The Man Next to Me

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This bitch just wont shut-up. One cannot truly comteplate his own life ending scenarios after realizing just how un-important he is with this bitch steadily yacking in your ear. Realize the universe. Accept it’s vastness as the un-ending annomoly that encompasses all of the life, spirit and imagination of all lives, spirits and imaginations. Find your spot in that un-ending vastness. Notice all you are and have accomplished and what you are capable of accomplishing. Then realize what your neighbor has done and how it has completely fucking annoyed you. Know that your neighbor continues to do all that he can to annoy you and know also that he doesn’t care. No one cares. The world, as we know it, continues on and on and on and on with never a thought to you or I. We neither add nor take away from the world. As is the Earth to the universe. If you could find your spot in the universe and see just how insignificant your are and then not even begin to comprehend how much of a difference you don’t make, well, it’s not of question when it’s going to end but of how. And you can’t concentrate on what will probably the only decision you will ever make that you actually have some control over with some bitch yapping your ear off!
“Please tell me you have Pabst.” I beg my favorite bartender at my favorite bar. “Nope. I think we are gonna stop carrying that all together. Sorry bro.” he responds with a half-hearted frown that makes me think that maybe he is sympathetic, but I know he isn’t. “OH! You like Pabst. What does it taste like?” the bitch began. “It tastes like the smell of sodomy on a cool September afternoon.” “What?” “I said it tastes good. Like beer should. Not that it matters.” says I hoping to successfully end any births of conversation. “HA! You are so weird. That’s almost cute.” “I’ll take Lone Star. In a can! Make sure it’s in a fucking can.” I order in my almost cute way. “Fo Sho.” barkeep speak for okay. “Why do you want a can? You seemed like you really wanted your beer in a can.” she persists. “Cans make beer homogenous.” “Really?” That’s when I see him. The man next to me. He has the unmistakeable red, white, and blue colored can of the Pabst Blue Ribbon. “SONOFABITCH!!” Even though I am staring right at this stranger in my bar, it’s the mouthy bitch who asks, “What? Who’s a bitch?” Without relenting my stare from this trespasser I answer, “Mother Fucking Pabst! In a can. At my bar. But not in front of me!” The man next to me, this poacher, this miscreant, this band wagoner, this a-hole! has yet to look at me despite my obvious attempt to get a reaction. He hasn’t even twitched, twerked, turned, tilted or swayed. That’s the trouble with a-holes. They like to act like they aren’t a-holes.

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