This morning, I spent thirty minutes smacking a large rug on a clothesline as hard as I could, using a broomhandle. I daresay it was the most fascinating and relieving experience since I lost my virginity. Nobody who will ever read this has seen me pissed off, except for maybe the night after senior prom when I wanted to slit some emo throat. (Matt's seen me immediately after having my testicles crushed by a some mongoloid, but I was less angry than I was on the verge of weeping). I hold it in, because, let's face it kids, nothing is sadder than an angry fat man. It says in the rule book that we either have to be jolly, or dress entirely in black, smoke, and dance to shitty music. This is basically a pointless blog, but I write it in case you drive by Franey street, and see me beating an old rug with a stick. I'm not crazy, I'm just ensuring that I don't go on a killing spree.
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