Yesterday John Roman and myself set out for lovely South Jersey for to visit and play with our dear friend Mr. Joel Marion. The first miracle of the day occured when John actually liked one of my cds. All was well.
All was well until we realized that Marion does not have any idea where he lives once you get off the exit. He is sure, however, that there is a mall and a Cracker Barrel nearby (Hey, you guys told me to post it so I can slant things as I see fit). Eventually we arrived at the home of the, sorry, Tha Joel. Walking around his home, one could easily mistake Tha Joel’s home for a suplement warehouse. The gallon containers of Crystal Light are an added attraction, as are Joel’s cats who are on permanent mass phases.
We took leave towards the gym of Joel, where we each went about our business. All will be pleased to know that Joel refuses to chant “Body for life!” during incline curls. On one of the latter setis within my Rest-Pause EZ Bar curls with scalpular retraction, Roman decided it would be nice to sit on a bench and make idiotic comments while I attempted to keep a straight face. I resent myself for not dropping the bar on his toe. Meanwhile I finished my workout typically; looking like the eggplant from hell due to my purplish complexion and having dime-sized calluses bulging out because I refuse to wear gloves.
Now where do three strapping young T-men go after a good workout, Surge, and some rest? Big Ed’s Rib House. You could see the fear in the eyes of the hostess. Perhaps it was because I still resembled a decently-built Grimmace. All good, I simply wanted sustinance. Sustinance we had, and more. Joel opted for the baby backs while Roman and I picked up the spares. Utensils were laughed at, repeatedly. The highlight of this unholiest of gorgings was witnessing John eat a baked potato without the assistance of a fork. Over an hour later, we had decimated Big Ed and feasted upon the bountiful flesh of his pig harvest.
Roman killed his car, though we’re not exactly confident that leaving the lights on caused his semi-corroded car battery to tap out. Oh, and his fuse was dead too. Picture three young, well-built, pork-stuffed idiots racing to Walmart circa 11pm to buy a car battery. That was slightly too small. Fortunately we had the assistance of Mr. Marion, father of Joel, who can, evidently, ghetto-rig anything in a car. Creating a make-shift fuse out of some electric tape and wiring, Mr. Marion McGyverized John’s vehicle. Hence, no sleepover at the Fortress of Marion.
Personally I have no idea why anyone would give a raving fuck about this story, but we felt that for the good of our frustration, it had to be written. Feel free to flame, chastise, ask for digits, ect. John, I left my shirt in your friggin bag, man.
MBE: “Telling tall tales from a 5’6 prospective since 1833.”