I didn’t get to finish telling you about the Donut Ride except that there was a huge sprint towards the end and yep, I opened up the can all right. Higgins thought he had been passed by a falling piano, that’s how quick I came around him and the other fancy-pants SoCal sprinter boys are all making a note of Billy Blitz the Hammer.
Afterwards some skinny dude named Derek and his teammate DJ (both of those guys are so old, mom, I really felt sorry for them) came up to me and said hey Porky, there’s no need to sprint after everyone has sat up, especially with the way you throw the bike around it looked wilder than a chick tossing rice at a wedding. Higgins said Porky wins all the races that end 100 meters after the finish line, that guy is so jealous of me so I just cut him to the quick with Whatever, dude.
Anyway, after that we pedaled over to a local beer company called Strand Brewing, it is supposedly the s*** here in LA, they make their own beer. I was really skeptical — brew your own beer? Really? Why not just get a case of silver bullets? — and turns out I was right. Derek and DJ bought me a glass of IPA and I was like um, can I have a silver bullet and they were like no, so I was like okay, gimme a Corona Light then some lime then and they were like uh, double no, so I was like okay, even though I hate it gimme a Miller Lite and they were like uh, no, here’s your IPA.
I asked what’s an IPA and they said it’s India Pale Ale and I was like uh, no, Mexican beer maybe but Indian beer no thanks. They were like try it and I did and it was the worst stuff I ever drank. It is so bitter mom, Californians do not know anything about beer. The guy who runs the place is named Joel and he was like, how is it and you know me, mom, I can’t lie and I told him that he wasn’t going to be putting Coors out of business any time soon.
Even though it tasted awful I had about six of them and the one thing I can say is that Strand Brewing beer, if you have six of their Indian beers you will have a hard time standing up after that. Who knew that Indians made strong beer or that Indians were white like Joel? That dude is the whitest Indian I ever saw. When I think about India all I think about is those people who drink their own p***. Anyway, so that is why I didn’t get back to you.
Anyway, guess who showed up on my doorstep this morning? Yep, it was Cindy. She said she got “let go” at the feedlot but you and I know that she just got lonely like an old dog. I felt really sorry for her, mom, I know she isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed and she eats way too much frozen pizza but she is a good-hearted soul deep down so I told her she could sleep on the floor.
She was like sleep on the floor my a** and she took the couch so I’m slumming it for a while on the floor but that’s okay because she is a good ol’ dog, that Cindy. Anyway, I was really surprised when she told me that some federal agents had come by the apartment in Amarillo looking for me. Apparently someone who looks exactly like me — weird since Amarillo is such a small town — has been hanging out at the post office and going through the trash and taking out the junk mail credit card applications and filling them out in his name and then running up a big tab.
What’s weirder is that this criminal was having the cards sent to Cindy’s address and so naturally the cops think it was me but I swear that it wasn’t. Good ol’ Cindy told them I didn’t live there anymore and had moved to Arkansas, she is a good ol’ dog. Now she is saying that she loves me but if I don’t give her $500 bucks asap she will call the federal police and tell them where I am. I’m not afraid because I have nothing to hide but if you could put $500 in my account that would be awesome, mom, I LOVE YOU.
Love you, mom!
Your Blitzing Bag of Billy
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