My Experience With Bad Beds And Haunted Sheets

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Texas and ranches are synonymous. Like big trucks and tiny penises, cats and sadness, me and grand larceny. Okay, you get it. I had the lovely opportunity to accompany some good friends to the country for some good ole fashion beer drinking, fire making, and gun shooting. These are things that Texans just do. I drink beer, but I couldn’t make a fire if you bathed me in kerosene and flicked matches at my bird. I’m just not one of those guys. I’m city. I’m from the H. Sure, I own cowboy boots. It’s a fucking law, I believe. I could sing every Garth Brooks song. I’ve been to many rodeos. So, don’t get smart with me. I’m a fucking Texan; I just couldn’t build a carburetor out of a dead possum, or call someone “ buddy,” and sound natural.

My buddy’s (See? Sounds weird) land is gorgeous. It’s full of hills, ponds, scenic pastures, demon sheds (we’ll get to that), and one small room for multiple men to sleep in. And, by sleep, I mean endure Russian torture on terror cots that make sleeping in a wasp nest a viable option. My “mattress” was one of those egg shell pads, and a flattened pool noodle, or something. This lies on top of a metal cot made from Turkish swords that guarantees the worst back pain in history.

“Billy Mays here for Ukrainian Death Cots.”

On top of Guantanamo sleep conditions, two of my friends snore like a yeti wearing a Bane Mask with sinus congestion. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Dr. Dre for the Beats headphones. It was by far the best decision I could’ve made. That being said, I DID get to witness the greatness snore sound in history of mankind. I had gone outside to go to the bathroom around 7:00 a.m. or so. When I returned, I got back in bed or torture gurney if you will, and heard someone snoring EXACTLY like “We Will Rock You.” Snore Snore Hiss, Snore Snore Hiss. Coolest. Thing . Ever. I deeply regret not recording it, but I had been drinking beer until 6:00 am, so let’s just say my wherewithal was not up to par.

Okay, so about the aforementioned demon shed. It’s one of those structures you look at and just feel something malevolent. At least I get those vibes. Anyway, I have this ghost hunting app on my phone. Don’t you dare fucking judge me with your candy crush and period tracking apps. Zip it, bozo. The point of the app is to let you know what the spirits are trying to tell you that aren’t audible. I don’t want to get into all the science behind it, but I’ve seen some shit in my day, and that’s all I’m going to say about that. I can hear you saying “like that app would REALLY work.” Really? My phone opens with my thumbprint, and Siri can masturbate me while talking dirty like an Azerbaijani, but it can’t talk to ghosts? Okay.

After 12 or so beers, I got the courage to go into the demon shed, alone I might add, with the ghost app open. The second I walk in, I say “sup, ghosts?” Just like that. I want them to think I’m cool. At that point, the app says “BETSY” in a robot GPS type voice. That’s how it does it. It’s creepy. So, like the dickhead I am; I reply “I’m only Betsy on the weekends, and sometimes on Tuesdays when an interesting craigslist proposal lures me out, but I’m Patrick.” It didn’t like that. At that point a piece of wood fell, and the app says “FEAR.” That should’ve been my cue, right. No. Not Patrick. I reply “LOVE that movie” and go into a Mark Wahlberg impression.” I’m not making this up. I wish I was. Another loud bang ensues, and now I’m scared. I say “okay, okay I get it. Sorry.” The app says “GET.” So, needless to say I GOT. My friends laughed at me, and that’s fine, but something weird went down and ghosts don’t like sarcasm. That’s my story, guys. Have a great week, and stay out of trouble. TC mark

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