Wednesday, August 23, 2006

when me and my friend coffee killed bobby sherman jr.

I knew something was wrong when my friend Coffee had a knife. Coffee never uses a knife. If he needs to shank a bitch, he prefers a sharpened toothbrush, a twig with a staple jutting out of it or even a screwdriver.

But that day, I knew Coffee was serious. So I said,
"Coffee. Why'd you got a knife?"

But Coffee didn't say nothin'. He just sat there, steam literally rising off the top of his dark, dark head and I could see Coffee was dead serious. Mainly because Bobby Sherman Jr., the little punk who lives down the block that tortured flies and spit at girls, was dead in the gutter with a hole so goddamn big in his chest that you could house a murder of clowns in there.

yeah, i said clowns. you got a problem with how i measure space? clown measurment is required to graduate from the university of the district of columbia. so is shanking a bitch. and pre-calc.

So anyway, here me and Coffee were in the middle of the day looking at a dead Bobby Sherman Jr. when all those nasty thoughts left my head and I smiled. Coffee had done a darn good deed for the day. So I said,
"Coffee, you done darn good. Let's go for a walk."

So I picked up Coffee--after he waved that bloody, viscous knife in my direction--and we merrily walked down the street.

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