Blast that vile woman!
So it is official. Last night, I come home, expecting my home cooked dinner and naked wife waiting at my disposal, and what do i find? Divorce papers. No grilled steak on a plate. Just a stack of papers and some other lawyer bullshit. Realizing that she must've been tripping on LSD because paper looks nothing like steak and she knows that she should have my dinner ready after my long day of work, I decide to take a trip to the local pub to get shit-faced. I didn't bother to check if she was home, but I had about 29 beers and a few shots of cheap vodka. I'm not too sure how the hell I got home, but all I know is that after passing out on the couch, I woke up an hour later, still in my drunken stupor.
Outraged at the nerve of my wife wanting to divorce me, I head upstairs to the bedroom to see what the deally was. I began singing my drunk chants and ironically, found myself in an R. Kelly video. Well. Not exactly. But when I did get to the bedroom, there was a rubber on the floor, and with me singing, I almost felt I had a connection with R. Kelly, minus the peeing on little girls part. I was either grossed out by the rubber on the floor or my body was trying to prevent alcohol poisoning from taking over, I vomited more than a mother bird feeding her young while in a nest on a tree full of dead cats. All I'm hoping for is that she actually gives me some action for the first time before she runs away with her hotshot lawyer or lesbian biker friend. Whoever the hell it is.
Oh well. At least she won't be cramping my style anymore, making more room for me and my parents in this house. The only problem with her leaving is that I'll probably have to hire a maid to clean the bathrooms because I don't know how to do that shit. Dust Busters and Swifters can only get me so far.
Life is a bitch. And I need to introduce some lives to my dick.
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