Genoa invited me over for dinner. I accepted of course. I had never been to her house before. Genoa, an individual I have long admired, is not a woman I would say no to without careful consideration.
All Genoa's family were there too. Her old man, her children, her various animals, her mom, her sister-in-law and her children and a couple other people who appeared to walk in off the street because the food smelled so good pulled up a chair too.
Soon as I walked in the door Genoa's old man handed me a scotch. Triple. "You're not going anywhere tonight buddy. The spare room's already fixed up for you." I glugged, he glugged, before long my opinion of the world became a fuck of a lot more positive.
The house was nice. High ceilings and more bathrooms than Jimmy Pattison's yacht. Then again most everybody's house is nicer than mine. That's what happens when your favourite thing to do is drinking and the government's favourite thing to do is jacking up the price of juice.
I cook at home lots so it is nice being cooked for. The women took care of the cooking. It was like an episode from Leave It To Beaver aprons and all.
The men sat around arguing about what the odds of being killed by a falling piece of space junk are. The scotch led us to believe the odds were much higher than they actually are.
"None of us are going to get hit by a fucking piece of space junk ever so the odds gotta be a 100 trillion to one." That was our agreed upon assessment.
Then today I see piece of space shit half the size of a Volkswagen Bug landed in a farmer's field. People are probably getting hit by space shit every day but the government is keeping real quiet about it so we don't ask questions, cause trouble or get on tv too much.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WILmHeoMReA
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