Listen up homies, the day is sunk. There goes that $125 ounce I was planning on gettin’ from that settlement money. Did you hear about that? Yea, a couple weeks ago I got an email from Equifarce, or whoever the heck they are -- about that $125 settlement. Of course I go with the money, are you kidding? And now, come to find out it was a total scam!
I had big plans for that $125 satchel. I was gonna call up all the friends, and be like, “Hey guys, I finally got me a $125 satchel, y’all wanna barbecue?" And, like, get tons of good burgers and beer, maybe some...potstickers. And we were going to pass around the nugs, and everyone would tell me how beautiful they were, sparkling, smellin’ like candy. I’d probably clean my grinder up special for the occasion. We’d roll a couple fatty blunts, pass them around, and, maybe, there’d be more in the grinder, and I’d bring out a new frosty bong with ice cubes, or something. And then we'd take some photos of the party to put on t-shirts and mugs and that kinda stuff.
I mean, it’s not every day you get a $125 satchel.
No really, I have a special jar up on my shelf that I’ve been waiting to fill at the right time, with the right bud, and this would’ve been it. Other people are comin’ by all the time, with their huge ol’ satchels--and huge ol’ plumes to go with 'em--and every time, I just gaze up at that jar on the shelf and think, when’s my time?
Last year I got a worn but nice tuxedo at a second-hand shop. Everyone asked if it was for some gala or neighborhood concert. But it was for the $125 satchel homecoming. I wanted it to feel special. I got some special cake tins and custom-made streamers too. And made that painting on the fridge.
But no, no shindig now, no afterparty. No afternoons walkin' along the pier, or, like, laying out in a park with a satchel just gazing up at the clouds for hours, happy as a leprechaun with my little spot at the end of the rainbow. No mad cookie and jello binges before breakfast. No keys locked in cars, no wildlife in the kitchen, no hooking up all your guitar amps together at once, then getting evicted.
No early roasts with the sunrise, shining down on a $125 satchel.
Man, every morning you wake up and there’s a new company that just lost your data because they actually stored it in a dog’s butt and that dog took a shit--it never ends! Day in day out! We just bend over and take it. All just makes you want to rip another! Every day! We're stuck in this helpless stupor of irony, and you’re tellin’ me now that you’re not giving me the $125 satchel? Are you, like, some kind of Balrog from Moria, Equifarce? What the fudge?
You’re telling me the one crummert of a chance I’ve ever had at some comeuppance, some semblance of justice for all that data crap over the years -- was inhabiting my own rectum this whole time? Here, I was happy to just take my $125 satchel and walk way. It was in my grasp. And I was ready to call it even. And then, at the last minute, you swoop in and pull that $125 satchel right away like it was a pipe dream? Damn, dudes, that might be the textbook definition of a pipe dream right there.
I had big plans for that $125 satchel.
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