Monday, May 9, 2011
Your buddy, The Pickled Mick, has a new wallet. It has that "new wallet smell" of leather, the smell wallets get before they smell and taste like butt.
I normally celebrate these occasions. New wallet selection, for me, begins months ahead before there is actually a need to ensure wallet nirvana. I was not afforded this luxury this time. Why?
Picture it: East Texas, Saturday night. A boy and his friends return from a party after making a fried chicken run. Post payment, by your humble narrator, the wallet goes into the console rather than going through the extreme effort to return it to my back pocket. Clearly, it was far too much effort for your fried chicken, beer drinking scribe to lift his ass two inches off of the seat and slide that bad boy back into its well worn sheath.
Upon arrival at the crash pad, there is chicken and styrofoam coolers and backpacks and beer and hooker body parts (plastic and real) to haul into the house, leaving my precious fun ticket holder left alone in the console of the Mick-mobile.
Fast forward to the next morning. The interior of the car is in shambles. There are papers, receipts, and other debris scattered about. The change in my door handle, the fine cigars in my travel humidor, and my wallet. Gone.
This is a surreal moment in someones life. Knowing that it's gone, that it's stolen. Then, the panic of your tens of dollars being emptied out of your accounts, going for year long subscriptions to online porn and candle auction sites. The fact that my corporate credit card could have been used to buy a wife from oversees and knowing that I would never meet her or reap those benefits enraged me.
It didn't take me long to decide that it wasn't some computer savvy, identity stealing kid that has my wallet as, after reviewing the cards online, no purchases were made. No, this was worse. Far worse...
This is the kind of jerk-off, jack wagon that probably took my $100 cash, discarded the wallet, and emptied the fine cigars of all of their gorgeous tobacco and made it into a blunt. This thought alone is enough to make my melon explode. These weren't Phillies I had stashed, there.
My call to you, Downers and Distanters, is to keep a close eye out for any ass hole looking transients wheeling their shopping carts down the street carrying a wallet that smells like my ass and smoking a blunt wrapped in a precious Cabiguan Connecticut wrapper. This person will be swerving to the left, as if their left pocket was weighed down with $4.78 in assorted coins. If you see this man, kindly steer your car in his direction, line him up between the longhorns on your hood, crank up the 1992 Canadian Raggae hit "Informer" by Snow, and hit the gas.
Back at home, my new wallet has far more pockets and they are all empty. It's a tri-fold, which I'm not used to, but I will adjust. Don't you worry about me. I'm strong. Getting used to a tri-fold is one thing I wouldn't expect you to understand.
Oh yeah, sports. There's this if you haven't seen it: DidTheLakersGetSwept.com
Yours in Christ,