We couldn't all be cowboys

Today would have been my friend Terry's birthday. Originally, there were plans in the making to have a Roast for this day. His wife asked me to come and host it. I had to decline because a couple of weeks later I would be heading to my sister's wedding. But I kept thinking, maybe I can do both. Then he died and made the endeavor moot.

Only an asshole like you would die because you're too much of a pussy to face a roast. Please tell me you at least had the courtesy to throw in a little Sanford and Son when you were giving up the ghost.

Of course, if you had done the Sanford and Son schtick I can imagine your wife standing over your corpse screaming, who the fuck is Elisabeth, you manwhore?!?! That would have been funny.

That's about all I have for a roast this morning.

I miss you, fucker.

True fucking story: this was the day they buried Terry. His favorite band was the Counting Crows. Frank covered Ana Begins. I am looking up thinking, Terry has the best fucking seats in the house. I thought about him a lot this night.
(Photo: Ben Morse)
Squeeze someone you love. Not a one of us are ever promised tomorrow.

Titty Sprinkles.


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