(Three dead in Pensacola, Florida.)
Yesterday, I cooked shrimp for dinner. I bought the them at Emart. I paid ten dollars for 12 plump specimens. The meal was delicious. But my eldest son James-uh wasn't impressed. He's too lazy to peel the shells. I washed the vittles down with a large plastic bottle of Cass beer. The experience was heavenly.
I watched the latest episode of True Detective. I'm beginning to hate this show. I have no idea what's going on. The plot's completely convoluted. You'd have a better time staring at a jug of cloudy water. But I've come this far. And I can't bail after such a timely investment. So I'll keep staring at the computer screen like an idiot until the series fades to black.
I paid homage to the Christ God. I said the Lord's Prayer on bended knees. No big surprise. I'm not some filthy heathen. I asked Jesus to give me a clean break from my wife. We've arranged a deal to avoid divorce. Nevertheless, I need a year away from that evil witch. My psyche's on the verge of collapse.
I went to bed at 10 p.m. I didn't dream. I woke up at 7 a.m. and turned on my laptop. There was a triple murder in Pensacola, Florida. The cops claim that the crime scene's ritualistic. They blame the deaths on witchcraft. The authorities have to be careful with that type of outrageous language. The FBI investigated satanic murders back in the eighties. They found the whole phenomena to be a hoax.
I read the paper later in the day. We're currently experiencing a nationwide heatwave in South Korea. The temperatures and humidity are brutal. Seven people have died so far. That's the strange thing about the peninsula. You sweat your nuts off in the summer and freeze your balls off in the winter. The weather truly sucks giant ass.
Anyway, it's time for the song du jour. Here's Balls to the Wall by Accept. God bless. And fuck Lloyd Blankfein.