Yesterday I took my trash out at the same time as the acoustic guitar player who lives in my apartment building. He covers John Mayer every day around noon if you guys want to stop by and tell him to shut up through his window.
It was my dream that he’d be enamored with me and return to his apartment, lyricizing about a beautiful woman with bedhead, ripped leggings, and lots of empty carbohydrate boxes. I imagine he’d title it, “Who knew Cheez-its could do a body so good?” and make it kinda blues-y.
Well, the next best thing happened. Someone else wrote a song about seeing me at the dumpster and posted it in the youtubez.
Do yourselves a favor and NEVER google image search "Dumpster Girl" with the safe search off. Still vomiting.
Two old British ladies brought a dead guy to the airport in an attempt to smuggle him back to Germany without paying all those pesky dead body transport fees. They put him in a wheelchair and slapped sunglasses, a fake moustache, and a Hawaiian shirt on him. (I’m just guessing about the moustache and Hawaiian shirt.) They managed to fool a taxi driver on the ride there, but airport security found it odd when he was unresponsive during his anal exam. (Again, I’m guessing.)
What did they think would happen if they got him onto the plane? I mean, I avoid eye contact and small talk on planes like anyone else who hates humanity, but god damn if I wouldn’t notice if the dude next to me was dead. At some point I’d see how peaceful he looked and probably try to bum an Ambien.
I like to think these bitches watched Weekend at Bernie’s and Weekend at Bernie’s II (what was the premise for the 2nd one again?) to prepare. And in my mind, right before they took him to the airport, they all went water skiing.