You can't steal thunder
the swollen river beckons
wash your ass, Smeagol
I hated Jeff. We all know that. Smeagol hated Jeff, because Jeff always called him Bob and that name always got Smeagol fighting mad (do not call him Bob if you meet him).Was it always like this? Well.....yes, yes it was.
Jeff looked like a damn Indian (bow and arrow, not tech support) hippie. As I said I don't particularaly care who plunges his meatstick into my mother's lovebrew, as long as he is older than me and doesn't tell me about it. Jeff was definitely older than me, that's for sure. But he got a -1 when he informed me that he loved pounding my mother from behind, so he could grab her tits and really thrust hard. Thanks for that, shitface. Having a guitar named "Nigger" was negative number 2. But the worse thing was the stranding.
You see, my aunt had gotten a settlement from somewhere, and bought herself a nice little Mercury Topaz with the cash. I am not sure why, since she does not drive, but magically at right about that time Jeff's car shot craps and he and Mystical needed a car. They asked Smeagol for rides, but he would only take them anywhere for an exorbitant amount of gas money; it was usually cheaper to just get a cab. Smeagol was also known to only show up for the money, in essence stranding the hapless traveler at their destination with no choice but to bus it up to get back.
You would think getting crapped on like this would make it so that if you had someone relying on you, would try a little harder because you know what it's like. You would THINK that. Not so with the Mystical Retard and Jeff the Wonder Douche behind the wheel! First, Mystical would call me from a payphone with some of the most retarded instructions ever. Let's say, for example, that I needed a ride to City Hall from HER FUCKING HOUSE and I needed to be picked up at 1:00 PM. I would get a phone call at 12:45 that went a little like: "OK I need you to go out the back door, walk up 9th street, circle the gas pumps at Pip's Quik Shop 3 times, and wait. We will drive by and say 'Nice day out', to which you reply 'but the kilimanjaro does not attack in April'. You will then run and jump into the back seat as we drive away." I am exaggerating here, but a lot of the time she was so paranoid she would want me to meet her up the street from her own house for some damn reason.
After all of this you would assume she would, you know, fuckin' show up. Nope. At least not on time...
Usually about 20 minutes after I had to be there she would pull up, and get an attitude with me for not "showing me any respect, you need to respeeeeeek yo mooooooommmaaaaa...." and then start in on how spiritual it was that Jeff, who was driving the car, had teabagged her earlier that afternoon. Jeff would also start in with his 'You need to show your mother some re-re-respect, I am the head of this family and you must do as I say!' Which no one did because no one did anything my dad said and technically he WAS the actual head of the family... why would we trade one no talent ass clown for another?
I had been stranded so many times during the summer of 1997 I lost 35 pounds from just walking around the city... rather then call them or Smeagol, who would have charged me something like 5 dollars a mile to get from point A to point B...
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