LollipopLolita
Apr 28, 2004, 06:11 PM
I could have had a better dinner, but I'm fucking unemployed. Spaghetti-o's were ninety-nine cents per can, and I had about ten bucks, and hell, that's dinner for a week! Rock!
Therefore, for the third straight day, Franco-American's standby has served as my semi-delicious, yet-not-especially-good-for-you dinner. Oh, Spaghetti-O's, you filled me up, made me feel good. You make me believe I have Italian food all the time. Pasta Al Dente. You were like little donuts that filled my tummy.
Then my friend invited me out for drinks. She just got a job, and we were to celebrate by filling ourselves with Pabst. PBR me, ASAP!
Now, you may be thinking to yourself, Spaghetti-O's and PBR, what could be more quintessentially white trash, what could possibly work better to wash down cold Spaghetti-O's scarfed down directly from the can that the cold (I am that lazy), refreshing piss that is PBR? You may be on to something, but there should be a warning label on the PBR Draught... perhaps a one-pitcher per person warning.
We sucked down our first pitcher of PBR, me feeling all confident. If my friend got a job, so could I, dammit! Then, we started discussin my skill set versus available jobs, and I started feeling fucking shitty about the prospects. I lost my hope, and that second pitcher of PBR we drank helped ease my pain. To further drown our pain, we drank our third pitcher. Damn you PBR, damn YOU!
We left, went our separate ways, and I walked into my house with a churning burning sensation in my stomach. The Spaghetti-O's were not making fast friends with the PBR. They were both not happy to meet one another. They did not have good formal introductions. Or perhaps the little O?s were outnumbered too much by the PBR and they rioted. Perhaps their lack of self confidence made them feel smaller than they already are. I think the disgustingly delicious tomato sauce did not like being rivalled by the liquidy crapness of PBR.
Either way, they had a violent fight in my stomach that came to a brutal head in my building's entryway as I was walking my dog. Now there's a spray of Spaghetti-O's in the entry. I take it as Modern Art anyone can enjoy. Rent is due tomorrow morning but no one wants to rent to an unemployed person who puked up PBR and Spaghetti-O's. I have no idea where I'll get the deposit if I have to get a new place.
Damn you PBR! Damn you Franco American! I still firmly stand in the opinon that I had Italian food every night.
This Spaghetti-O's post is dedicated to the person I love but refuse to buy me more Spaghetti-O's. Why oh why won't you? You have easy access to Spaghetti-O's, and yet won't buy me any. Don't you know they cost dirt cheap and ensure my dinner at night every night? Don't you want me to eat and ensure a proper healthy meal? That is not the way to treat a girl.
<font size=-1>[ This Message was edited by: LollipopLolita on 2004-04-28 16:13 ]</font>
Therefore, for the third straight day, Franco-American's standby has served as my semi-delicious, yet-not-especially-good-for-you dinner. Oh, Spaghetti-O's, you filled me up, made me feel good. You make me believe I have Italian food all the time. Pasta Al Dente. You were like little donuts that filled my tummy.
Then my friend invited me out for drinks. She just got a job, and we were to celebrate by filling ourselves with Pabst. PBR me, ASAP!
Now, you may be thinking to yourself, Spaghetti-O's and PBR, what could be more quintessentially white trash, what could possibly work better to wash down cold Spaghetti-O's scarfed down directly from the can that the cold (I am that lazy), refreshing piss that is PBR? You may be on to something, but there should be a warning label on the PBR Draught... perhaps a one-pitcher per person warning.
We sucked down our first pitcher of PBR, me feeling all confident. If my friend got a job, so could I, dammit! Then, we started discussin my skill set versus available jobs, and I started feeling fucking shitty about the prospects. I lost my hope, and that second pitcher of PBR we drank helped ease my pain. To further drown our pain, we drank our third pitcher. Damn you PBR, damn YOU!
We left, went our separate ways, and I walked into my house with a churning burning sensation in my stomach. The Spaghetti-O's were not making fast friends with the PBR. They were both not happy to meet one another. They did not have good formal introductions. Or perhaps the little O?s were outnumbered too much by the PBR and they rioted. Perhaps their lack of self confidence made them feel smaller than they already are. I think the disgustingly delicious tomato sauce did not like being rivalled by the liquidy crapness of PBR.
Either way, they had a violent fight in my stomach that came to a brutal head in my building's entryway as I was walking my dog. Now there's a spray of Spaghetti-O's in the entry. I take it as Modern Art anyone can enjoy. Rent is due tomorrow morning but no one wants to rent to an unemployed person who puked up PBR and Spaghetti-O's. I have no idea where I'll get the deposit if I have to get a new place.
Damn you PBR! Damn you Franco American! I still firmly stand in the opinon that I had Italian food every night.
This Spaghetti-O's post is dedicated to the person I love but refuse to buy me more Spaghetti-O's. Why oh why won't you? You have easy access to Spaghetti-O's, and yet won't buy me any. Don't you know they cost dirt cheap and ensure my dinner at night every night? Don't you want me to eat and ensure a proper healthy meal? That is not the way to treat a girl.
<font size=-1>[ This Message was edited by: LollipopLolita on 2004-04-28 16:13 ]</font>