Icebox Records

I’m here in my hos­pi­tal bed with my lap­top, typ­ing with one hand because Eric shot me.  Great, Eric.  What the fuck?

Okay, here’s what hap­pened: we’re play­ing poker, it’s like 3 in the morn­ing and I’m win­ning big.  We’re all get­ting pretty drunk but I’m still play­ing like a champ, lay­ing down flushes, shit like that.  In this one par­tic­u­lar hand I’ve got four sixes and I’m get­ting this guy Dan to keep rais­ing the pot, know­ing I’m gonna take this shit easy.  The last card dealt is sup­posed to be dealt down and dirty.  Eric’s the dealer and sud­denly whip­ping these cards around like he’s play­ing air hockey or some­thing.  He fucks up and deals my card faceup.  So every­body can see.  It was an ace.  Tech­ni­cally this fucks up the game, the dealer is sup­posed to match the pot and we start over.  I can’t fuck­ing believe it.  We’re talk­ing like nine or ten bucks here.  A HUGE pot.  Fuck!  So Eric gets a lit­tle defen­sive and starts with the “no way, man…I ain’t match­ing no fuck­ing pot, man!  Fuck that.”   Then Dan starts talk­ing about split­ting the pot and I’m like, “What the fuck?!  What did you have?”  Turns out he had like, two queens or some­thing.  SHIT!  So now, I’m like “Of ALL the fuck­ing times to mis­deal, you do it NOW?  Match the pot, man!”  Eric’s like “No!  Fuck that, man!  It was just a mis­take!  I’d rather do this!”  He pulls out a twenty and rips it in half and throws it into the pot.  And then while we’re all try­ing to fig­ure out the mean­ing of this ges­ture, he pulls out ANOTHER twenty and rips it in half and throws it into the pot, too.  Bizarre.  Dan starts split­ting the pot and now I really can’t believe this is hap­pen­ing.  Eric fucked my shit up and now I’m los­ing four or five fuck­ing dol­lars not to men­tion the awe­some feel­ing of win­ning a fuck­ing good hand in poker with all the guy testos­terone pump­ing and shit, and now Eric’s gonna get defen­sive and stand­off­ish and indig­nant about it?  Fuck that shit!  So I stand up and I’m like “Yo, Ricky, man.  Shut the fuck up and match the fuck­ing pot already!  Take your fuck­ing twen­ties and shut the fuck up, bitch!”  And he goes “No way, bitch!  You the bitch, bitch!  I ain’t match­ing shit!  And while you’re at it, why don’t you tape up the twen­ties I just ripped up because you riled me?!”  I’m like, “What?  Fuck you, man.  Tape ‘em up your own god­damn self!”  And he goes “Fuck that shit!  You fuck­ing do it!  You made me rip that shit up and if you don’t do it you’re gonna owe me forty bucks, man.  Because that’s what two twen­ties equals!” (Eric thinks he’s so smart.)  I’m in awe of this most ludi­crous of ludi­crous state­ments.  “Fuck you, man!  Why don’t you get your fuck­ing mother to tape that shit up, bitch-ass!” Okay, well maybe I fucked up here, the ‘mother’ thing is never a good line to cross in these kinds of sit­u­a­tions.  And I for­got that Eric was stand­ing in front of the refrig­er­a­tor, which is where we keep the gun his brother left here last Christ­mas.  So he goes “WHATDIDYOUFUCKINGSAYYOUMOTHERFUCKERILLFUCKINGKILLYOUMOTHERFUCKER” and while he’s say­ing this the other guys are run­ning out of the room and I’m try­ing to get up and Eric’s already got the door to the fridge open and my shirt gets caught on the flimsy fuck­ing kitchen table we have and BLAM!  he fuck­ing shoots me, in the fuck­ing arm.  Then he freaks out and runs upstairs to hide the gun or some­thing.  Austin and Dan come over to check me out, go “OH SHIT!!” and high­tail it out of there.  I get up and since my arm is all numb and shit I find the strength to call a cab and then I get out­side and wait for it, bleed­ing in the street and look­ing at Eric’s win­dow yelling “You fuck­ing dick­head!  What the fuck, man?!”  And I can see him hid­ing and shak­ing and shit behind the win­dow, prob­a­bly think­ing I’m gonna press charges and shit.  Only pussies press charges.  So now he’s all sorry and comes to visit me and shit.  Whatta dink.  We told the doc­tors and the cops that I shot myself acci­den­tally.  I don’t know if they believe us.

So that’s what hap­pened this week­end.  Because I can only use one hand this took me nearly three hours to write.  I hope you all appre­ci­ate the shit I go through to bring you this shit.