After spending a sufficiently mortifying week in Texas visiting my “family” I arrived home yesterday in the early afternoon, extremely hungover, and humbly grateful to be back in the land of spoiled homosexuals who are completely detached from the rest of the world. [I spent the 
previous evening carousing with my two older brothers, Scott the Redneck and Eric the Hyper-Evangelical Special Olympian, and Scott’s girlfriend, Donna. We went to the bars on the edge of town, where cow poke meets town folk. Our first watering hole: Pitchers. (As Tristan will omit any obvious jokes, I will submit none). Pitchers, oddly enough, was fresh out of draught beer and could offer us no pitchers. So we moved on to the Gold Nugget, just across the parking lot, where the pitchers of Coors Light flowed seamlessly and endlessly, only occasionally augmented by shots of Southern Comfort. I met a fine fellow at the rail whose Bud was nestled in a filthy beer cozy from 1979. I asked him if he brought the cozy from home. He replied with a warm belch and a cold shoulder. Beckoning the bar maid, I kindly asked if I might have a beer cozy. She flashed me a generous smile (I’m pretty sure she had more fingers than teeth) and drawled, “We don’t give the cozies out to the tourists.”] All I wanted to do was let myself into my apartment, barf, and crawl into my cave-like bedroom to sleep off the hangover, but Jesus, apparently, still has it in for me and thwarted my plans for rest by sending the cleaning ladies. Juanita and Ludmilla were there when I arrived. I’m not gonna lie, I do feel some shame in hiring a maid service, especially since at least a dozen or so of my aunts and female cousins are cleaning ladies (I am half-Mexican). I don’t like being home when the cleaning ladies are here. It just doesn’t seem right to watch them scrub my piss and pubes off the toilet with the little tooth brushes they bring, and I’m not about to try to make impossible small talk with their indolent ESL asses, so I was forced haunt the neighborhood streets for the next two hours until they were gone. Sometimes day to day struggles in life are just too much.
The good news is Tristan and LL are going to Paris tomorrow. At least that is where they say they’re going, or rather, that is what Tristan has been telling LL. Word on the street has it that Tristan has enrolled the both of them in some fat farm called La Belle Cuisine somewhere in Indiana. I, for one, think this is a marvelous idea, as they have both become about as fat as they are annoying. Bon voyage, my friends, and I hope this works out better than the 12 step vacation you took in the spring!
As for me, if there is anyone who is looking for tacky clothing for young boys age 12-14, I will be holding a sidewalk sale outside our apartment tomorrow from 10 to 2. The addresss is 123 Gay Street NW, Washington, DC 20009. All serious offers will be considered, cash and sexual favors only!
N.B. Any comments from Damien will be rejected. I think you are stupid and extraneous.
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