The Break Up

I’m sitting here with a $3 gin and tonic (the best damn $3 G&T I've ever freakin had) at a random happy hour in San Francisco, typing furiously because the blog calls—or more aptly, because people called up Mike to complain about the lack of blog posts. And, as the self-proclaimed better half of "Hit The Road Jeff (and M*!%$)," it is my duty to fulfill even those who might be reading this blog for Mike’s sake. Well, here’s the kicker Mike fans:

He’s gone. I left him in LA. We had a huge major fight and it went like this:

“Yo Mike, you a friggin douche-nozzle.”

“Right back at ya.”

That was it. And he was gone. Lost in the glitz and glamour of the Sunset Strip. There he was, one moment doing coke off the tile floors of The Viper Room, the next, passed out on the bathroom floor, claiming he saw the ghost of River Phoenix. Madness. Madness everywhere.

But in all reality, when I left Mike for good, passed out in the Viper Room bathroom, I was sad. I mean, I’ve spent a full three weeks getting to know the guy. And, you know, I never really liked him. Ever. Good riddance I tells ya. LA is for hookers (see previous post) and boom operators. And Mike wasn’t even a good boom operator if you know what I mean—lololloloolooLohanballslololololol.

I sit, alone, in a San Francisco bar, consuming their happy hour. Gin and tonic. Gin and tonic. Like a sweet and sour song. Good night LA. You have claimed yet another casualty. I spit in your general direction.

-- JEFF