Get 2 Choppin

If by some odd chance I get stuck at a softball game that doesn't have beer and hot bikini clad co-eds only in the league title and it is being played by females that don't look like Jennie Finch or play like Jennie Finch and by play I mean look like Jennie Finch and the weather is really windy and cold and all around sucky (because it makes it seem even worse when it is really sucky softball) then please do me a solid and cut the rope from the bleachers that I used to hang myself and bury my body behind the pitchers non-mound since it is a softball diamond Imean an imitation baseball field for midgets and dwarfs and please do this so that the crows don't pick out my eyeballs while I swing back and forth on the back of the rusty bleachers because no one cares enough to maintain them because it is softball and no one really watches anyway. 

Oh wait let the crows pick out my eyes just in case when I go to the after-life if there is any really horrible attempt at a softball game going on I will only have to listen to the awful silly we don't take sports serious chants for eternity. I think that is enough punishment, don't you? 

If by some weird coincidence I am at the bar with the "over physical" bar guy who always has to hug you or throw the vulcan death grip on your shoulder or lean into you and ask for the chest bump or wants to arm wrestle you or slaps you on the back of the head or just in general wants to throw the european tradition of kissing both cheeks on you please do me a solid and pull the hypodermic needle full of death serum out of my arm and push it in again right next to it so appears that I got bit by a miniature snake and then you can tell the paramedics once they get past the hug and chest bump from "over physical" guy that it wasn't accidental death by snakebite but instead the "over physical" ninja guy owns a pair of trained dobermans that with a simple whistle command that only they can hear carried in a mason jar filled with a deadly poisonous snake and opened it with their paws and guided it toward me without me ever knowing that either snake nor dog was near me.

If I ever have the chance to be the naked male model for a sculpture class that is filled with angry monkeys molding me out of their own poo that they fling at each other across the room or to substitute teach for a bunch of self righteous pig-headed private school students who think that they will be handed the golden lottery ticket of life because they can tell you who Bret Michael's chose as his latest ho' bag and who Lauren dissed on the last episode of The Hills while at the same time not being able to differentiate (let alone know what differentiate means) between the fact that the h-bomb and the f-bomb are not two different swear words. Please do me a solid, seriously and tell me that monkey art and poo are both very tastefully done. I would do it for you.