Well, I tried. I started three — count ’em, three — posts tonight, and none of ’em went anywhere. I guess I just ran out of gas. But, I’ll try flinging poo at the blackboard one more time, to see what sticks. Let’s try some ‘queek heeters‘; maybe a collection of teeny little tidbits will be easier to manage than one big, huge monster. It’s like lining up a dozen ordinary men, rather than wheeling out John Holmes. You know what I’m sayin’.
So, let’s see, then. I guess I can just say whatever the hell I want, and flit from topic to topic willy-nilly. If I’ve done my job correctly, then your expectations have been sufficiently lowered to the point where I really can’t screw this up. You can’t be unpleasantly surprised. So that only leaves the question: just what is on my mind, anyway?
Well, for one thing, I can see that I’m watching too much West Wing lately. I swear to god, this thing is the new Friends. I’m convinced that there is no time when the damned show is not on. It’s still on in prime time, and it’s syndicated on six or eight other channels. Every time I turn the damned TV on, there’s Martin Sheen and Rob Lowe and the gang, with their fancy suits and plastic smiles, staring back out at me. It’s creepy.
And now I know I’m watching too much — SportCenter is on, and I’m not even paying attention to the highlights. I’m just waiting for them to show the anchors, so I can continue to determine how much Linda Cohn looks like CJ from the show. Clearly, dementia is setting in.
There’s been an enormous, nasty, hairy-assed black fly flitting around the house for the past three days. I finally smacked it into the kitchen sink tonight, and washed it down the drain.
(But I didn’t turn on the garbage disposal. I believe in giving my prey a fighting chance.)
It’s nice to be rid of the thing, but I can’t help wondering whether the thing laid eggs in the potato chips or somewhere before I dispatched it. And if it did, how would my wife and I ever know?
Me: Honey? Do these chips you bought have mushrooms on them?
Her: Um… no. Why? Do they look funny?
Me: Yeah, a little. And they smell a little musky.
Her: Well, if they’re stale or something, just throw them away.
Me: But… there aren’t any more bags of chips.
Her: I guess you’ll just have to go without, then.
Me: But… but… hmmmm…
Her: What is it? Did you throw those chips away?
Me: Nope. I’m sure they’re *crunch* fine. I decided they didn’t smell so bad, after all. *munch munch*
See? Clearly, there’s no way we could tell. It’s impossible.
Eggs in the snacks would be doubly inconvenient, too, for the child flies would get their genes from the one I sink-flushed. And that was an annoying goddamned fly, let me tell you. It kept trying to get into the freezer, for reasons that still aren’t clear to me. Maybe it didn’t realize how cold it is in there, but I’m still not sure what the attraction would be for a small, pestery insect. Did it have a thing for ice cream? Maybe it smelled the beef-like substance in my frozen dinners? Or perhaps we’ve already accidentally trapped flies in there, and this guy was on some kind of search-and-rescue mission. I honestly don’t know. All I can say for sure is that he really wanted to check out our freezer — I had to shoo him out of there three or four times this week. And now, he’s swimming with the fishes. Maybe that’s cold enough for him, the little parasite bastard. Serves him right.
I got caught belting out tunes in the car again. You’d think I’d learn my humiliating lesson, but no. At least this time, it wasn’t Hole. I had the Foo Fighters‘ ‘Waxed Actors’ looping on the CD player in the car, singing along with it over and over… and over.
Actually, that’s not really unusual for me. I often get stuck on a song, and repeat it ad nauseum, ad infinitum, and ad coworker-pissum-offum, until I obsess over something different. For several months — yes, months! — it was ‘Spybreak’ by the Propellerheads. (That’s the music playing during the ‘lobby scene’ in the original Matrix.) It doesn’t actually have any words, but that never stopped me from making a boob out of myself by singing along in the car:
‘Doo doo doo de-doo-de-doo… Doo doo doo de-doo-de-doo… Do-de-diggy diggy doodle diggy diggy diggy…‘
(Yes, folks, I need help. Real, professional help. Plus a bottle of tequila, and maybe a cattle prod. Help me?)
Anyway, for a few days recently, it was the title track off of Hole’s Celebrity Skin, and now, I’ve moved on to the Foo Fighters. At least now I can embarrass myself by singing real words — in English — instead of making up ridiculous baby-talk noises to match the instrumental songs. That doesn’t make me feel much better, but a little. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.
Well, I think that’ll do it. Hopefully, this will tide you over until tomorrow. As usual, I’m up a couple of hours later than I really wanted to be (and later than I’m backdating this post to), and I can feel myself starting to nod off. Pretty soon, I’ll be sprawled out with one hand down my pants a la Al Bundy, drooling on the couch pillows while I pretend I’m just ‘resting my eyes’. And there’s gonna be plenty of time for sad shit like that once I’m grandpa-age.
(Hey, it comes with the territory. Who am I to buck tradition?)
So, I think it’s time for me to hit the hay. I’ll get a few hours’ worth of sleep, and be back tomorrow with fresh drivel. You should go get some rest, too. I don’t want to see you half-ass reading out there. Don’t just mail it in. We’ve all got our part to play, man — make sure you hold up your end, all right? I’ll see you tomorrow.Permalink | 5 Comments