So you probably read the article last week about the suicidal dude who walked out into the San Fransisco Bay, and waited. "And waited" - no kidding, their words, not mine. Dude wanted to kill himself, so we walked out into cold ass water, up to his neck, and started just chilling.
Lol, he spent like an hour in the 54 degree water before being yanked out, DAF (dead as fuck). The local rescue crews didn't have the resources or training to save him. So he died.
I'm failing to see how the death of a guy that wants to die is a bad thing. Is it a bad thing when I want ice cream and then I go and get ice cream? Is that bad too?
Like if it was a kid that accidentally got swept out to sea, I can totally understand the uproar over not having the budget or resources for a rescue. But it was some dude that deliberately chose to kill himself for our (my) amusement. Kudos, brah.
Reminds me of the time when I was about 6 and my friend ***** was having his birthday party at the roller rink. At that age, we all had our birthday parties at the roller rink. Anyway, midway through, they always asked you what your favorite song was, then they called you out onto the middle of the rink, said some gay happy birthday stuff to you, and then played whatever stupid song you chose.
Only this little turd had a different idea.
When asked about his favorite song, he enthusiastically shouted out "La Bamba!". I would know cause I was crushing a pepperoni pizza right there with him when he yelled the name of Lou Diamond Phillips' signature tune right into my ear.. Sure as crap, in about 5 minutes they played La Bamba.
Thing is, instead of the naive euphoria a 6 year old should feel upon hearing La Bamba, or whatever their 1980's favorite song would be, little ***** broke out into goddamn hysterics - crying, yelling, falling on the floor and rolling around a little bit.
Even 6 year old me knew the blog-potential at that point - the stuff of dreams, indeed.
The point is this: you can't request La Bamba, wait till it starts playing, and then have a temper tantrum because you now want to hear some Beach Boys. I don't give a crap if you're 6 and handed everything you silver spoon little prick, or if you're 50 and suicidal.
You made your goddamn bed, now you lie in it. Just in some instances that bed is more permanent than others lol.
OK, I understand that both true stories aren't exactly parallel. Where the suicidal man showed no signs of changing his mind, little ***** did, but this was honestly the best vehicle I could think of to tell my roller rink story.
So now I ask you, little *****, in the words of my favorite homosexual frontman: "Where's your anger, where's your fuckin' rage?"