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Day Four.

Was at work today and one of my co-workers, Phil, an old man who is both my co-worker and a hardly functioning alcoholic, told me that Frank Black was going to be playing at the Coach House tonight. I hit up the handicapped stall to check out Ticketmaster on my phone. Ticketmaster didn’t have Frank playing at the Coach House and—to be honest—I didn’t feel like googling the event, so I asked Phil if I could get the tickets for the show at the door.

“Is this foreshadowing?” Phil said.

“What are you talking about? Can I buy the tickets at the Coach House is what I asked.”

“Sure, yesh, of coursh,” he said through his toothless sock-hole mouth.

Cool. Show’s supposed to be at 7:00pm. Pre-game in my trunk at six, then.

I get out of my trunk at about 6:45pm and stumble my way to the front of the venue. “I’m here for Frank Black,” I tell the bouncer.

“Who’s Frank Black?” he said.

“The lead singer of the Pixies, man. He’s supposed to play his guitar here tonight”

“Why don’t you go check with the box office little man.” The box office didn’t show Frank playing.

“No way,” I said. Phil. That fucking drunk. He gave me the wrong date. “That old fucker said it was going to be tonight,” I said to a wall.

“Huh?” the bouncer said.

“I’m sorry, I’m a bit mixed up with my dates. Can I use your bathroom? I’ll go back to my trunk when I’m done.”

“Sure, kid,” he said. “You’re not driving, are you?”

“No, my girlfriend is the designated driver. She always is.”

Worst Friday ever.

Anyways, instead of driving home I accidentally drove back to the office. I can’t be incriminated for writing any of this, right? I mean, I didn’t kill anyone— hell, I didn’t even injure a person. Sure, I thought about playing Corners (if you don’t know how to play Corners— it’s simple: When you see a person or a group of people at a corner you estimate how long it would take you to beat them all up) but nobody got hurt.

I drove back drunk, hammer-schmammered— buttfuck wasted. Nobody got hurt, and if you weren’t interested in reading this then you would have stopped days ago. And it’s not like I’m bragging about being drunk.

When I got back to the office Phil was not there. No. What was there, however, was mouth sex. Even though it was nearly an hour ago I still have the image burned in my mind of…wait, yeah, it was Phil. Fuck that guy; he gave me bunk concert info, so what does it matter if I tell you he was sucking off the HR manager, even if it wasn’t him? Fuck that guy, again. My HR manager has a monster donkey dick, by the way. It’s unfortunate I had to see it but it’s even more fortunate nobody saw me.

I’m not even gay and I still prefer imagining toothless Phil getting down on the skin flute like Boz Scaggs over the reality of the situation.

Not gay. Just drunk and pissed that there wasn’t a Frank Black concert tonight. And where’s my fucking girlfriend?

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