I should learn to be thankful for my personal escapes from Alcatraz. So says the great and powerful Phid.
He is very likely right.
So I am sitting around today wringing my hands about a near visit to Sheriff Joe’s house for some Cool Hand Luke-like “hospitality.” The visit didn’t happen, for reasons I cannot explain, without invoking the god of Mustangs or some stupid shit like that. So, I called Phid, because when it comes to cosmic equilibrium and other shit that defies explanation, he is the Oracle. Or when your piece of shit car breaks, he will tell you it is a piece of shit.
Phid: What the fuck are you whining about, Pete Coors. Karma kissed your ass once again. Did you even fucking bother to notice?
Me: WTF? Karma will kiss my ass? That whore. What’s her number?
Phid: Put down that beer, dick. This is why you keep getting your ass kicked – no manners.
Me: Oh fuck off.
Phid: Stop writing me into your dumbass stories, you doghumping fuckhead.