Ground Bogo

In Soviet Russia, blog reads you

Dear Reader,

My name is James, and I am here to make your life miserable. It’s Tuesday, the Ten-Thousand-th of July, and the clocks are striking fifteen. I wake up, go to the bathroom, and look at myself in the mirror. I tell myself what a miserable son-of-a-bitch I am, which is all the fuel and kick I need in order to begin my productive day. It’s more powerful than coffee, and liberates my colon better than the strongest espresso ever made by human or inhuman hands. Speaking of colon, I reach under the sink and pull out a paper bag. I proceed to have my morning glory inside, for no natural resource like that should ever go to waste. Ten minutes later I’m preped and ready to go to work. As I drive off in my car to my clerk job in the post office, the bag of feces in front of your door is already set ablaze. The smell creeps under your front door’s crack, and any minute now you will awake, your nosdrills filled with the sweet scents of my Tuesday pride and joy.

At the same time I’m already parking my car at work in the most non-efficient way, taking up at least two parking spots. You think it’s easy, but it’s truly an art and skill acquired throughout the years. I also fucked your wife last week. As I walk up to the office and pass the coffee room, I spit in the schwartz coffee from the filter machine and put salt in it. I promptly pour myself a cup of nice fresh warm coffee before I perform the ritual. I hang around for 3 more minutes until you come to the coffee room as well, just to see your twisted face when you taste the sweet and salty black medicine. I pass by the toliet and aim at the toilet seat while pissing. I clog the plumbing with toilet paper before I flush. Then comes the pinacle of my day. I start sorting the mail. Your name pops up on one of the letters. I redirect it to La Barra, Uruguay. I don’t think you’ll ever get that letter, which is a shame since it was deffinately important. Sometimes I wonder how much it must suck to be you. I pity you, but such is life, and it goes on. I will be sending your next letter to Kikon in Papua New Guinea. Most probably. At lunchtime I buy all the steaks, and you are forced to eat the leek and carrot soup once agian. I go back to work and steal all the staples from the stapler in your office. I jerk off in the paper glue. The paper glue actually starts to work and be sticky. Partial fail.

My work for the day is done, and we hit the corner bar as always. Order up…you turn around for ten seconds, and when you turn back your glass is empty. Your drink is fucking Diana’s drink and John’s drink. They are all having an orgry in my stomach. Next time when you come out, maybe you’ll learn not to look around so much. One drink, one purpose, fixate and pursue or lose and suffer. Such is life, and you should know it by now. The night is coming to an end, and you get in your car to drive home safely. The cops stop you five meters from the bar. They got an anonymous call from me that you are attempting to drive while intoxicated. You lose your licence for two months. While you are arguing with the authorities, a mysterious stranger in my face slashes your tires and breaks your side mirrors…unseen. Ninja skills or simple timing, you name it. You walk home. Your keyhole is jammed with splinters. You wake up your wife to open the door for you. She wants a divorce. I’m not going to bed alone anymore. I’m sleeping with your car mirrors. Night falls on Manhattan. I smile and fall asleep, fucking fourty virgins in my sleep. Alarm goes off.

My name is James, and I am here to make your life miserable. It’s Wednesday…