Whoa. What a long time has passed, senioritas. Well, the inevitable happened to poor ol’ Smithers. Yeah, you guessed it honeys, my mother told me I better clean up my shit if I wanted to reap the benefits of her weekly Benjamin Franklin that went directly to cases of Natural Light and personal lube in bulk from the local Costco.
So’s I had to experiment for like a week of not drinking just to prove to her that her son isn’t a complete fucking rum head failure. I did fine, until the third day when I went into a little watering hole out by the airport where I socked back a few that were on happy hour special. Turns out, the place was a fairy bar. I guess I should’ve known by the dance music at 2 in the afternoon, but what the hell do I know? I didn’t care anyway. Hell, I’m as gay friendly as the next guy, you homos. A guy can knock back a few cold ones with a bunch of gay men, and have it be okay. I am totally fine with my sexuality. And besides, I’m half a fag anyway, since I like ladyboys. Went into the men’s room for a major crap attack after eating some tacos from the free buffet. Big mistake. There was a hole cut into the wall of the shitter, and as I’m getting comfortable, some wiseguy puts his member right through the fucking thing.
What do you think you’re doing, cowboy? Drilling for oil?!
Well, after cursing at this dude to put his rig away, I threatened to inform the proprietor of the establishment about what had just happened. See if ever return to this dump. Anyways, I finish my business on the pot, reach into the toilet paper dispenser to get to work on my fat arse, and discover that there is none left. Jesus Christ!
I kick open the door to the stall and splutter as loud as my voice can carry over the Swedish Supergroup singing about dancing queens, Where for fuck’s sake is the shitting paper!?
Yeah. Lousy time was had by all.
Anyway, after some twink brings me my roll of paper, I finish up and go back to my seat at the bar. I have to say one thing about these fruit loops, they throw a pretty mean party, so I tossed a few more cold ones back and actually got to talking to a few of them. Real sweethearts.
Well with my little sobriety experiment out of the way, and, hey, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, I start making plans for another big trip to the Land of Ladyboy Smiles. I contact Poppa Percocet who has been off the radar for a while now. He’s been hiding out in Cambodia, doing pills, whoring around, the regular shit that gets him into trouble with the authorities. I tell him, Jimmy’s laying out coin for a ticket soon, you better stock up. Though truth be told, I don’t know much about Cambodia, other than there are a lot of poor kids, and some wild shit happened when Nixon bombed the Anger Wat.
The only other thing I know about Cambodia is from the Angelina Jolie picture I wrote about before. Christ that picture still does it for me. Angelina, if you are reading this honey, Jimmy Smithers will donate his kidneys to some orphans if you would let me massage your tootsies with my exposed tongue after you have been wearing very heavy nylons for three days straight in the scorching heat of Africa while posing for photo-ops with filthy naked babies for the UN.
What I would give to be one of those poor and hungry black babies suckling at your mammary overflowing with the milk of compassion in the dust of some sub-Saharan nightmare!
Oh to dream my filthy dreams.
What else to report? I got a shitty job at the charity consignment shop. It’s part time and it’s run by the church that I never go to, except when my mother wants to go to Christmastime Mass, and I have to spray this perfume all over her clothes from one of those old atomizing bottles that she has had since Hoover took office, then go into that nightmare of a church with the stink of incense and flickering candles and the horrors of old people trying to sing in monotones about God knows what. And it barely pays for my Natty Light stash, and an occasional visit to the rub and tug, and there’s some old broad who I work with, but she plays some crazy religious music all the time from a beat up old cassette player that someone donated. She plays the freakin’ thing so loud that there is a weird rattling sound in the speaker. I like the job because I get to go through the boxes of old VHS tapes looking for an old shemale gangbang flick that might have gotten tossed into the box accidentally.
Anyway, I’m back. I’ll write more, and that’s a Jimmy Smithers promise!
She’s no lady. He’s a ladyboy!
Jimmy Smithers, your international lady(boy’s) man