It is I, Beer Bong Curtis, the ghost of the Great Old Kenyon Fire of 1949. I am back from the dead with a message, a warning to the living: when I turned into human crispy crisp seventy years ago, I was supposed to be in for the big sleep and instead I’m up at 11p.m., 2 a.m., 4 a.m., ect., because ALL YOU HORNDOGS are trying to fill some deep, emotional void during quiet hours. The night is my time to haunt, my time to make the vengeful moaning, and I should not have to compete with the sounds of your less than average quality coitus.
I don’t know, maybe I’m just bitter because while all of you are getting on your la petite mort I’m stuck in la mort éternelle. But come on, let’s be real here. Missionary and doggy style, even if you alternate between the two, are not interesting enough to partake in three times a night, three times a week. They’re just not.
Thus I, Beer Bong Curtis, the ghost of the Great Old Kenyon Fire of 1949, make the following requests.
- New rule: no moaning in Old K unless you’re dead and angry.
- But if you must, please restrict your dirty hay tumble to the two-minute interval in which the church bell tolls.
- We all know this is a generous amount of time.
- Better yet: Old K is designated NO BONE ZONE. ONLY MY DEAD BONES ALLOWED THANK YOU.
- Also: stop smoking indoors ya ol’ butt bags. Old K is at full haunting capacity. We will send your booty to Bushnell to join Scary Jerry.
- Everyone hates Scary Jerry.