A Needle in a Stack of Needles

I just went for a walk around the Firm as per my usual post-lunch routine where I make a point to blow ass as close to secretaries I don't like as possible, and I made a pass through the main lobby where the receptionist "Lucy Dunce" sits. Now don't get me wrong, Lucy is usually pretty nice and being the head receptionist, does have a talent for organizing shit, but as I threw a salutation her way the conversation, that could have been very benign and cordial, quite possibly ruined my day:

Trey: Hello Lucy.
Lucy: Hi Klipz.
Trey: I'm Trey
Lucy: Oh I'm sorry Trey. It's like you and Klipz are becoming the same person.

(Author's Note: Klipz an myself probably could not be more different from one another. Klipz has been here 4 years longer than I, is engaged to another poor unfortunate employee of Funder Cunt who will be henceforth known as "Lil' Klip," and has no noticeable similarities to myself other than the fact that we hate our jobs. I, on the other hand, have been known to hit on co-workers at Firm functions in a Blacked out state, and shack up with Paralegettes on occasion. Needless to say, it's pretty easy to tell us apart.)

So anyways, it was a little disappointing to hear Lucy's response considering I've been here about 2.5 years and I have seen this woman, I kid you not, every single day of my tenure here.

However, it's good to know that when I leave here, nobody will probably know the difference.

Hardly, Officer.

We haven't really fallen off at Funder Cunt. There hasn't been anything funny enough to post. One of the associates is knocked up and isn't married, but that ain't shit. Whiskey Fest is coming up soon so possibly that might produce some funny shit. We're like the rap group Onyx. We don't fall off we just move from project to project, trying to find something that siuts us. Look at Sticky Fingaz for instance:

Fell Off?

Ok, so nobody has heard from anyone on this blog in a long time, and since I have nothing better to do, I am gonna liven things up and make a little change from Trey's normal posts about taking dumps. And if nothing else, I'd rather this was the first thing you see when you look at this blog and not Trey's live or death struggle not to shit himself on a somewhat daily basis.

So I might owe everyone a little explanation as to why I have been absent for so long. Well, yours truly got himself a job working as a police officer. Yes, after 6 long grueling months of academy nonsense, I am now a proud member of the greatest police department in the world. And how to they award your humble narrator?

They stick me in HOUSING.

Yes, yours truly is now a proud member of the police department and his sole function in life for the next two years is to patrol and maintain security in the housing developments. No shit, all I do is walk around the projects, henceforth to be referred to as the 'jects.

So let me tell you all about the 'jects. They 'jects are 20% perp and 80% hard workin' folks. Now, to be honest I don't really ever deal with the hardworking folks, so we'll leave them out of this. God bless them and the ounce of morality the possess. And believe me, in this place an ounce is all you need to get our attention off of you. So that leaves us with the other side, as we call them "perps". A perp is a low life piece of shit who would literally kick his own mothers ass for lack of paying for the crack he sold her on credit. No joke, these people just sit outside all night, god only knows when they sleep, and when you approach them at 4am and ask them what they are up to they tell you to GFY.

In my short time in this place I have seen a kid get shot in the face, broken up several near riots, drawn my weapon three times (which is no joke), had shots fired less than 100 feet from me and been in at least a dozen foot pursuits. I see nothing but exposed needles and empty crack and heroin bags everywhere. There is something magical about seeing a kid practically bleed to death on a sidewalk and think, eh at least I don't have to clean it up. All jokes aside the place is a zoo.

So take that in for a minute, and when you read Trey's posts about how tough it is to sit in a nice office and try ever so hard not to shit in your pants, just think of me. Because in the 'jects they don't hold it in, they just shit on the walls. God I wish I was joking about that, I really do.

So from here on, D-Ring will now be known as Deeez Cuffs aka Fuck You and Your Rights.

Of course, I could be joking about all of this...

Seriously, Dude

So I'm waiting to leave for the firm event when all of a sudden my small intestine comes 'a callin'.

Tummy: Trey, you there, bitch?
Trey: Yes Tummy.
Tummy: Yo we need to pop a squat right quick, aight?
Trey: Sounds good Tummy .

So I make my way to the men's room and begin to do my best thinking, as Klipz would say. It must be noted that it is after hours at Funder Cunt and the only people here are Bitch-ass first years and the people who are going to the firm event, but live too far away to go home. So I'm sitting on the pot contemplating which paralegalette could use a dose of Trey's special playalistic ill game this evening when all of a sudden, sure enough, some lame-ass first year rolls up in the cut and sits in the stall...RIGHT NEXT TO TREY. I say again. The D-Bag sat next to me in an empty fucking bathroom. Is it me, or is this muthafucka tryin' throw salt in my dookie game like no one else? I had to sit there and maintain while this broke-ass wanna be attorney fired off mad flatulence like woah, son. Dude's, ass sounded like he packed a gaggle of bullfrogs up in there or some shit. Long story short, I had to make like a pervert and beat it before I was forced to lose my mutha fuckin' mind.

Word to the wise gents. Playa's personal bubbles expand no less than 30% when in a public bathroom, so when you feel the need to pinch a loaf, don't go and cuddle up next to a muthafucka like you know him and shit. Damn.

I wonder if Richard Simmons Started Out as a Sucka Ass Paralegal?

As Klipz noted in a previous post, we were pretty busy, for a time anyways, getting ready to go to the rectal shelf of Po-dunk Texas for trial so we didn't really have time to write too much. Lots has happened in the mean time between Tom Brady blowing the Super Bowl, D-Ring going to the police academy, and Klipz moving in with his girlfriend. There is nothing new with me, however. I do the same thing day in and day out. I work. I drink. I smoke on weekends.

Actually, I lied. I'm going to the gym. I finally decided that I need to do something to counteract the abuse I self-administer on a daily basis, and considering I can't really afford to quit my job, and it's going to be a very cold day in hell before I quit drinking, the New York Sports Club(NYSC)was my only other option.

I can't lie. Since I've been going I do feel lots better and it's a great place to gawk at women I have absolutely no chance at dating so hopefully I can make this last, if only for a little while. There is one, rather large problem I've been running into more and more as I go to the NYSC with greater and greater frequency, and that ladies and gentleman, is the level of ball courtesy I'm seeing in the locker room.

What is ball courtesy, you may ask? Well, you're in luck because Trey is is feeling generous today. Ball Courtesy, or BC, is a man's level of politeness or lack thereof when walking around a NYSC locker room ass naked with his nuts for the world to see. Unfortunately, not only for myself but also for many others in the same position as me, there is a stupefying lack of BC in the men's locker room. This is really, really fucking gross to me, personally.

I mean, what the fuck people? Is it that hard to keep you nuts away from me? And for chrissake, please take your towel off only AFTER you decide to rummage in your gym bag for whatever it is you can't seen to find. There nothing more disgusting a dude bending over 2 feet from my head as I try and dress myself before I find a pair of giggleberries accidentally draped on my shoulder by some 60 year-old banker. Never in my life have I seen such a blatant disregard for BC.

First off I want to make it clear that this is not a homophobic thing. If you're gay, that's fine. I don't give a shit. However, if you insist on not dressing yourself and strutting around the place with balls-a-swangin' I have a serious problem with you. And for the love of god, please just dress yourself before you decide you converse with your buddy. For some reason I just feel like i'm going to be one of the unfortunate and unwilling extras in a gay porn. So please male members of NYSC, try and be a little more conscious of where your nuts are when you're naked in a locker room. Female members of the gym, please get naked. Thank You, and it's good to be back.

Move Fakaz

Party girl went out on Thurs for some sucka-ass venda sponsored "mixer." While always up for free drinks (even at the expense of having to listen to spiel from the aforementioned sucka-ass venda, unfortunately I could not attend. It was on Thurs before we had Fri off for a long weekend. Weak.
For always talking shit about partying and only showing up when you know damn well next to noone is gonna be there, you, Party Girl, are a move faker. And need ta getcha back blown in Jamaica.
One love, D-Ring... where are YOU at?

With all due respect

GFY. Noone has written on this here blog for quite some time, and with good reason. We barely have the will to get out of bed, or off the couch... or floor, every morning to greet the day of being a complete mess of a human and puked-in shadow of the aspirations of our youth, let alone tell the noone that reads this thing about it. Now the case magically disappeared, and we all have dick to do again, and staring at the internet all day is like looking directly into your soul to see what you really are: A brown (empty) box with tattered tape surrounding it, a used FedEx label and nothing inside. Ahh, introspection. Sitting in a room full of boxes full of shit I could give two shits about, with more boxes sitting in the hallway with stuff I care even less about, that need to be sent to the room at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, is really f'ing depressing! It's true. And writing about it blows.

I need to club a seal. And drink.