Therefore, for the third straight day, Franco-American's standby has served as my semi-delicious, yet-not-especially-good-for-you dinner. Oh, Spaghetti-O's, you filled me up, made me feel good.
Then my friend invited me out for drinks. She just got a job, and we were to celebrate by filling ourselves with Pabst. PBR me, ASAP!
Now, you may be thinking to yourself, Spaghetti-O's and PBR, what could be more quintessentially white trash, what could possibly work better to wash down cold Spaghetti-O's scarfed down directly from the can that the cold, refreshing piss that is PBR? You may be on to something, but there should be a warning label on the PBR Draught...perhaps a one-pitcher warning per person.
We sucked down our first pitcher of PBR, me feeling all confident--if my friend got a job, so could I, dammit! Then, we started dissecting my skill set versus available jobs, and I started feeling mighty shitty about my prospects. I lost my hope, and that second pitcher of PBR we drank helped ease my pain. To further drown our pain, we drank our third pitcher. Damn you PBR, damn YOU!
We left, went our separate ways, and I walked into my house with a churning burning sensation in my gut. The Spaghetti-O's were not making fast friends with the PBR. They were both not happy to meet one another, or perhaps the little O’s were outnumbered too much by the PBR and they rioted.
Either way, they had a violent fight in my stomach that came to a brutal head in my building's entryway as I was walking my dog. Now there's a spray of Spaghetti-O's in the entry. Rent is due tomorrow morning, and while I have my rent money (one more month left in savings!), I can't confess to my deed to my cunt of a building super because even if I clean up ALL of it, as if it never happened, I know she'll kick me out on principle, and no one wants to rent to an unemployed person who puked up PBR and Spaghetti-O's. I have no idea where I'll get the deposit if I have to get a new place.
Damn you PBR! Damn you Franco American!