Nothing short of what you would expect from me.

I hate elevator speak. Shifty characters in a steel box suspended 3,4,5,100 stories off the ground with no windows. Nobody seems to want to make conversation, at least, not me. Flatulence is key. And your dispersal? Tactically advantageous. I was carrying a pizza into an elevator, and some wise ass asks me: "I guess pizza delivery is moving upscale, huh?" (a stab at shitty humor, and my ridiculously outdated suit). Ah, nobody gives a shit man. I surprise him "It's a sausage pizza, extra meat.....for your mother."

Fucking idiot.

In some other alternate universe, somewhere far away, I told the fuckstick what I thought about his mother. But in this world, I didn't. They call it 'Spirit of the Staircase' or whatever it's called in France. I wanted to say it, but it came to me moments later.

Fuck France.

I went to Duo Rock Lounge last night. If you're looking for the silicone-saline summer collection, look no further. Lipstick smiles and shirt dresses, iPhone masturbation, overstretched skin and implants screaming under lazy fabrics. Ah, nobody gives a shit anyway. They play at the bar and casually bump into strangers to spark conversation, and game a cheap drink while they're at it. That will be a miller lite for me, and a double roofie coloda for her thankyouverymuch. Parking is a bitch. They tow people. I ask the tow driver, hey man, which cars are being towed? "All of them. In this parking lot. I'm towing the more expensive ones first." Wow dude, does it suck being you or am I confused in what kind world we live in? The DJ makes the barely audible announcement, which nobody hears or cares about. "If you parked across the street they are towing...."

Ah, nobody gives a shit man. Especially if you're already making it rain dolla-dolla-bills ya'll.

Power lunch scheduling occurs during power hour in the bar. These appointments, often broken, offer minimal semeblance of valued friendship. It is a way of coping with being that asshole to someone you haven't seen in a while or are avoiding. Let's do lunch you tell them...And the appointment is skipped in the week due to sudden root canals or a trip to a videotape drop box, but you feel better at least telling them sharing a cobb salad would be keen in the middle of the week sippin' mimosas.

Back to the noise.

VIP areas. Someone's having a party, we're not on the list. Bouncer, check the list again. No? Fuck you and your list, you mouth breathing neanderthal fat fuck, we know them. Okay, what's their last name. I dunno. Gonzales? No. Rivera? No. Salas? No. Espinoza? No. Ah fuck it man, that party sounds like shit anyway. We get let up anyway an hour later. Waste of time, everyone upstairs is migrating downstairs because it's the new upstairs. Free bottles for me. Grey goose goes down horrible without being chilled. Johnny Walker gives me the shits, and I can never get it down, I gag. Free bottles would be nice if it was shit I enjoyed. No one ever gets a bottle of Jager in the VIP? Nope. Too frat-boy, Jon; especially when you wear that douchebag hat.

In fact, take my hat so you can incinerate it.

Someone has to much to drink and ends up the asshole of the night. He curses, stomps, swears at police officers, grabs their gun only to get tackled and thrown in the back of a cop car for a free ride. Handcuffed, sweaty, displaced, and sobbing in the back of that car, wondering what treats of deliciousness his ass can provide without his consent to a community of well endowed inmates in county. Welcome to the desert of the real. It's getting late and I'm feeling drunk and weary.

Understatement.

The night drags on, and nobody cares what time it is. 3am. Ok. 4am. Ok. 5am. Getting warmer. 6am. It's only sunday, Church day, the Sabbath; and nobody gives a shit. Last minute convoys to 24hr diners, nausea in the restrooms, and crowded ashtrays and booths. This concludes the night. In the morning it's always a surprise. How did I get here? Who are you? Where is my phone? How much did I spend? Too much.

I will be late on all bills.

The next weekend, the same sick dance is duplicated. Towed cars, fake boobs, angry mexicans, nausea, and a wicked case of the runs in the morning. We do this every weekend. When does it end, I keep asking myself.

No one knows.