Dear Harmonica Guy,
Not that I’m expecting this to make a dent in your pickled noggin, but I want to say up front that I’m absolutely loathe to refer to you as “Harmonica Guy,” as the association between “harmonica” and “guy” kinda implies a soul connection which, in your case, almost exactly fails to connect.
What’s wrong with just letting you be Harmonica Guy, you may be wondering with your feebleized-by-methanol-filtered-through-a-graham-cracker intellect? Try not to let your R-complex melt all over your medulla oblongata as I explain this, but it’s all about that implied soul connection mentioned WAY back, somewhere in your short term memory.
I’ve never EVER heard anybody fuck up “Popeye the Sailor Man” the way you’ve been doing for the last thirty minutes.
Consider this question, Harmonica Guy, and try not to be bumfuck-baffled: Would you call a dude “surfer dude” if he sucked at surfing? What about Superman? A man’s gotta be pretty super to be called Superman, right? Now here’s Brat Boy. Guess what he doesn’t suck at? Being a bona fide bastard-ass brat, that’s what. Accordingly, Tits McGee is known for her ginormous titties, and I’m pretty sure it’s a safe bet that big dick guy has… what?
That’s right, a big dick.
Therefore, it stands to reason that Harmonica Guy should be a more than capable harmonica player, doesn’t it? Are you beginning to see my quandary, or did you get your fruity pebbles mixed up with your Lincoln Logs again?
I suppose you could be “Drunk on the Front Steps Across the Street Making Obnoxious Noises with a Mouth Organ Guy,” which would of course be perfectly accurate, but that’s way more syllables than you deserve. Unfortunately, generic terms such as “asshole,” “slobbering idiot,” “rectum-dowsing mongoloid,” and “bastard-ass clown” fail to convey the essence of the thing catapulting you to the status of an extra-special every one of those terms I just mentioned… that thing being the criminal abuse of a harmonica, to which I’ve been an unwilling witness for the past half hour. So, I guess I’m stuck with you being stuck with me being stuck with you being Harmonica Guy.
I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume that you’re self-taught on that there harmonica? Because I’ve never EVER heard anybody fuck up “Popeye the Sailor Man” the way you’ve been doing for the last thirty minutes. I don’t mind at all having to break this to you, but I really don’t think a tortured demonic wail issuing forth from the vocal cords of hell and then fed forcibly through what used to be an innocent harmonica really does the “toot-toot” part of “Popeye the Sailor Man” justice, you know?
You kinda need a steam whistle for that.
Please, for the love of God, don’t go anywhere near a steam whistle, Harmonica Guy.
Here’s something else that’s been bugging me for the past fifteen or so minutes, aside from the latent hemorrhoid that swells up to bagel-sized every time I’m filled with a murderous rage: I know you’re drunk and everything, but ever since you took that last pull from the bottle you’ve got hidden in that paper bag…
Ok, hang on, I’ve got to interrupt myself for a second. I’ve never understood that, the paper bag thing, and I’ve worked behind a cash register selling alcohol to myriad degenerates, young and old, for almost ten years, and everybody who buys a 40 or a tall boy invariably asks for a paper bag!
Why? It ain’t about global warming, that’s for damn sure. Is the purpose of the paper bag to make the public consumption of alcohol less conspicuous, like… out of sight, out of mind? What the fuck man, everybody knows what’s in your paper bag! And you get so upset when we’re out of paper bags! Are alcoholics nowadays fucking retarded??
Anyway, where was I… oh yeah.
Ever since you upended the last of your Kool-Aid from the bottle of Thunderbird you’ve got hidden inside that paper bag, you’ve just been toot-tooting all over the damn place! Come on man, it’s not a hard song. You’ve known it since you were in kindergarten!
It goes like this:
I’m Popeye the sailor man,
I’m Popeye the sailor man!
I’m strong took the finich,
Cause I eats me spinach,
I’m Popeye the sailor man!
Geez! How is it even possible to fuck that up?
I think that question will stump astrophysicists and quantum machinists and atomjacks for the next several eons at least, and in no small part due to how unexhoneratingly bad your toxic breath of life sounds when combined with an innocent harmonica.
Please don’t take this the wrong way, Harmonica Guy, but you suck so bad at that thing I don’t even feel sorry for myself or for my neighbors, or even you, for being so integrally shitty… I feel sorry for the harmonica!
Uh oh. It’s 3:00 AM and you’ve just opened another paper bag…
Ok, there’s just one more thing, asshole—I mean Harmonica Guy—before I open up this can of Whoopass©®™ Brand Spinach and commence to the bona fide whooping of your ass, once and for good…
GODAMMIT, POPEYE THE SAILOR MAN DOES NOT LIVE IN A GARBAGE CAN!