Fucking Nawlins can't handle my shit.
Do not get me wrong, this town is incredible, but I'm a high-class alcoholic over here. I have goddamn standards. This place is full of amateurs.
Bourbon street is bullshit. I am not an elitist. Ya'll are just assholes. <
You know what's way better is when you find a corner market and get a coupla silos and sit on a street corner. That's some classy business right there. Fucking crackheads settled down next to us for awhile. Serious crackheads, man, these guys weren't fucking around.
By the way, I don't know if you guys know Tom Turner, but the man sells Lucky Dog hot dogs like an auctioneer and caught a forty pound catfish yesterday. He fixed his ol' landladay's roof in return for rent. We met him in front of Rolland's Quik Mart (Amber just corrected me, because it's Rouses Quik Mart. Because yeah, I admit, I just totally made up a name)at ten pm, just hanging out in front with a tackle box and a shit eating grin. Fucking love that guy.
So I was hungover as fuck this morning. Afternoon. Whatever. And then Muffy and Bobbay returned to the Ambassador after wandering around with their goddamn skirts and found me sleeping on the cot with the room door wide open, because they are retarded. What if someone wanted to rape me, you cocksmokers?
Bobbay says, "Yeah. Sor."