The Rain

 

I’m in the process of writing a country and western song about Gina Party. It’s called Shut the Fuck Up and Get in the Truck. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.

My girlfriend is such a neat freak. I’m constantly getting reprimanded for not cleaning up after myself. It’s gotten so bad that I don’t even try to clean while she’s around. It’s like having Tiger Woods watch your golf swing.

I haven’t mentioned this yet, but me and Doug Wetback are moving into a 2-bedroom apartment at Melrose Place next month. He made me agree not to move anything that’s been peed on. That means it should take me less than an hour to move. And since we won’t have any furniture for the living room, he came up with the perfect solution – rent furniture.

Think of the brilliance behind his idea. If I ever pee on the sofa (and by if, I mean when), we’ll just call the rental company, and have them drop off a new one. It’s like having pee insurance.

I saw you (and him) walking in the rain. You were holding hands and I’ll never be the same.