Drunk Post: Bottle of Moscato

This bottle he pre-opened it so he wouldn’t strain and puff out his cheeks trying to pop the cork when has girls over. Then he had some. Took it down the top of the label. But on an empty stomach he might as well be Amish at a frat party. He realizes that it’s almost September, which means it’s pretty much Christmas already. Which means it’s already 2016 which means he’s already dead.

Which puts things in perspective. It’s all stupid. He could write the greatest page of his life and post it and the glory would last as long as an orgasm. It’s all stupid. Especially his job where he says things to children who then actively work to forget them after class. And also the pursuit of skirt which goes well but only because he’s a 9 in Seoul. In Boston he’s a 4. Or maybe a negative 4. Anyway. Those successes also last as long as an orgasm. And then working out for hours with Kentucky Chubs and then with the Old Ginger Bastard. It all means nothing. The calories in eight ounces of melon moscato mean you actually haven’t even worked out. You have rewound the clock to right before the gym and entered an alternate universe where you didn’t go inside.

He has a book out. Convinced this superstar blogger to review it. This makes him feel like he’s laying his scrotum on a table and hoping it won’t get smacked with a mallet. It probably will. But you gotta take your knocks so you can get smart for the next time. The way out is through. He is white and middle-class anyway. So of course it’ll all work out in the end. He deserves a life where he gets paid to do what only what he wants to do at all times. Deserves it. Entitlement is a highly-combustible fuel. Makes up the difference for whatever he lacks in talent and hustle.

He needs inspiration. His characters have been too flat on the page lately so he sits outside of the corner mart with the bottle. Tries to go Sherlock and absorb details. Korean guys pop zits on their shoulders and then nervously check for observers. Ajeossis in starched white button-ups slump in Hyundai Avantes by the brothel waiting for the madam to beckon then in. He sees that the stray spotted dog is back over there by the trash pile. It’s racist. It doesn’t eat the bread he drops for it but it’ll dig around in Korean trash all night. This entitled motherfucking dog. Ignorant motherfucking canine. Just striding around thinking shit is all going to work out in the end.

Fred’s Other Blog

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12 thoughts on “Drunk Post: Bottle of Moscato

  1. So I’m doing a newscast one night and I look down and I don’t recognize the number, he recalled. I don’t pick it up. During commercial break I check it, it’s Nene Leaks drunk dialing me from the back of the limo yelling; ‘don’t be tardy to the party.

  2. I would read Fred’s life memoir. What made Fred? Where did Fred come from? Would he be happier teaching to 2nd grade instead of 3rd? Does communism start at the DMZ or is there a sliding scale as you move north through South Korea? Why do my Eggo waffles only seem to range from rock hard to soggy bread. These are the questions I would expect such a document to answer.

      1. But what about the DMZ and my waffles. See, we need to work on follow through and details here.
        I’ve been thinking about doing that anyway because blogs don’t lend themselves to archived reading.

      2. All questions shall be answered. Actually that’s a pretty good idea. Surely you’ve got enough material by now, and your kids are busily creating new content for you daily.

      3. I’d be glad to share what I’ve learned over this last two-month slog. Shit, it really is nerwracking putting something out there. But it also feels pretty great too.

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