According to my ear drums, I was blissfully sittin’ at the dock of the bay, when all of a sudden my phone interrupted my musical reverie to give me some kind of urgent “ALERT.”
“What the fuck?” I cleverly responded. My phone has never felt the urge to tell me something up til now. And we’re so close. What in the flying fuck-a-rooni-doony could this dire message possibly be?
Is it finally the dreaded 9/12 we’ve all been fearing? Did a nuclear war just erupt somewhere? Has Floyd Gayweather come out of retirement again to fight Ronda Rousey?
Why no it was nothing that serious. Or even fuckin important. Or interesting. The “big scoop” that the little Jimmy Olsen in my pocket was just dying to tell me was that the fuckin Tennesee Asscracks just won the World Series. Or the Kentucky Pigeons (Patrice O’neal joke). Or some other team fulla slapdicks and off-brand Spainards. Like Aristotle once said, “Ain’t nooobody who be givin’ a fuck.”
I mean, allow me to shrug along with the rest of the country in the coming days when we accidentally overhear the World Series outcome during actual news. Don’t just fuckin Amber Alert my goddamn phone to blab about some meaningless foolery like which team just won WNBA finals. And it was the Orlando Ovaries by the way. Is “America’s Pastime” so desperate for attention that they’ll stoop to try and force people to notice them? I wonder if they make a phone app to block the MLB.