Life Is One Big Pissing Match

I'm telling you, life is just one big pissing match. You can't go anywhere any more without it being some kind of damn competition. "Look at me, I've got the best car!" "Look at me, I did a triathalon!" "Look at me, I've got a third nipple!" I'm sick and tired of it.

Hell, maybe it's just human nature. I remember when I was a kid working as a stepstool at the old BeefWhacker packing plant, Johnny Niedermayer would constantly needle me. "Look, I can support three people on my back and head." Smart ass! I showed him though. One day he had old man Hudson standing on his back trying to reach a rump roast so I let go a rat right by his head. That rat made a beeline for Johnny's face and bit his nose off. He screamed like a little girl. Hudson fell on his ass and broke his tailbone. Hah! Hah! Hudson fired Johnny and sent him on a garbage skow to China. I won the coveted job of head stepstool. Of course, when Fatty Grabowski started working, my stepstool career came to a crashing halt. Took me two years for my spine to snap into place.

It seems to me we just can't be happy with what we got. We always got to get greedy. We always have to have something better than the next guy. I remember when I was vying for the attentions of one Agnes T. Whipplecock. The T stood for Tits! Anyways, there must have been twenty gents trying to court her. She was the cat's meow. To have her on your arm meant that you were somebody. The competition was fierce. Fights broke out amongst us suitors. Friend agin friend! Brother agin brother! Some spent a small fortune to win her heart. One guy bought her a bouquet of roses. Another guy bought her a DeSoto. Another guy bought her a Messerschmidt. Damn Kraut! Since I wasn't a rich man, all I could give her was a poem I wrote for her. Sweet Agnes Tits, it was called. You know what she did when I read it to her? She laughed at my face. In the end, she ran off with Mildred Farnsworth. Who knew! She screwed all of us greedy, testosterone crazed bastards.

But I digress. You'd think as you get older, the need to be better off than the next guy would just fade away. Think again, brainwave! Why just last week at the Cactus Groomers convention in Yuma, ol' Hank Wazerbicki was bragging up a storm how tall and prickley his barrels were. What killed me was that all the women were listening to him. They were swooning and giggling at his erect barrels. I was fit to be tied! Size doesn't matter! Everyone knows that for barrels, the worth is in the girth. But try telling that to those gray-haired vixens. Cactus floozies! That's what they were!

Oh hell. Gotta run. Jerry Springer's on the tube. Ah, Jerry Springer! America's true microcosm. Today's Episode: Catfighting Transvestite Hookers.