Benjamin

On the record, anyone on the spine of some cheaply leafed-through poetical tome that some girl at the bar has checked out from the school library and proclaimed (like so many of her unsurprisingly shit-similar peers) as the new genius of her college-addled yet entirely confused and predictable literary interest. Let's see: Tom Robbins, James Joyce, Alexander Fitzgerald, Aldous Huxley, Chuck Palahniuk and Sylvia Plath? Sure, I’ll be into them if it means she feels she’s being taken seriously during the first impressions. But off the record, my heroes are the lawyers John Sheen hires to get me off the hook with little more than a few months in county lock-up and some cheap set of community service frequent flyer miles that I can piss on half-drunk and three hours late. I’d spill a Coors Light over that burnished pair of slacks and tip my dirty cowboy hat if I cared enough to keep myself out of the trouble I have friends who can afford to keep me out of it for me do. Even when I’m standing up to the scuffed knees of my Wranglers in it like the horseshit you’d hear from a fuckin’ well-dressed preacher, father or prosecuting attorney. I don’t care for fuck what’s polite if what’s really on the line is easily effected in acceptable ways with one simple, shiny little hardly noticeable pill. It's ladies night, every night.