An old friend said, between overpriced drinks:
"Man, this new chick I'm dating is so hot. Dude, she has like no gag reflex."
I took a sip of my gin and tonic and had to fight my urge to laugh.
As within my mind more than the bases were loaded and it was time to swing for the fences.
"Well you know bud I'm pretty sure just about anyone could deepthroat a Vienna sausage so well, yeah."
I replied as the woman listening next to me busted up laughing, as well as the bartender who just shook his head and walked away.
As my friend had to fight laughing himself only managing to reply with ever so understated.
"Fuck you."
To be on my good side doesn't seem to be so good at all.
Well, unless you are me that is.
Toodles my darlings
Cheers.
John Patrick Robbins only speaks about himself in third person, because only the best human
beings do like serial killers.
He is currently hosting an open mic upon the Death Star. Where all are invited who can afford the rocket fuel to get there, so that excludes most of the poets he hates with a passion.
He collects vintage wines and enjoys sailing around the world, raiding the East Coast and occasionally his local seven-eleven. Because, like all great intellectuals, he really likes slurpees and nachos.
He is the writer-in-residence at the Bunny Ranch where he currently lives in the attic.
He is also the mental patient of the year seven years running at Shady Pines mental facility.
He enjoys bathing in the blood of his many literary victims and plays piano in some of the finest bath houses worldwide.
He enjoys reading poetry in the shower except when he gets electrocuted from his PA system. But then again he always enjoys a good buzz.
You have beautiful eyes and a great personality.
No wonder you are alone, reading a lunatic writer’s poem and demented bio.
Bravo to you.
Kisses.
The Mad Editor.
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