a good time sitting in the park every Thursday night, me drinking whiskey and him drinking chocolate milk at a picnic table. Then I got the call today from his mom Jeanie and boy I have never heard that woman so pissed off. Apparently he had a substitute teacher in preschool today, and it turns out that she was Puerto Rican. You can guess how well that went, but here’s the story as the boy’s dad told it to me this afternoon.

The teacher walked in to the room and introduced herself to the class as Mrs. Perez. From her accent Tyler must have recognized that she was Latin or Hispanic or whatever they call themselves these days, and he raised his hand and she called on him.

“Mrs. Perez, are you Puerto Rican?” he asked.

“Why yes I am, how did you guess that Tyler?” she said, probably charmed and delighted that the cute little redheaded boy guessed where she was from and wanted to learn about it. What a nice little Gap commercial world her little classroom will be!

Then he proudly gave her the finger and told her “Fuck you Puerto Rican whore!”. The way Tom told it to me, the teacher says she almost fell down from the shock.

“What did you say?” she repeated.

“Fuck you Puerto Rican whore!” he repeated, louder this time, hoping she wasn’t being weird like some Puerto Ricans can be. He repeatedly flipped her the bird as well, probably very proud of himself.

She grabbed his hand and took him down to the administrator’s office where they asked him why he said that. “I know how to greet Puerto Ricans, but she’s being weird. You never can tell with Puerto Ricans, you just have to keep talking to them and hope they come around.”

I guess the whole thing went over very badly in school since he goes to one of them persnickety fancy schools where everybody is supposed to love everybody else. Anyways, Jeanie is REAL pissed at me and said I can’t hang out with Tyler any more and she said that when she asked him, Tyler told her about me drinking in the park all the time too. I can’t wait until they see a police officer and he tells her that all cops are just donut eating shitheads that like to bother Uncle Willie when he ain’t doing nothing wrong.

And when they see Santa Claus next year and he tries to punch the magic button located between Santa’s legs that guarantees you will get all the presents you ask for, I won’t know anything about it. I expect a couple more angry phone calls, but it’s worth it because I love teaching things to children. I should probably have been a kindergarten teacher.

My nephew Steven came for a visit yesterday. I figured this was the only place I can talk about it because the son of a bitch is eight years old and he still can’t read. His momma says he’s a “special needs” child…

I’ll tell you about his god damned special needs! That little bastard has a special need for me to go upside his head with a sock full of rocks is what he needs. Seems to me like “special needs” is the new-fangled term for idiot, and if that’s true then I live in a whole world of “special needs” folks. And I’m talking about you too, don’t think I ain’t. Sometimes I think my old mutt Scooter has more sense than most of the dumb ass folks that live in my building or those damned idiot kids hanging out across the street with heir hats turned sideways askin’ me what I’m drinking today.

I got this crazy Puerto-Rican woman lives next door to me. She comes out into the hallway when me and Steven are on our way to go get us some lunch and starts whoopin’ and hollerin’ and makin’ a fuss about how the son of a bitch is so damned cute. I hate when women folk get like that.

“Oh yeah, he’s a heckuva kid” I says, figuring she’ll get close enough to him to get herself in trouble. Sure enough she walks right up to him and she gets what I call the “Steven Special” in short order.

The “Steven Special” is his patented move. He’s like Rowdy Roddy Piper only he weighs 52 pounds and he’s retarded. You see the little bastard has to wear special shoes because his feet are messed up. The soles on them things are about as hard as concrete and he just loves to kick and stomp with em. He uses those concrete shoes to get the Steven Special started.

He starts her off with a good hard stomp on the foot with one of them shoes and she ain’t wearing nothin’ but socks in the hallway, so I can hear the crunch when he gives her that stomp on the toes. She looked just shocked as shit, and her eyes get all big and she starts hollering and cursing in Puerto-Rican just as loud as hell. While she’s hopping around on one foot he gives her part two of the Steven Special, which is an uppercut to the groin that he learned from his Uncle Willie.

Let me tell you, that boy hits hard for a “special needs” kid. He hit Mrs. Rodriguez square betwixt her thunder thighs with a world beater of an uppercut and I couldn’t help but be a little proud after being the boy’s boxing coach for these last few years. Well “Crotch Punching Coach” might be a better description, but who’s splitting hairs right?

After he delivers that beautiful uppercut, he bellows out “I love you Santa Claus!” and runs like hell. Do you know how hard it is to stand up after you’ve had your foot smashed like a mashed potato and then taken an uppercut to the groin? Apparently it’s impossible because I’ve taken Steven to the park an awful lot over the last year or two, and there hasn’t been a single person that has managed to stay on their feet after a Steven Special.

Anyways she hit the floor about the same time I did, only I was only on the floor cause I was laughing so hard. With most people I act like I didn’t know he was gonna do that and apologize, but that Puerto-Rican bitch knows I hate her and I didn’t give a damn if she knew that I let her walk right into the ambush. Maybe that bitch won’t run up and hassle every kid she sees from now on huh?

After a few seconds one of our neighbors comes out to see what the noise is all about, and he just looks as confused as a man can get. She’s laying there tied up in a knot trying to hold on to her foot and her crotch at the same time and cursing like hell in Puerto-Rican, I’m laying not five feet away holding my gut and laughing so hard that tears are rolling down my cheeks already, and Steven is running up and down the hallway shouting “I love you Santa Claus!” and looking all cross-eyed and shit with those huge thick glasses. To top it all off he’s looking up at a G.I. Joe man that he’s holding above his head and it don’t look nothing like Santa Claus and he’s running all sideways like he does, which is why he needs them damn concrete shoes.

Our neighbor Tom Cavanaugh just stood there lookin’ confused for a bit and then went back inside shaking his head like he was trying to forget what he saw. Then I saw that Mrs. Gutierrez was crawling back inside and reaching for her cane next to the door and I figured it might be time for us two amigos to get the hell out of there.

All I needed to say was “Who wants to go to White Castle?” and Steven was on his way out the door and headed for the car, making that high pitched squeal he makes that always makes me want to throw the little bastard in the river. I love takin’ him to the White Castle. Just as long as I time it right that can be a fine place to enjoy a meal. As long as I get that timing right.

You see one of the things that’s messed up about the kid is his innards. If he eats the wrong food it don’t take but two hours and the poor little bastard is guaranteed to shit his pants. And I’m not talking about a couple of little turds neither. That White Castle messes him up something fierce. It looks like a whole Thanksgiving worth of brown gravy has been poured down the back of his pants and into them big old shoes. Of course it don’t bother him none, he just jumps around hollering “Poopy Shoes! Poooooopy Shoes!” and running away from anybody who tries to catch him to take them shoes off him.

Since his mom was due to pick him up in about 45 minutes I figured we had time to hit the drive thru, wolf down a few burgers and get rid of the evidence before she showed up to get him. That’s the key to comedy really. Timing. That and a retarded nephew that gets the green apple splatters any time he gets hold of a White Castle.

That’s how my day went, can’t say I give a damn about yours.

The boys seen me buying some chicken and some whiskey tonight and they knew I was about to put up a batch of my famous Wasted Willie’s Whiskey Chicken. They been tryin’ to get that recipe out of me for years, and they says they can pay some of my court fines for pushing over that police motorcyle in the park if I write it out here on the webnet machine, so here she goes.

Wasted Willie’s Famous Whiskey Chicken

First you get yourself a big old chicken. They got good ones at the Shop Mart down there on 4th street, and they only run you about seven bucks a piece. Now you don’t want no frozen chicken, so if you got one in the freezer you best take it out way ahead of time. And don’t touch my bottle of vodka I keep in the door of the freezer there or I’ll kick your ass but good. I ain’t kidding.

Once you got yer chicken, you gotta get you some whiskey. I prefer Johnny Walker, but I didn’t have enough cash on me, so I picked up a pint of Johnny for drinkin and a fifth of cheap Fireball whiskey for the chicken. Now I’m gonna take you through it as I go, cause I ain’t never wrote this recipe down before. In fact I kind of make it up each time as I go, and I don’t remember how I did it last time, so I guess I’ll have it once I get it wrote down tonight.

First thing I do is open this here pint of Johnny Walker and pour me a glass of it on some ice. Usually half a pint is good for a glass with some ice and a pinch of salt, so I’ll get two good glasses of whiskey out of this bottle, and maybe I’ll sneak a bit of that Fireball too. I don’t really need a whole fifth for the chicken. Probably ought to sample it to make sure it’s usable anyway.

It ain’t much good, burns a lot more than the JW, but it’ll do.

Now you have a good long drink of that whiskey that you got on ice, and put the rest of the bottle in the freezer to get nice and cold. Hell I’m damn near done with my first glass already. You better have another drink and get to catchin’ up. Lightweight.

Now you gotta get out the spices. I like some sage or some Mrs. DAsh or some shit, whatever I got around the house, and drrnk some more whiskey too. I gotta get me that second glass of hooch out of the freezer, this fucker’s gone arleady. Good stuff, goes down real smooooth. Now take bid grink out of that glass of whiskey and get our spices and rub em all over that bird and put some black pepper on it too so it’s got some kicks to it. You want a bird wiff kicks.

Now heat up yer oven or fire or whatever you are drinking to about 350 degrees. Damn my whiksey is gone agains. I need me a lil’ sip of that Fireball, might as well pour a glass -m it’s gonna be a fine bird anyhwo. This stuf ain’t so bad this Firball whiskey. So I took the bird and put it up in the oven and I fogrot the whiskey on the bird. I dont even know what I put the whiskey on for the bird or whatever. I’m drinkin this siht now.

Go white Stox#2@@h

Now rebember to turn of taht over if yer drinkin heavy cause you’ll leave it on all nihgt and bern the piss out of yer chicken, so Im just turn it off right now and finish this bottel of licker.

Fukc it, I’m done and i’m go to bed and fucking the chickens. And fcuk you if ya read thid and steal kitchne of the oven or some shit. Dickhead. Byu a shiert!

Whiksey!!!!!!

*Note from the nephews

At this point we actually watched Uncle Willie take the chicken out of the oven, toss it out the kitchen window, and stomp out the front door yelling “I’m going to bed, fuck it!” He spent the next few hours in the park drinking with Chaser Tommy and Big Chief until they got arrested for urinating off the highway overpass. For more stories from Willie, check out his blog at Wastedwillie.com

There’s a bunch of god damn bums in my neighborhood and I’m about tired of it. This son of a bitch comes up to me today on the street.

“Got any spare change” he says.

Now think about this question. Honestly, when was the last time you had any extra money you just didn’t know what the hell to do with?

“Yeah man, I got two dollars more than I’m supposed to have right now, why don’t you take it you lazy god-damned son of a bitch. You can use it to buy yourself a nice bottle of Paul Masson brandy and get hammered and pass out in the flowers across the street like you do every night. Actually shithead, why don’t you take a couple twenty dollar bills that I have here and just drink yourself retarded. Then in the morning I can come by and piss on the back of your head while you’re asleep on the sidewalk.”

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A new woman moved in to our building today, and she don’t look like she’s gonna be any easier to get along with than any of the other whack jobs. I actually defended her and she still got mad at me, just like women do. If I hadn’t done anything about this fella yelling at her she’d be mad about that instead. You can’t win. I don’t know how the hell you actually even talk to folks any more with most of em being so damn touchy. It drives a man to drink.

It started because she was hauling in a plant from her car that was parked out front. Now we got a “bike lane” that runs out front of the building between the sidewalk and the real street and she was parked in that lane, just like I usually do. I figure kids can ride their bikes in their own yards, but grown men don’t need no special lane takin’ up space in front of people’s buildings.

In fact let me tell you something about solving problems. If there is a simple and easy solution then just go ahead and do that motherfucker instead of trying to be all sneaky and over think every god-damned thing. If there’s too much traffic on a highway, you add in a lane and your problem is fixed. Don’t do a study on whether you should hire a bunch of hippies to put in a train that runs on solar power and fag juice at a cost of five hundred million dollars. Just add a fucking lane. Simple shit people.

The simple solution here is that if the hippies want a place to ride their bicycles then you tell em to buy some property and build themselves a little bicycle track. They can even build a tree house where they can meet up and do cross stitch and fuck each other in the butt. You don’t go ahead and build them a lane on the road where they’re just gonna sue people who hit em with their door as they are getting out of their car and claim that those people are doing it on purpose as the biker goes by because it’s happened four times in two weeks. Then the person who keeps “accidentally” hitting bikers with their car door can end up in court and having more fines to pay. I hate that shit. Keep your god-damned bikes off my road. Roads are for cars.

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Last night I got drunk with them idiots from the fraternity house down the road. Once in a while I see one of them on the street and they invite me down to have some brews with them. The fuckers can’t hold their liquor worth a damn, but their beer is free, and they buy it by the keg, so that makes them friends of mine, at least for the night. There’s only two problems with drinkin’ with them fratboys.

The first problem is that they want to play “drinkin’ games” with me. What the fuck kind of dumbshit idea is that? I drink cause I want to, and I don’t know why I ever need a game to help me decide when I want a drink. They want to drink when somebody says something on TV or when they make a ping pong ball in to a glass. I want to drink when I want to drink. Drinking games just slow me down. Here was the exchange where I helped them understand what real drinking is all about.

“Hey Willie!” jackass number one says to me “Let’s play a drinking game.”

“Okay, here’s the rules shithead.” I said “Everybody listen up, I want you all to remember the rules of Willie’s Favorite Drinking Game.” Now I had everybody’s attention.

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Oh you’re gonna like this one. So I was babysitting my dickweed nephew Jordan for the weekend. I haven’t seen the kid in six years, but his mom needs to get a huge growth removed from her back and she’s gonna be laid up, so I get to experience the joy of having a younger person in my home for a few days.

Let’s talk about Jordan a little bit.

First of all he doesn’t look like a 16 year old boy, he looks like a dead 14 year old girl. When I ask him what the fuck is wrong with his face and his clothes, he feeds me a line about being a metal gothic raver or some shit. He thinks he looks like a badass I guess, but I think he looks like a constipated geisha girl.

In my day if you wanted to pretend like you were evil you kicked a fucking dog, threw stones at the locomotive as it went by, and maybe pushed your little brother down a well. That was something to do when you were pissed off. This horse shit with the face paint and plastic axe is not gonna scare anybody. And then there’s his attitude problem. You can imagine how well I dealt with that. I’m widely known for being a patient and kind man, especially when dealing with little shitheads with attitude problems.

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My nephew Steven came for a visit yesterday. I figured this was the only place I can talk about it because the son of a bitch is 8 years old and he still can’t read. His momma says he’s a “special needs” child…

I’ll tell you about his god damned special needs! That little bastard has a special need for me to go upside his head with a sock full of rocks is what he needs. Seems to me like “special needs” is the new-fangled term for idiot. If so then I live in a whole world of “special needs” folks. And I’m talking about you too, don’t think I ain’t. Sometimes I think my old mutt Scooter has more sense than most of the dumb ass folks that live in my building or those damned idiot kids hanging out across the street with their hats turned all funny askin’ me what I’m drinking today.

I got this crazy Puerto-Rican woman lives next door to me see? She comes out into the hallway when me and Steven are on our way to go get us some lunch and starts whoopin’ and hollerin’ and makin’ a fuss about how the son of a bitch is so damned cute. I hate when women folk get like that.

“Oh yeah, he’s a heckuva kid,” I says, figuring she’ll get close enough to him to get herself in trouble. Sure enough she walks right up to him and she gets what I call the “Steven Special” in short order.

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