Something to think about when bothered by b.s.

After work last night, I got a drink with a buddy of mine.

We're sitting at the bar and he had a strange look on his face. I asked him what was wrong and he told the following tale.

When he got home last night, the NYPD were trying to get into his building. Apparently, someone in his building called them, asking for them to investigate what happened to an upstairs neighbor.

The cops walked up to the sixth floor and knocked on the door. There was no answer, other than a dog barking. The Emergency Service Unit went up the fire escape to the sixth floor, opening the window into an apartment covered in dog shit, to find an elderly woman laying on her bed, dead for days.

Police asked the super if he had known that the woman was dead. He did not. The cops asked she had next of kin, someone to notify. The super said there was no next of kin. It's sad, a woman that seemingly no one knew or cared about.

The police took her to the morgue and she will be buried in the Potter's Field Cemetery, alone. No family. No friends. Nothing.

 

That's sad, hb. I need to call my mom now.

 

Replace the dog with a cat and make the woman tall and fat, and you've just told my future. AND A DUDE! THE WOMAN HAS TO BE A DUDE! IT'S IMPERATIVE!

 

You let you dog shit all over the windows?

 

Shouldn't the woman have a penis for it to be your future?

 

I fear I am fated for a date with a chainsaw between now and the day I die.

Actually it'd have to be three.