Well, that whole Hospital World thing really didn't work out, and um, my slum apartment was raided by both the BATF and DEA for drugs and weapons (of course I was innocent....), and, um, oh yeah, they busted me for the whole "death card" thing, so um, I just finished a four year stint at the State Prison. Actually my sentence was 25 years, but they let me out on good behavior.
Anyhoo, that is a chapter in my life that I'd rather forget about...
My apartment was eventually taken over by the landlord, who discovered the toxic shit I had been storing, so the entire complex was condemned and torn down. Along with that went everything I owned. All 4 shirts and 2 pairs of beach baggies. Fucking gone. And my flip-flops. You just don't throw away a man's flip-flops. That shit aint right.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Friday, January 4, 2008
I, Dog.....
OK - so you know how they say that a man and his dog are one and the same? Well, I morphed myself and my bulldog today, and WTF - it's true. I am my dog.Now before you pundits and other assorted kooks start throwing out "man on dog sex" slams, you must know that my dog fucking ROCKS. Yeah, he pretty much just lays on the couch all day, trying to figure out how he could lick his own balls. This no regular, run of the mill dog. He has crazy mad skillz. For example, he can eat very, very well. He can whine like a little bitch when he's been outside too long. He can sleep with his tongue handing out and still manage to drool on the couch.
......but then again, so can I.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
I'M BACK, BITCHES!!!!!!
Aaight, you'se crazy bitches, feast your eyes on my now-rehabbed-for-the second-time-ass. Yeah, I know - higher power, gotta hit your lowest before you can climb out, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Now lets get to the real shiznit - put some gossip to rest:
1. Unacrapper did not throw a death card at me. As you can plainly see from my rehab graduation photo above, I'm alive and well.
2. Sharky was not fired from Hospital World. At least I don't think I was. Last time I showed up, no one was around, so I used it as an excuse to binge.
3. Brittney's baby isn't mine. At least not this time.
I hear some things gonna be changing at Hospital World. Maybe it's for the best. That Jane was bitchy all the time, and buckethead - well buckethead just scared the shit out of me sometimes. Beating up defenseless crippled people. It's a damned shame if you ask me.
Quick survey: I'm thinking about having "Thug Life" tattoed across my stomach. Take a look at my photo above and comment. Don't laugh bitches.......
Captain Sharky
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
Here I Am, Sitting Beside Myself....
Looks like the heat has died down after my last hit, so I'm back. Gotta be sure to remember to cover my tracks better on the next hit. Geez, you smack a crippled hispanic protesting chick, and the whole fucking world gets its panties in a wad. Granted, I kinda fell of the wagon and fell back into the favor of a woman of ill repute, and the resultant rounds of antibiotics to ward off a scorching case of the clap has me all torn up on the insides, but I think I'll probably survive.
Anyhoo, I came back to the Hospital, and no one was there. Looked like Enron with papers and all kinds of shit just strewn about. The shredders had been going non stop for quite some time when I walked in, and the only people left were the patients. They were hungry and a little dehydrated, but had remained diligently working at destroying any evidence.
Back to my great escape... After getting caught up with the crack whore on "Blind Date," I needed to lay low, so I went to visit my brother in East Texas. East Texas, as most of you are probably aware, is a brutal mix of double-wide trailers sitting damn-square in the middle of Marlboro Country. For most of the people who have found themselves here in this part of the world, East Texas represents the end of the road. That probably includes me… The cocky farmers, the whores, the bums, the fine array of meth labs and dope heads just Jonesing for another hit on that glass dick. It’s beautiful and trendy at the same time, and I loved it. For some, this place has probably always represented home – a road that led to nowhere. They never got out of the fucking gate. For others, it is a disappointing dream that led nowhere, and now they are stuck. Most of the younger ones are acting like white rappers; Eas-Tex Pimps, if you will. You don’t want to fuck around with these dudes – they will fuck you up real quick.
At any rate, my time for laying low expired, and once I figured out that the fuzz wasn't on to me, I rented a vehicle to get me back to Hospital World. Two days later, I finally arrived in a rented black Cadillac Escalade with 22 inch spinner rims with hard-crusted, sun-baked scum of 100 rotten bananas and 2 dozen or so coconuts, 26 pounds of catsup and French fry residue, and about 5 pounds of raw sewage– along with a layer or so of vomit and a goodly number of bad dings, dents and scrapes that were covered, thank Christ, by the rental insurance. Even the fucking spinners wouldn’t spin when I brought the piece of shit back to the rental place. Needless to say, I’m Jonesing for some reliable transportation right now. The truck wasn’t a happy looking gang-banging vehicle when I turned it in… but they gritted their teeth and took it after I showed them my Corporate Compliance credentials from the Hospital.
Upon returning to the Hospital, I found no one there, except the Enron thing going on. It was a real Hitler scene in this shit-hole of a corporate office; I was busted down in the basement by some guy who said he was an auditor. I had a death card at the ready, but didn't use it. The guy looked at me like it was all he could do to restrain himself from ripping out my floating rib and eating it. He asked me a few simple questions and really started quizzing me about Jane and Buckethead and what I thought about working for them. I was tempted to Mace the bastard, but instead, I backed off and went back to my office for a drink. With Jane and Buckethead laying low, the fucking days are flipping by like pages off a cheap calendar, and sometimes it’s hard to understand how all this running-around-advancing-behavior can amount to much.
I smell a fresh batch of Cheetos in Administration; looks like the ladies may be back in town...
-Captain Sharky
Anyhoo, I came back to the Hospital, and no one was there. Looked like Enron with papers and all kinds of shit just strewn about. The shredders had been going non stop for quite some time when I walked in, and the only people left were the patients. They were hungry and a little dehydrated, but had remained diligently working at destroying any evidence.
Back to my great escape... After getting caught up with the crack whore on "Blind Date," I needed to lay low, so I went to visit my brother in East Texas. East Texas, as most of you are probably aware, is a brutal mix of double-wide trailers sitting damn-square in the middle of Marlboro Country. For most of the people who have found themselves here in this part of the world, East Texas represents the end of the road. That probably includes me… The cocky farmers, the whores, the bums, the fine array of meth labs and dope heads just Jonesing for another hit on that glass dick. It’s beautiful and trendy at the same time, and I loved it. For some, this place has probably always represented home – a road that led to nowhere. They never got out of the fucking gate. For others, it is a disappointing dream that led nowhere, and now they are stuck. Most of the younger ones are acting like white rappers; Eas-Tex Pimps, if you will. You don’t want to fuck around with these dudes – they will fuck you up real quick.
At any rate, my time for laying low expired, and once I figured out that the fuzz wasn't on to me, I rented a vehicle to get me back to Hospital World. Two days later, I finally arrived in a rented black Cadillac Escalade with 22 inch spinner rims with hard-crusted, sun-baked scum of 100 rotten bananas and 2 dozen or so coconuts, 26 pounds of catsup and French fry residue, and about 5 pounds of raw sewage– along with a layer or so of vomit and a goodly number of bad dings, dents and scrapes that were covered, thank Christ, by the rental insurance. Even the fucking spinners wouldn’t spin when I brought the piece of shit back to the rental place. Needless to say, I’m Jonesing for some reliable transportation right now. The truck wasn’t a happy looking gang-banging vehicle when I turned it in… but they gritted their teeth and took it after I showed them my Corporate Compliance credentials from the Hospital.
Upon returning to the Hospital, I found no one there, except the Enron thing going on. It was a real Hitler scene in this shit-hole of a corporate office; I was busted down in the basement by some guy who said he was an auditor. I had a death card at the ready, but didn't use it. The guy looked at me like it was all he could do to restrain himself from ripping out my floating rib and eating it. He asked me a few simple questions and really started quizzing me about Jane and Buckethead and what I thought about working for them. I was tempted to Mace the bastard, but instead, I backed off and went back to my office for a drink. With Jane and Buckethead laying low, the fucking days are flipping by like pages off a cheap calendar, and sometimes it’s hard to understand how all this running-around-advancing-behavior can amount to much.
I smell a fresh batch of Cheetos in Administration; looks like the ladies may be back in town...
-Captain Sharky
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Where the fuck is everybody?
Jesus, I come back from my Jail/Crack Whore/Road Trip, and the Hospital is empty. No patients, no staff, and I found nothing but rats and roaches eating cheetos in the administratative offices.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Sharky Takes a Road Trip
OK. Given all of the "drama" I've had in my life over the past few days, it is obvious that I need a break. I've decided that the best course of action at this point is to load up all of the drugs I can find and go on a road trip before Jane and Buckethead force me to come back to work or demand explanations for my activities over the past week. Kinda clear the decks mentally.... Almost everybody who goes to the mats gets beaten, one way or another, but not all of us gets broken… But I digress. Anyway, I thought you might like my booking photo.
Perhaps you are wondering how I was able to get our of jail without paying the $100,000 bond or coughing up a kidney or something. It was so easy that it’s almost not worth mentioning. My first attempt was a brutally ignorant escape attempt and that’s what led me to being placed on lockdown. I traded a carton of Pal Mal's for an old cop uniform my cellmate used when he stripped at La Bare. I put it on and tried to walk out. Unfortunately, someone noticed that I was wearing beach baggies and flip-flops. What a dumb-ass I can be sometimes.
The next time, I did it right. I claimed to be severely bleeding from my rectum, and when they took me down to sick bay, I snuck into a Janitor’s Closet and was befriended by a Rastafarian named Jibbie, who hid me among a group of Jamaican nationals until I was finally rolled out of the jail in a Janitors Cart. All this for less then a quarter pound of the finest Ganja. In an interesting twist of fate, I ate so much Jerk Chicken before leaving town, that I am now actually bleeding from the rectum….
My first night on the road, I stopped at a small seedy hotel in Lake Charles Louisiana that was owned by a small Asian man named When or Yen of some shit like that. After obtaining a room at a hideously high price for someone on the lam, the night clerk agreed to accept twenty American dollars for the company of his daughter for the rest of the night (although all I was trying to get was a room). He described her as a “young and beautiful student – not a bar girl” who spoke excellent English and would certainly have no objection to being awakened at three in the morning and hauled over to the hotel by taxi in a hellish rainstorm, just in order to “make me happy – long time.”
“Look,” I said. “You are dealing with a very tired person. The only thing I need to make me happy is a long sleep in a big bed with nobody bothering me. I have nothing against meeting your daughter; I’m sure she’s a wonderful person and all – but why don’t I just give you twenty dollars and never mind about waking her up tonight. If she’s free around noon tomorrow, maybe we can have lunch at the Hi-De-Ho.”
The man winced. Nobody’s “daughter” goes near the Hi-De-Ho. It is one of the scurviest and most infamous shitholes in all of Lake Charles – even worse than the infamous “Lucy’s” in Saigon – and the moment I said the name and saw the man’s face, I knew I’d said both the right and the wrong thing at the same time. He was grievously insulted, but at least we understood each other. So he had one of his assistant pimps carry my bag up to my room. I asked he bellman if he would get me a bucket of ice. Somewhere in the bowels of my scant luggage I had a film-cannister full of extremely powerful Cambodian Red Pot, along with a quart of Jack Daniel’s, a handful of Ritalin tablets, and the prospect of a few iced drinks along with a pipeload of paralytic hallucinogens seemed just about right for that moment……followed by fifteen or sixteen hours of stuporous sleep.
I blew a large hole in the hotel floor with my .40 Sig the next morning – a hideous accident caused by a mixture of gunpowder and LSD. The hotel guests in the room below me left at once. The slug tore through the hardwood floor, the sub-flooring and made hash of the acoustical ceiling tile in their room just below me. They told the manager that it sounded like a bomb was being dropped on them. When the Manager came to my room to investigate the ruckus, I answered the door in a cheap bathrobe that was about 2 sizes too small, with a Pal Mal between my teeth, a bottle of cheap Tequila in my hand, and my gun tucked into the robe. I asked where the fucking candy machine was.
The next time, I did it right. I claimed to be severely bleeding from my rectum, and when they took me down to sick bay, I snuck into a Janitor’s Closet and was befriended by a Rastafarian named Jibbie, who hid me among a group of Jamaican nationals until I was finally rolled out of the jail in a Janitors Cart. All this for less then a quarter pound of the finest Ganja. In an interesting twist of fate, I ate so much Jerk Chicken before leaving town, that I am now actually bleeding from the rectum….
My first night on the road, I stopped at a small seedy hotel in Lake Charles Louisiana that was owned by a small Asian man named When or Yen of some shit like that. After obtaining a room at a hideously high price for someone on the lam, the night clerk agreed to accept twenty American dollars for the company of his daughter for the rest of the night (although all I was trying to get was a room). He described her as a “young and beautiful student – not a bar girl” who spoke excellent English and would certainly have no objection to being awakened at three in the morning and hauled over to the hotel by taxi in a hellish rainstorm, just in order to “make me happy – long time.”
“Look,” I said. “You are dealing with a very tired person. The only thing I need to make me happy is a long sleep in a big bed with nobody bothering me. I have nothing against meeting your daughter; I’m sure she’s a wonderful person and all – but why don’t I just give you twenty dollars and never mind about waking her up tonight. If she’s free around noon tomorrow, maybe we can have lunch at the Hi-De-Ho.”
The man winced. Nobody’s “daughter” goes near the Hi-De-Ho. It is one of the scurviest and most infamous shitholes in all of Lake Charles – even worse than the infamous “Lucy’s” in Saigon – and the moment I said the name and saw the man’s face, I knew I’d said both the right and the wrong thing at the same time. He was grievously insulted, but at least we understood each other. So he had one of his assistant pimps carry my bag up to my room. I asked he bellman if he would get me a bucket of ice. Somewhere in the bowels of my scant luggage I had a film-cannister full of extremely powerful Cambodian Red Pot, along with a quart of Jack Daniel’s, a handful of Ritalin tablets, and the prospect of a few iced drinks along with a pipeload of paralytic hallucinogens seemed just about right for that moment……followed by fifteen or sixteen hours of stuporous sleep.
I blew a large hole in the hotel floor with my .40 Sig the next morning – a hideous accident caused by a mixture of gunpowder and LSD. The hotel guests in the room below me left at once. The slug tore through the hardwood floor, the sub-flooring and made hash of the acoustical ceiling tile in their room just below me. They told the manager that it sounded like a bomb was being dropped on them. When the Manager came to my room to investigate the ruckus, I answered the door in a cheap bathrobe that was about 2 sizes too small, with a Pal Mal between my teeth, a bottle of cheap Tequila in my hand, and my gun tucked into the robe. I asked where the fucking candy machine was.
....maybe this road trip isn't as healing as I thought it would be. And to top it all off, I just realized that Propecia the Crack Whore stole my credit cards. Now I'm really fucked.....
-Captain Sharky
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