A conversation with greg's liver

A conversation with Greg's liver, as conducted by the legendary lesbian news anchor Katie Courick.

KC: Good evening folks, I'm here this evening with Greg's liver. Greg's liver, how are you doing this morning?
GL: Oh Katie, I'm doing just wonderful, thank you for asking! I'm sorry, did that come off as sounding sarcastic? Because I really didn't mean to sound sarcastic. I'm wonderful, really, come to think about it, I don't think I've ever felt this FUCKING dandy in a while. As a matter of fact, I feel like skipping through a FUCKING wheat field right now.
KC: My that was quite the outburst, can we use profanity?
(Producer:) Yes its okay, nobody reads Greg anyways.
KC: Okay then. Well, Greg's liver, I see you woke up on the wrong side of the body today. But moving along, how old are you?
GL: I'm 42 years old.
KC: Now I find that really interesting, because isn't Greg only 21 years old?
GL: That is correct.
KC: Uhuh. Um, Greg's liver- is there anything else I can call you other than Greg's liver?
GL: Well me personally, I don't have a name. I'm just a liver. But Greg gave me a nick name a while ago. He calls me The Destroyer 2000.
KC: And why did he giv-
GL: See I don't think Greg fucking understands how this shit works. I'm not here to work fucking miracles, I'm here to gradually purify toxins as they come, but last time I checked, I didn't see a fucking "Britta" sticker posted on my back.
KC: So are you sa-
GL: I'm saying Greg is a fucking retard who is hellbent on destroying me and my very existance.
KC: That is quite the profound accusation.
GL: No, no its not. A profound accusation would be calling the Pope a baby killer. This is just the truth.
KC: Wow, strong words from a strong liver.
GL: My entire body looks like Michael Gorbichov's head.
KC: Oh my, I thought those were birth marks.
GL: And that's why you're a dumb bitch. Could I get a cigarette?
KC: Greg's liver, excuse me! There is no need to get personal and no, there is no smoking in the studio.
GL: You're in Greg's living room. Now excuse me, you smell like a lesbian and Greg's drinking a redbull and vodka again. I'm heading back to work.

Why I'm marrying a sweatshop worker.

I was grabbing some paper towels from the top of a customer's cart at the market the other day when unfortunately, because this lady had the foresight of an amoeba, a glass bottle of blueberry juice displaced itself, falling through one of the holes of the child's seat and shattering on the floor. It wasn't my fault, because you're not supposed to leave glass bottles that I can't see near holes big enough to accomodate the legs of a 4 year old sumo wrestler.

Because of physics, some blueberry juice, responsible for many-a-stain, flew onto a young lady's purse behind my counter. The juice promptly became one with her purse, despite my attempts to get it off with some rubbing alcohol and elbow grease. The purse, having been constructed out Princess Diana's flesh by a skilled autistic artisan, ran her 3000 dollars, or so she said. And now, according to her, it was "fucking ruined".

And this is now where I say, I hate rich bitches. Ironically, I plan to marry one so I can continue drinking, popping pills and masturbating, necessarily in that order, for the rest of my life, but until that moment of adjustment comes, they can take their gold plated dildos and shove them in their eyes. It's not that all rich women are bitches and into superficial things, but most of them are, and that money could have really been used for better things.

This is now where I state my love for the movie Pretty Woman. Not only was Julia Roberts my [late night material] boyhood crush at the time, but I also connected with everything she stood for in that movie. She was like Jennifer Lopez in Maid in Manhatten. Pretty, down on her luck and looking for both a Gentleman and a Scholar to pull her from the depths of enslavement and perhaps slip her some alliteration in the form of a passionate penis. Maybe a nice sushi dinner or two, some saki, yeah, that sort of deal.

Women (I fucking think) just want to feel like someone loves them for who they are, as opposed to what they can provide (blowjobs). Then there are rich bitches, who don't know who they are, who define themselves by 3000 dollar purses, who will happily provide blowjobs as long as you slap them around a bit and occasionally say, "Who am I? That's right, I'm daddy."

Mentally unstable me and a down to earth girl who's perhaps a bit down on her luck, that's the paradigm of a co-dependant relationship, aka true love. Call it the Mother Theresa in me but I'll feed her, I get paid 8.50 an hour and yes, I still think money grows on trees. So bring it on.

the place where all the meatheads go

So I've been going to the gym because, you know, my day isn't complete unless I've smelled at least two good hours worth of fermented ass sweat and rubber.

Besides that, I get a kick out of watching people lift. See, gym rats basically fall into two camps. In the first camp, you have the dudes who want to tone up and look good for the summer, like me. Then comes my favorite camp, which would be dudes who were raped by gravity when they were young. Now, I know what you're thinking, and no, I don't exactly know how that happens, or if its even possible, but considering how these people lift all day long, it makes Freudian sense. They're spiting gravity for raping them. And of course, the more you spite gravity at the gym, the more you forego your ability to reach certain parts of your body. Which is what I see all the time.

I saw a guy with veins popping out of his ass through spandex shorts. At such a decadent display of ass bulgery, I had to question the point of all of this. Is strength even necessary these days? Here let me answer that for you: no. Is having ass cheeks that could crush a full grown gerbil to death really necessary? Let me answer that too: double no.

This is why I've never understood body building competitions. Unless they plan to juggle cars, nobody is gonna need that much strength. They look disgusting. And never have I woke up and thought to myself, "Gee ya know what, I think I'm gonna see how disproportionate I can make my penis look in comparison to the rest of my body. And while I'm at it, I'm going to smear myself with vasoline, so when I turn around in circles, I can look like a discoball".

I'm gonna start up my own competition. I'm going to get a bunch of dudes to stand on a stage holding up pictures of bears weaving baskets and eating sushi, and when people ask me what the point to this competition is, I'm going to be like, I don't have a fucking clue, and immediately these people will realize my event was a brilliant metaphore for body building competitions. Because never have I seen something so pointless.

Me personally, I don't know what women find attractive in a body. I'm just going to find some middle ground, not too big, not too skinny. I'd heard plenty of women say they prefer a man who is skinny. I do not understand this. Who is to spear lions and carry them home for supper? Skinny man cannot provide for family. But yall don't start looking at me like I'm gonna become some kind of meathead. As soon as I start to show signs of sweat, I'm out of there. Water seeping through my pores is not good. What if the stuff gets in my eye huh? It burns man, it fucking burns.