The Long Walk Home

Horribly drunk, my grandfather proceeded to convince me and my retarded hobo cousin that Jesus wore Air Jordan's using just a dictionary and geometric proofs. I didn't try to prove him wrong because it's pointless to argue with a drunk old man. My cousin didn't try to prove him wrong because he is a retarded hobo.

As my grandfather trailed off into muteness while he fell asleep, my retarded hobo cousin and I discussed the finer points of urine lunch beverages, ultimately causing me to remember why my father's sister had kicked the retarded boy out of their house in the first place. I proceeded to walk away.

The trail away from my grandfather's drunken story-post had been worn down due to the intense amount of retreatment the grass had received, and I took comfort in the fact that so many of my ancestors had taken the same route I had away from the crazy drunken madman. I smiled on the walk home. More to let anyone who was watching me through the trees know I was better than them more than for anything else.

But my pompous smirk was soon tarnished by a surprise punch to the face, knocking me back at least twenty-seven feet (the only reason I know this is because there happened to be a few yardsticks luckily placed directly next to where I had been hit).

Now, this blow struck me as odd, considering the fact that, as far as I could tell, nothing had delivered it. In front of me was just the empty air between me and the rest of my path home. Last time I checked, natural gas didn't parade about nailing kids in the face with left hooks.

I sat on my ass and surveyed the scene in front of me, looking for clues about what might have just ruined my shit. I remembered a story I had read years ago in college, about a young shrimp-salesman in east Guam who, while walking to his hut to have sex with his wife after a surprisingly successful sale of cobbler shrimp, was kneed in the balls by nothing inparticular. The textbook I read this in noted that the obviously-surprised shirmp-seller proceeded to go batshit insane, because not only had his day been completely ruined, but he was now incapable of having sex with his wife for several decades. After cupping his nuts and rolling over while cursing for several minutes, the man ran back to his hut at full speed, where he told the entire story to his wife, collapsed, and died soon after, for no reason at all.

Thinking about this, I realized the only possible explanation for what had happened to the poor guy was that the Invisible Man was bored, disliked the fact that some economically well-off shrimp-salesman was going to go fuck his wife, walked right in front of him, and gave him a crotch-shot. So, naturally, for me, the only course of action I could make where I would still retain the ability to live would be tojump up and flail my arms madly until I punch the fucking invisible dick in the neck. So, I did.

After several minutes of doing this, it slowly began to dawn on me that the Invisible Man probably isn't stupid enough to walk into my punches like my retarded hobo cousin would, so I stopped to think of a better plan to kick his ass.

And my retarded hobo cousin kept coming to mind. Suddenly, I knew exactly what to do. I dropped my pants, whipped out my dick, and began to piss wildy and uncontrollably in every direction I could physically do so in. Luckily, I had followed my grandfather's footsteps and drank half of his beer so-as to not lose my sanity listening to the fucker, and pissed for approximately fifty-eight seconds before I finally noticed a line of piss hanging in mid air, which quickly disappeared.

What the fuck?

And then I heard a gulp.

The Invisible Man was a piss-drinker.

Still pooring out a fair amount of yellow fluid, I continued to use my second grade piss-aiming skills to nail the Invisibitch in the mouth until I was within fist-spank distance of his face, and delivered a deafening blow to what appeared to be the man's piss-covered teeth. The thud that echoed served as the sign that I had avenged my face for the blow it had received.

I pulled up my pants, zipped up my crotch, and finished my trail-walk back to the cottage that awaited me.

Then I fucked my wife. Partly because she is freakishly hot. Partly because I was literally piss-drunk. Mostly for the east Guam shirmp-salesman.