After hanging out with some "hardcore metal guys" he says he knows, my complete and total idiot around-the-corner kind-of neighbor Jimmy Albright now believes that his soul is some sort of fungible intangible. Meaning, he's thinking of selling it. I'm completely confused as to how he thinks he will be able to remove his quintessential self from his body without, you know, dying, but he assures me that this is totally possible because of some rambling, boring story he heard while listening to Shadows Fall. I would bet you anything they sat in Jimmy's garage, smoking pot, which Jimmy calls "Gramma's Breath", while Jimmy's mother good-naturedly gave them all the sodas they could drink. Which was as many as there were.
I'm pretty sure that Metal Guy will do some darkass meaningless babble in one of those deep, gravelly, still-pretty-gay voices that everybody knows how to do from listening to Killswitch Engage and Dethklok and whatever shitass nonmusic the idiot kids listen to nowadays while thinking about how many piercings to get in their disease-encrusted man junk. They'll howl, or bark, or maybe sniff each others' butts, and then they'll tell Jimmy he is down one soul and give him an IOU for $5 scrawled on the cover of Lucifuge 10K or whatever.
As soon as he gets home, I'm gonna be all like, "Dude, Jimmy, they removed your soul all wrong. You still have some on you."
I mean, after all, if he doesn't give away his WHOLE INTERNAL BODY SPIRIT SOMA ESSENCE to the smelly dreadlock guys, I'm pretty sure I can convince him that the Better Business Bureau will totally come to his door and throw him in federal, pound-you-in-the-ass prison.
Then I will give him some chloral hydrate and deposit his sleeping ass somewhere out past Pahrump.
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