The Homeless Ghost
Fuck! I knew training for that blow job class was going to be hard, pun intended, but I didn’t know it was going to be the death of me. Damn hot dog. Wasn’t even 9 inches. Barely internet 7. You know what I mean.
A neon clock and sign caught my eye. The Las Vegas decorator must have been hired for this tack-a-licous display.
Get your business taken care of and get back here in 24 hours or get stuck on Earth. — Management
Did that sign really think it was telling me what to do? I do not think so. Stupid ass sign. Cheaper than Paris Hilton and tackier than Lindsay Lohan.
That’s not fair. Lindsay Lohan isn’t tacky, she just lacks class and human decency. Or any redeeming quality.
I’m dead, why am I thinking about Lindsay Lohan? If I didn’t no one else would. And she gifted the world with fire crotch. Yep, even in death, I’m making herpes jokes. Suck it, Conan O’Brien. I’m funnier than Jimmy Fallon!
Ouch, that was a sick burn on myself. A grandpas pull my finger joke is funnier than Fallon. Now I’m depressed.
And dead. How do I keep forgetting that I’m dead? It’s not every day someone wakes up dead. Unless you’re an Olsen Twin or Madonna.
Maybe a trip down pop culture lane was what I needed. My ex hated everything and everyone. Except himself. He was weirdly in love with himself.
Too bad he was the only one.
Being a funny ghost is hard work. So I decided to take a nap. Just a catnap. Wait, I’m dead, I can take as long of a nap as I want. No one gives a fuck. I can sleep for all of eternity.
When I woke up, the clock had dimmed and read 10 minutes. Maybe this was the new 24. Death by giving a hot dog a bj.
Hopefully, the dumb ass doctor was smart enough to make up how I died. I did not want to be known as the one who died giving oral to food. That’s not true, I wanted the food to be an eggplant. Who wouldn’t?
The clock struck zero. Nothing happened, just like Nick Carter’s solo career. That’s what happens when a person is the blandest part of the band is also the hottest. He reminded me of watching paint dry but somehow was less interesting.
A big, bosomy ghost floated by me. She scratched her head, furrowed her brow but stayed quiet.
“Listen. Boobalicious, I know I’m good looking but say something.”
“You’re stuck here on Earth forever. Between heaven and hell. No home.”
“Like with a new body right? I have to pee but don’t know how ghosts do that. Is there a button or something?”
She turned around and disappeared as fast as she came. Maybe she was a one night stand. Or Carly Rae Jepsen’s career.
Ugh, there was no way I was going to let this day go to waste, it was tons for another nap. Then I’d haunt a bunch of people. Much like Kathy Griffin’s career.