Tales of small-town life redux: the sequel to the prequel

What's up, bitches? I was at a fun party on Saturday night seeing off some friends' old home before they move to a new home a few blocks away. I got a little too drunk, as is my public wont, and I said a couple of dumb things. First, I claimed that a funny incident happened at my home, when in fact it happened at a place I've never been. This was quickly brought to my attention. This made me appear rather foolish. In my defense, I truly believed the incident happened at my house, probably because the man behind the incident either came to my house later or relayed it to me on the phone that night, if my memory is reliable, and as this boring anecdote proves, it is decidedly not. I have a sneaking suspicion that I quickly wear out my welcome when I have too many beers. I think I may turn into the kind of person I don't like much, but people keep inviting me back, so maybe I'm mistaken. Perhaps they just prefer the company of my lovely wife and I am a necessary evil. If this is the case, I can hardly blame them, and I will amp up my obnoxious behavior so I become violently hated, not quietly tolerated.
The second dumb thing I said was that besides my family, everyone in my hometown should be drowned in the river like extra kittens. People seemed a little creeped out by this comment. After careful consideration, I am going to revise that comment. Forty percent of the people in my hometown should be executed by firing squad. It's not such a bad place by tiny town standards, and a certain love/hate relationship will always exist. It is a complex, twisted, weird ball of reactions my hometown rustles up in me, and if you grew up there, you might understand my morbid outburst.
As far as my promise to hold cockfights in my backyard as soon as I purchase a house, and my call for every graduate student to drop out of school, I still tentatively stand by both drunken exclamations. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to watch a video conversation between Zach Braff and Kevin Smith on MySpace. I wonder if they're going to cover such topics as whether a Jedi light saber could pierce Frodo Baggins's anus-matrix, how one can make it through the trailer for "Garden State" without hemorrhaging angry blood-vomit, why Kevin Smith is such a talentless douche, or why Zach Braff's name sounds like a fart (e.g. "I just zach-braffed so hard that I had to change my underwear.")

I'm going to D.C. in a few days for my summer vacation, so I probably won't post for several days. The August caption contest may be postponed a day or two. I will close with a rare excerpt from a transcript of a live Grandfatha Klock show:

"(yells at crowd to keep it down, inhales oxygen from nearby tank)
Let me tell you suckas what GK is about
My Lincoln Town Car is all pimped out

I was raised on a farm but my name ain't Cletus
Been droppin' dope beats since Lillian Gish was a fetus

Bust it
(spins on back for one hour)"

See you later, friends.