This is my last blog post. It is time to hang up my schlong and return to civilization. I doubt they’ll want me back but they won’t have much of a choice when I threaten to release the tapes of those politicians and that poor sex seal. To end this blog/horrible disaster properly I needed something big. I’ve been through a lot in the last 6 months… pregnancy tests, hundreds of hangovers, cat murder, and all the other things that life can throw at you. But what happened on the 4th of July dwarfed anything that came before it. I celebrated this great nation’s birthday with blood, alcohol and nakedness. Read on young warriors. The pictures at the end will no doubt ruin my life.
The country’s birthday celebrations kicked off at 12.03p.m. sharp. The last few days had seen an influx of Irish associates that would help add five or six more years to my inevitable lengthy prison sentence. A simple mathematical equation can explain the effect of more Irish people joining you in America: Life + 2 Irish people = life, goals and hopes ruined. We set up drinking camp in my front garden and made sure to lay out all the well-known American drinking games such as beer pong, flip-cup and kill the homeless man.
IS THAT A HIPPO CHASING A MAN?!! IT IS!! We cracked open a few beers and drank them at our leisure. Our leisure was an intensive and continuous drive through every bottle we could get our hands on. Toilet duck, Mr. Sheen, anti-ageing cream… if it looked like it might get you drunk, it was fair game. Everything was tame and under control for the first hour, but then things started to get weird.
One of the lads, who was the chief engineer of shouting inappropriate sexual things at girls, spotted a few nice looking lassies going in and out of a house across the street. The American term for people who live near you is neighbours, but I prefer the term future victims. We turned up our laptop speakers to a smooth listening 6.3 and sent out our species’ mating call, Mambo No. 5. They decided to ignore our call to sex. This would be a decision they would soon regret.
Before we could storm the girl’s house using the classic rape formation, a familiar face entered the Temple of Doom (walked through our front gates). Mr. Crow, the man who makes our breakfast rolls, had accepted last night’s drunken invitation to join us in our celebrations of Uncle Sam‘s big day. Crow wasn’t messing around when he said he’d bring a bottle of French Scotch to the party.
He also wasn’t messing around when he said he’d bring along a small gun to shoot birds… and that one car… with the child in the backseat… who is going to make a full recovery… maybe. The Scotch added a new dimension to our game of beer pong, and within minutes, Scotch Pong was invented… and then a few minutes later, Scotch Pong was scrapped and downing the entire bottle of whiskey with no tops on was the game of choice.
I’m convinced that the night wouldn’t have ended the way it did, if it wasn’t for the following two events. Frighteningly similar to the night I left for this cholesterol filled country, my friend Dan produced a coma-inducing bottle of alcohol. This time he produced a giant bottle of Jim Bean. As I took my first sup of whiskey, my laptop decided to be a badass and play the theme to Mortal Kombat. I took a few blows to my liver and it wasn’t long before my brain went into retirement, and a deranged mentally ill Johnny Cage took the wheel.
The empty darkness was slowly replaced by piercing needles of light. I was temporarily blinded by the crustaceans that had been rehoused into my eyeballs. When my eyelids managed to rip apart, I reluctantly looked around at the nightmare I had awoken in. I’m going to refrain from any hyperbolic description and tell you exactly what was going on at that moment. I was completely naked, covered in blood and lying outside in my front garden.
My front garden is situated in the middle of busy junction of about five or six roads and is surrounded by houses. I was shocked at the fact that I had not been arrested but I knew there was still plenty of time for that to happen. I cautiously sat up in the garden while my virgin balls slipped down off of my thigh onto the cold, dewy grass. The bus full of screaming kids was the least of my worries.
I was more worried about the calving amount of blood that stained most of my body. For those of you who haven’t woken up in a swamp of blood before (Girls your monthly blood terror doesn’t count!) the first thoughts that race across your mind are the following:
Please, please, please… let this be my blood! Theres too much blood. If this is someone else’s blood, they are obviously dead and I am going to prison for a very, very long time. Oh great, I never clicked on those pop-up windows that promised a ripped body in two days and now I’m going to be one of those girl-boys in prison. I’ll have to lie on my back and watch as Mr. Wavin Pipe 2011 lifts up my dress and gives me the one-two-uni-poo! Wonderful. I wonder if I’ll have time to buy a stretch-cone before they arrest me? Hmmm…
Fortunately, there would be no jail time for me and unfortunately, there would be no stretch-cone. The terrifying amount of blood was mine after all! Hurray! The blood spout was located just under the dirty sock and electrical tape wrapped around my mangled foot. Now that I had discovered that another midnight prostitute burial wasn’t necessary, I gathered my testicles and limped into what was left of my house.
I entered the bunker and immediately felt like lying on the ground outside again. One poor soldier had fought heroically against the dark forces of alcohol but in the end he was slain. He was propped up against the couch with a steady stream of lumpy vomit trickling down from his mouth. Unfortunately, the smell of vomit only accounted for 45% of the human excrement cocktail floating around the air. The lump of shit in his pants accounted for the remaining 65%.
Gagging on an invisible penis, I ran out of the living room and stumbled across an unknown stranger folded up next to the oven. The oven was set to a cool 400 degrees and had vaporised the pepperoni pizza that once sat in its hot belly. Unfortunately for Papa John, he had accidentally cooked a good portion of his head thanks to his intimate cuddling of the oven. Sylvia Platt couldn’t have done it better herself.
The remaining Irishman had luckily left a sticky trail of blood all the way up to his final resting spot. The trail led to a pool of dark blood sitting in a stool, standing directly under the opening of the attic in the kitchen. From what I could make out at the time, not all the blood was his. A lot of the blood had come from the tampons that someone had fished out of the bathroom bin and thrown all around the house. But the blood wasn’t the only clue he left. The biggest clue to his whereabouts came from the bludgeoned hand that dangled out through the plaster board in the ceiling.
It was obvious that the poor shamrock farmer had managed to climb up into the attic but found it impossible to get back down again. I popped up my head to see if he was dead or alive and judging from the amount of insulation he had eaten during the night, he was more than likely permanently brain-damaged for the rest of his life.
After seeing my friend accept his destiny of becoming an attic rat, I slumped down in the middle of the kitchen floor and gave up any hope of ever becoming a decent human being. I tried to figure out where it had all gone so wrong. What road had we taken that would eventually lead to one of us trapping himself in an attic, where he ate hot glass-filled wool to survive? As I looked up at the bloody arm hanging down from the ceiling, I spied the box that contained all the answers. Before the attic-man had found himself lost in a hot and humid maze, he had taken a number of pictures on his camera.
This is what he captured.
Goodbye everyone. I will be back.