The Saddest Weekend Known to Man

 

HEY BUDDY, WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH THE PATHETIC WEEKEND YOU JUST SPENT?

 

It wasn’t pathetic at all. Sure, I remained sober and, for educational purpose and educational purpose alone, feverishly browsed the Craigslist escort ads but the weekend was, as a whole, productive. Not only did I start a new screenplay and catch up on sleep, I also hit the gym twice.

 

 

 

YA, NOT IMPRESSED. EVERY NARCISSISTIC HIPSTER WITH A LAPTOP HAS WRITTEN A SCREENPLAY.

 

Yes, and although I can comfortably lay claim to most narcissistic black man in the country, my script is more than just a vanity project to be woven into pickup lines at Vinyl. You see, the story is a spoof on the formulaic movie mystery studios seem intent on unleashing upon unsuspecting audiences every winter. The main character –

 

WHOA WHOA WHOA. NOBODY CARES ABOUT THE SCREENPLAY. LET’S HEAR ABOUT THE ESCORTS.

 

They were at turns old, flabby and as used up as catchers mitt unearthed after a half century floating in a New York sewer. Though I applaud the escorts for their efforts to stiffen my cock with overflowing tits and submissive poses, their come-hither stares were belied by the profound sadness of a sexual abuse victim. No, I am not above playing therapist in order to secure a discount on services rendered, but I was not in the mood to wipe the post-coital tears of Red Deer runaway.

 

STOP LYING. YOU CALLED ONE DIDN’T YOU?

 

I will admit the prices (ranging from $80 to $300) were so reasonable I had all but dialed six digits before common sense – and my bruised and battered pride’s 3rd act resurgence – stayed my finger.

 

SADLY, I THINK YOUR CRAIGSLIST BROWSING WAS THE WEEK’S HIGHLIGHT.

 

You’re probably right.

 

LET’S GO OVER THE REST OF IT SHALL WE?

 

Get it over with.

 

HOURS SPENT TEACHING YOUR DOG TO DANCE?

 

Two and a half

 

SONG TO WHICH HE DANCES TO?

 

A remixed Speed Racer theme

 

DOG’S INTEREST LEVEL IN SAID DANCING PROJECT?

 

Zero, he was far too distracted by the caramel popcorn puff that had rolled under the couch.

 

TIMES YOU THREATENED TO ABANDON HIM AT THE CITY DUMP IN FRUSTRATION?

 

Four.

 

HOURS SPENT HAVING SEX?

 

Zero.

 

HOURS SPENT THINKING ABOUT SEX?

 

72.

 

TIMES YOU CHANGED UNDERWEAR?

 

1

 

TIMES SHOWERED?

 

1

 

OH BOY

 

Ya, I know. Something’s got to give. In my defense, temperatures dropped to levels no black man should ever have to endure. Social life be damned, I will remain underneath my duvet eating chicken wings thank you very much. At long last we have found the solution. Not even the lure of fat white women and quarter ounce of weed can lure a black man from his home when the temp dips below minus 20.

 

NUMBER OF WHITE READERS WHO WILL NOW START CLUBBING ON FREEZING DAYS?

 

100%

 

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