I would like to begin this by apologising. I was planning on continuing my boring autobiography a few months ago but unfortunately something has been haunting me.
I was driving home late Christmas evening when suddenly the radio kicked itself on. Rather unfortunate, I've never been quite fond of music, but even worse than that was something much more sinister, much more disturbing. A force of pure evil. George Michael's "I Want Your Sex."
There are very few things in this world that make me uncomfortable, one of these things is "I Want Your Sex." This, above all, has to be the most ill-conceived song to ever exist. The only song worse than Green Day's "All By Myself." A verbal atrocity that does nothing but hurt the soul.
So, being the reasonable person I am; I turned off my radio. I enjoyed my return to silence for approximately three seconds before my radio abruptly decided to function yet again.
I've never been one to easily lose my temper, so calmly, I changed the radio station. George Michael's "I Want Your Sex." I changed the station again. George Michael's "I Want Your Sex." AM Radio. George Michael's "I Want Your Sex." FM Radio. George Michael's "I Want Your Sex."
At this point I had fiddled with the radio so much that I activated the obligatory satellite radio that came with my car when I bought it two years ago but was never actually explained to me (or anyone else for that matter because I've never heard or seen anyone using it before). I of course, couldn't possibly see anybody wanting to listen to satellite radio because all the would play was George. Goddamn. Michael's. "I Want Your Sex."
I'm quite content that there were no other vehicles or significant drops nearby because I would have most certainly driven straight into or off of either of those things.
The moment I arrived home I turned off my car and stepped out. The noise was gone and I was safe. I worried about how I was going to commit my commute the next day, but I shrugged it off and unlocked the doors to my house.
The moment I stepped inside, my television turned on. The music video for George Michael's "I Want Your Sex" began to play. Calmly, I took my cellphone out of my pocket and was about to have myself admitted to the mental ward, George Michael's "I Want Your Sex" blared. Slowly but surely, all of the technology in my house aroused and began to play George Michael's "I Want Your Sex." And these devices were not in perfect synchronisation. The complete opposite, actually. None of the songs were within ten seconds of themselves. The music was deafening, and extremely unpleasant.
I am not a patient person, and I am not somebody who puts up with nonsense. And I was about to remove a knife from my kitchen drawer and plunge it in between my mastoid process and my ear when suddenly George Michael himself emerged from my refrigerator and began to serenade me.
This was, to say the least, surprising. Though there was a very obvious solution to all my problems and that solution involved George Michael's throat having hot, steamy intercourse with my knife. Unfortunately, things weren't that simple.
No matter what I did, the knife would not penetrate his flesh.
At this time I realised that I had clearly been hallucinating the entire time, George Michael, did not, in fact, emerge from my fridge. But instead, he emerged from my freezer, and his flesh was frozen solid!
Throughout the duration of this epic battle, George Michael did nothing but moan and hum along to "I Want Your Sex."
I'd grown tired of this. I exited my kitchen and opened the door to my basement. George Michael, having the nerve to follow me around my house, soon had his rear acquainted with my foot, and his face acquainted with my concrete basement stairs. Fortunately, I happened to have some, ahem, useful tools in my basement. Using some rope and a conveniently placed ball-gag -- have no idea how that got down there -- I silenced George Michael.
The physical one, that is. The song was still blaring from each and every electronic device in my home.
As an added insult to my injured ears, George Michael unfortunately looked like he was enjoying being tied up as much as I did every Friday night.
I won't go into depth about the conversation I had with George Michael because it involved less talk than it involved me kicking and smashing his head against the concrete walls. To no avail, however, because George Michael refused to die.
I eventually gave up trying to torture information out of the masochist, and decided to sift through my casual Friday equipment until I found some... oversized ear plugs, jammed them into my ears, and exited the basement.
My neighbours are kind, courteous people, and are respectful in the fact that they never make complaints about the screams occasionally coming from my house, but apparently I wasn't the only person unable to handle George Michael's "I Want Your Sex," because as I was walking towards the stairs, somebody came banging on my door.
A man in his mid-thirties, well-known for beating his wife and children. A fact that wouldn't bother me any other day of the week, but it was still Christmas, and there was still time to give.
"Good evening, Mr. Costanza." "I swear if you don't turn this goddamn music off I am going to blow your head off." "If you're asking for your Wednesday night session I'm afraid you're going to have to wait for Wednesday." I had ignored the angry client and removed the oblong ear plugs. "You little--" He had tried to punch me, a full throttled swing. As a small build, I wasn't going to take a hit from a man who towered over me, so I slammed the front door on his extended arm. My memory is beginning to fade, however I believe the arm abducted at a rather odd angle, and the man fainted. I proceeded to drag him down my front porch steps, knocked him upside the head, pulled the body through the dew-covered grass and placed him nicely, face down in front of his doormat. A shame he fell down the stairs. My mindset wasn't exactly what one might describe as clear, with "I Want Your Sex" burnt into my brain, I was just hoping the rain would wash away the evidence. Worst case scenario I just have some sort of lawsuit, right? Merry Christmas, George, hope you enjoyed the broken arm.
I could hear the street lamps pulsing to the tune of George Michael's "I Want Your Sex." I hadn't even been on drugs that night either.
I returned to my house and as I walked through the door, I happened to find a naked George Michael doing unspeakable thing with my ear plugs. Looking back, it was rather foolish for me to tie him up without tethering him to anything but it's not as if I can go back and fix that.
At this point, I resigned to George Michael. I fell to my knees and wept. George Michael began to laugh as his face twisted and contorted into that of a demon. I never thought I would ever scream in fear again until he slowly bent down and carelessly whispered into my ear: "You'll never find peace of mind until you listen to your heart."
Since December 25th. For four months. Approximately one-hundred eleven days. 111. I have been haunted by the ghost of George Michael and his awful song "I Want Your Sex." Please, help me.
Submitted April 16, 2017 at 10:05AM by obloquial http://ift.tt/2pl12ew nosleep
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