Once My Looks Go, I've Got Nothing

Annnnnd welcome back, for the fourth installment of "The Return of Friendly Tony." Hopefully you've been following thus far, as I've been bouncing back and forth with myspace.com/joeymarsilio in order to bring you this heart-wrenching tale. Anyway, without further ado, we continue: I returned to my former home to find the door locked. Repeated pounding on the door went unanswered, and I knew that attempting to ring the doorbell was fruitless. Ever since the time I tried to rig it to play a simplified version of “Rollin’” by Limp Bizkit every time someone pressed the button, the doorbell has been silent. Some say it died to preserve what little dignity it had left, but this of course is hogwash. It had been a horrid day so far. After my trip to Jack in the Box, I had ventured to a local tavern in the hopes that a drink might raise my spirits and calm my stomach. An elderly woman approached me, and asked whether Friendly Tony was my given name, or a nickname. I

It is a ritual that is repeated like clockwork, once a year or so. Despite its fruitlessness and utter futility, I have been involved in it many a time, and know I shall see it again. The ritual that I speak of is...well, I suppose this will require some explanation. My father is possessed of the inexplicable idea that he and I listen to the same music. In fact, he has said as much on several occasions. "See, Joe," he slurs, "it's great that we listen to the same music. It's not like I'm some old guy or something; I can listen to your generation's music." Now, anyone that knows me reasonably well knows that, despite my diverse musical tastes, on average I would say I listen to hip-hop probably 80% of the time, minimum. My father doesn't listen to hip-hop, period. I know this isn't going to change and, to be honest, I don't want it to. But in and of itself, it sort of conflicts with what he claims. Of the other 20%, I usually listen to