Conspiracy of One: Weekend at Casa Lane

Work has been stressing me out. School is growing tedious. My social life has gone nowhere and fast. How do I remedy this?

“Anthony, you there? Good. How do you feel about going to Mexico tonight?”

Needless to say, Jordan and I were definitely in. Private Lane, Sir McIntyre, and Dr. Guy would be heading to Mexico with a couple of Brandon’s college mates, or people he randomly knows. Hell, before we crossed the border, debauchery ensued, with hilarious results. Heh, but I’m not the kind of person who kisses and tells, preferably because I’ve never kissed anything to tell about, and I’m sure as hell not going to mention anything that puts me in a bad light while outside these States United. Let’s just say if you’re in Mexico, make sure that the girl you’re interested in is really a girl after all. One would be surprised about the clever ruses some devise.

Mexican police can kiss my ass. I thought LAPD was corrupt, but I’m proven dead wrong. I love American cops. Now I have a reason to like them even more. Thank you, Mexico; only you could’ve made American cops look tame and caring.

From this little excursion, we ventured to the car across the border, and slept. Well, everyone else slept; I garnered about 12 hours of sleep the entire weekend. We come home, we play Tekken, Marvel vs. Capcom 2, Guilty Gear XX, and…I’m sure we played something else. Oh yes, Raw vs. Smackdown 2007. Watch out world, Cameron Hunter is the next big thing. Name anyone else who could deliver a Vertebreaker like I can. That’s right, no one. Except for Jordan’s cheap ass diluting the fun, all was well. Sleep came, I dreamt about the KKK invading Inglewood, and preparation was made for the main event the next day…

Jordan and I awoke to the sounds of whatever Brandon’s frog roommate played. We hit the mall, where we proceeded to piss off some of the locals in a way that only I can…like excessively honking a horn. Super sweet, methinks. Word. A few short hours later, and Wrestlemania 23 is here, the reason for our trip to the Tragic Kingdom…

“Nice guys finish last. THANK GOD I am not a nice guy….Mr. Money in the Bank. Bank”

Mr. Kennedy won Money in the Bank to everyone’s glee. Khali and Kane put on a match for the ages. Undertaker did not disappoint. Benoit deserves more. I can’t stand Donald Trump. I could care less about the Divas. Most importantly, Cena fucked up my night. I’m sure the guy is a great human being, but for Pete’s sake, develop a personality. Shawn Michaels jobbed to John Cena. There’s no other way to explain it. Speaking of which, Cena’s entrance really, really pissed me off. Really. Do they expect me to believe he could drive like that? Nah, impossible. Thankfully, Detroit took a shit on him in the process, and HBK refused to shake his hands. Unfortunately for me, there were a couple of Cena marks in the crowd who had zero intelligence. I ignored them until I was confronted after the show. How does Anthony reply to confrontation? The only way he can: with precise execution…

“GO WATCH THE ‘MARINE!'”

They had nothing to say after that. Cena may have the win, but he has to live with “The Marine” with the rest of his life. Not to mention the fact that he was destroyed by Kevin Federline. J.R.!

One more jack and coke, bitch. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Shawn Michaels “Sexy Boy”

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