I was brutally attacked today. The attack left a gash on top of my head, bleeding at a slow pace but enough to leave an oozing scab. Did I see my attacker coming? Did I defend myself? Did I try to deflect their weaponry? The answer to all these questions is NO. I was strategically placing another box of cereal in my pantry (think of how many boxes of cereal Jerry stored on Seinfeld) when a giant bottle of maple syrup plummeted down, ricocheting directly off the top of my skull. Are you laughing at me right now? Because it wasn't fucking funny. In fact, I yelled, "Mother FUCK!!" after the bottle landed at my feet, righ side up of course. That's one sturdy piece of shit plastic bottle.
I suppose it's a wee bit my fault for housing such an array of food products. (Read "Party At My Place" in case you wonder what I'm talking about.) I can't help it. I need to be prepared for any food circumstance. Have you ever seen that show with the most annoying host EVER (Gordon Elliott), called Doorknock Dinners? They just show up at your house, rifle through your moldy vegetable drawer, make fun of what a sloven pig you are, then attempt to make a meal out of the tube of crescent rolls that expired in June 2006, a can of dark red kidney beans, and a jar of Miracle Whip. Not at my house, baby!! Bring it on, freakishly giant Australian dude!!! Just don't fuck with Aunt Jemima on the top shelf. She'll fuck you up every time...
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