The Party’s Over

Got robbed for the first in Barcelona the other day. At Party City, while buying balloons.

The shitbord walked right up to me and stole my money. I knew it when it happened, too — DOH! — ’cause I turned around and looked at him, but he had his hands full of balloons, acting like he was an ordinary shopper. When I finally checked for my money, it was gone, and he’d disappeared. 

I hate that fucker for robbing me, but what kills me is knowing he threw a bitchin’ party that night on my dime. 

I feel sorry for anyone who goes to Party City next time I’m there and accidentally brushes against me. Because I will clock them so hard that their brains will splatter the entire selection of wigs, masks, pig-noses and dick-hats. The aisles will turn into red rivers of blood.

The cashier will ring up no sales that day. She will be too busy mopping up bodily fluids and collecting internal organs from the floor. They’ll need days to clean up the carnage. 

So if you see me walking into Party City, you’d be wise to turn right around and walk the other way. ‘Cause the party’s over, motherfuckers.