Get the fuck outta my way you fucking frat son of a bitch.
These meathead bastards do this shit every goddamn Saturday.
This Saturday it’s worse.
I’m trying to get to the fucking library and ESPN decided “Oh yeah cool we’ll do gameday here this weekend.”
Pricks.
Seriously.
I need to return my copy of The Knockout Artist by Harry Crews so the librarian gets off my case and I can check out new books.
Sure, I could use the return bins.
But I don’t trust them.
You ever seen the return bins around this campus?
Right.
You probably haven’t.
How could you?
The goddamn football stadium and the streets are filled with ads and flags supporting future brain damage survivors and NFL flunkies. Never mind the fact all that brain injury makes them into sad, violent, adult children. That doesn’t matter. What does matter?
Money.
Duh.
This whole goddamn pavilion is roped off for these TV pricks. Former athletes. Current pop culture stars. Fuckers never turned a page in a book in their life.
I try to go around. Some asshole bumps into me spilling his cheap beer all over my library book.
Fuck.
“Whoooooooaaaa man look at this booknerd.”
I don’t have time for this.
I walk off.
They follow. Daunting.
“Shit this motherfucker must be lost!”
Bitch, I’ve been here for years.
I round a corner, should ditch them besides this actually goes to the library.
They follow.
I fucked up. Wrong way. Fuck.
They corner me finally.
Double fuck.
Wait a minute.
This is Texas.
I have a fucking gun.
Lift my shirt.
Slow.
“OH SHIT.”
They run.
Thank you Samuel Colt for making all men equal.
Well, really the Austrians for making Glocks.
Read that once in a book.
Sigh.
Poor book.
The librarian was pissed when I got in.
She had the TV playing low in her office.
ESPN.
Her scowl was vicious.
She didn’t give a fuck about the book.
“Hell, it’s probably better soaked in beer anyways.”
She pulled out a copy of Ham On Rye.
“You’ll like this, buy a six pack on the way home.”
“Ha, alright fine I’ll get some Heinekens.”
She smiled.
Fuck yeah, the library rules, man.
