I’m not sure what to think about this. I was on the road all day, trying to bring home the bacon, so that the lovely lady and I can live in the luxurious lifestyle we’ve become accustomed to. I walked into my apartment, and knew immediately that all was not well. The smell of another man’s aftershave greeted me at the door.

I looked with suspicion behind the doors, with uncertainty around the shower curtain, and with some difficulty under the bed (no mean feat, that: it’s a futon). What greeted me in the kitchen destroyed my faith in humanity. The reality I feared came crashing down upon me like a truckload of cinder blocks.

They ate the PIE! All my goddam PIE is gone! What sort of rapacious fucking Huns ravaged my kitchen and ATE ALL MY FUCKING PIE! Ok, maybe it’s time for a little context here. Last night, I made a Georgia Peach Pie for me and my lovely lady. And THEY FUCKING ATE THE PIE! I was really looking forward to eating some pie when I came home. But now, I guess I’ll have to go sit in a bar, drink hard liquor, and listen to sad songs about life, longing, and the loss of beloved pastries.

UPDATE:



frank say:

It’s quarter to three,

There’s no one in the place ’cept you and me

So set ’em’ up joe

I got a little story I think you oughtta know



We’re drinking my friend

To the end of a brief episode

So make it one for my [Georgia Peach Pie]

And one more for the road