Self-Inflicted Tourette Syndrome
It had been a rough few days in the cab. Somehow in between the muddy slush of winter and the almost-summer that displayed itself through the tempered glass of my windshield on a daily basis all these legions of Frat Boys had discovered the Chappelle show. Much to their delight (I was frequently reminded of the first time they reached down and touched their cocks and the look of self-amusement and giggles that ensued) they realized that they could say "I'm Rick James, Byatch!"
This was now a nearly hourly occurrence and had been for the past few weeks. Needless to say, my drinking had increased. Nothing of alcoholic proportions, I was probably limiting it to about 12 beers and 12 shots in a four hour period, but I was thinking about maybe starting to consider cutting back a little bit. Thing is though, I hadn't, because I had been playing poker at the same tiime I was imbibing, and while my buddies were ending up shit-faced and broke I was ending up shit-faced with fifty bucks in my pocket at the end of the night. Now, I may be a gambling man, but if you're one of those fucks who isn't you can't argue with those odds.
Anyway, it was last Monday, and about halfway into my cups my luck turned. I had only brought down forty bucks since I'd been throwing wadded up, beer-soaked bills into my ceramic Cookie Monster tip jar for the past few weeks every night, and decided that I might as well get used to being invincible.
I was half-stewed in my juices and about breaking even, just about to get serious and piss Zornig off and make Skippy cry (or the other way around, no fuzz off my peach) when my luck turned. I had four 9s and had ten bucks in the pot when Zornig pulled a Royal Flush, then my 3-2 combo got shot down, and before I knew it I was writing a check for fifty bucks to be able to play more. Nothing was going my way, every time I had a great fucking hand one of my "buddies" spanked my aching ass. I began drinking at an accelerated rate to increase my luck - told Jenny to set me up every five minutes instead of ten...
Then it happened. I looked around at the bar. I was able to focus on the clock long enough to see it was 1 a.m. bar time, and besides Jenny and my poker "friends" the bar was empty. I felt something welling up inside me and incredulously wondered if I was going to puke. I leaned closer to Matt in case it was going to happen, then instead of a burp or a bunch of alcohol mixed with stomach juices I shouted:
"FUCK!"
As loud as I could. Everybody froze and looked at me. I knew I was beet red (well hell, I usually am anyway), and then I went again.
"TITTY FUCK!"
Zornig's eyes got wide(r). "Rog, what's going on, man?"
"I don't SUCK MY COCK! ..know?" I blurted out. Everything was pretty quiet, then I blew again.
"FUUUCCKKK!"
"Roger has Tourette's!" Skippy shrieked with glee, followed a second later by a huge pounding coming from the ceiling above me. I had woken up Angie.
This was now a nearly hourly occurrence and had been for the past few weeks. Needless to say, my drinking had increased. Nothing of alcoholic proportions, I was probably limiting it to about 12 beers and 12 shots in a four hour period, but I was thinking about maybe starting to consider cutting back a little bit. Thing is though, I hadn't, because I had been playing poker at the same tiime I was imbibing, and while my buddies were ending up shit-faced and broke I was ending up shit-faced with fifty bucks in my pocket at the end of the night. Now, I may be a gambling man, but if you're one of those fucks who isn't you can't argue with those odds.
Anyway, it was last Monday, and about halfway into my cups my luck turned. I had only brought down forty bucks since I'd been throwing wadded up, beer-soaked bills into my ceramic Cookie Monster tip jar for the past few weeks every night, and decided that I might as well get used to being invincible.
I was half-stewed in my juices and about breaking even, just about to get serious and piss Zornig off and make Skippy cry (or the other way around, no fuzz off my peach) when my luck turned. I had four 9s and had ten bucks in the pot when Zornig pulled a Royal Flush, then my 3-2 combo got shot down, and before I knew it I was writing a check for fifty bucks to be able to play more. Nothing was going my way, every time I had a great fucking hand one of my "buddies" spanked my aching ass. I began drinking at an accelerated rate to increase my luck - told Jenny to set me up every five minutes instead of ten...
Then it happened. I looked around at the bar. I was able to focus on the clock long enough to see it was 1 a.m. bar time, and besides Jenny and my poker "friends" the bar was empty. I felt something welling up inside me and incredulously wondered if I was going to puke. I leaned closer to Matt in case it was going to happen, then instead of a burp or a bunch of alcohol mixed with stomach juices I shouted:
"FUCK!"
As loud as I could. Everybody froze and looked at me. I knew I was beet red (well hell, I usually am anyway), and then I went again.
"TITTY FUCK!"
Zornig's eyes got wide(r). "Rog, what's going on, man?"
"I don't SUCK MY COCK! ..know?" I blurted out. Everything was pretty quiet, then I blew again.
"FUUUCCKKK!"
"Roger has Tourette's!" Skippy shrieked with glee, followed a second later by a huge pounding coming from the ceiling above me. I had woken up Angie.
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