This storm thinks it’s going to get the best of me, better think again. I’ll fuck it up. This ain’t no Katrina, harbinger of heartbreak; people standing on roofs while husbands die. I think they wanted husbands to die. Die drunk. New Orleans, best city in the country. Remember a spring break there. Met a girl and she sang songs to me in a courtyard. New Orleans has courtyards.
Take my fucking house, but you’ll have to do it out from under my feet. I deny God. Been twelve years without church and don’t know that I miss it. European friends think I’m an ass for even considering. That’s right, European friends.
I got this house, and I got my dog, and I got my testicles and my dog has his too; fuck Bob Barker. Fucker lives in Burbank or somewhere and spent too much time with artificially colored hair to be trusted.
Just worried about the one slug hole in the roof. Might pour down right on my diploma. That’s right. Don’t ask. I got it.
Take the DVD player. Take my fucking wife. Oh, that’s right, he’s already done that, so take his house, my chldren – just leave me the fuck alone. I mean it this time.
I got my bread and my vienna sausages. I got cigarettes again after 15 years. I got a pistol and I’m pissed off. I got love in my heart, but no one’s gonna get at it for a long time.
This storm. This storm. Take from me, like fucking Braveheart, my property, but not everything else.
I just wanted to say one more thing: fuck you. That’s what I think of you, and the weather man.
Come get me.
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