Who's with me!?
Thought for the day
I had a brilliant thought just now, but I'm drunk so I forget what it was exactly. As a side note, I think Toy Story 3 should have had a Raiders of the Lost Ark ending!
Injun Joe and the Pink MicroMites Part I
One time I was seventeen years old. It seems like a long ass time ago, but it really wasn't. You see, as we grow older, time loses its meaning, and twenty years seems like yesterday. This was 1989 and anything was still possible. I was on my own (except for the ones who were helping me out) and was totally into psychedelic drugs. I had many friends back then, because when you're using drugs, friends come easy. It doesn't matter if one friend is a hippy and another is a skinhead. You always have the chems in common. Anyway, this particular night, some of my friends got a hold of some of the most pure and potent acid I have ever known... we dubbed this particular strain of LSD... Pink MicroMites. the micro in the name came from the fact that these hits were about 1/3 the size of typical hits of blotter acid. The potency, however, was off the charts!
Earlier in the night, I was at the house of a friend of mine, drinking Bacardi rum and smoking weed. By the time the Pink MicroMites showed up, all inhibition was gone, and I was ready for the next level! The delivery boy explained to me that I didn't want to take three of these at once. Of course I was seventeen at the time and explained to him that I could handle anything he could throw my way, purity be damned! he reluctantly tore off three hits and I promptly ate them.
It's a funny thing waiting for acid to take effect. You can tell from the moment you take it whether or not it's good. When it is good, you get a shiver down your spine once the tab touches your tongue (and man did I get a shiver)! After that you try to stay occupied for the next twenty - forty five minutes until it takes full effect. This particular night, it kicked in on the way home.
The driver was using as well. We pulled up to an on ramp when he suddenly stopped and surveyed what lay ahead. I imagine that while we were parked in the middle of the road, that he was contemplating the pros and cons of using the highway to get us home as opposed to the back roads. He was probably wondering what would happen if he was pulled over. what could he tell the police while I was drooling in the back seat laughing uncontrollably while reading Garfield comics? How would he explain to a traffic cop that we were just good average kids returning home from a long night of punch and cookies while I was rolling around on the floor boards jabbering about sex with his family members? I like to think he had all these things in mind, but I remember looking up and noticing that he was staring at the street lamps. I knew that whenever his eyes involuntarily adjusted, it would leave a large trail, and then another, and another, and so on until he was seeing nothing but streaks of light highlighted by flashing colors like some sort of twisted neon carnival. At that point driving anywhere would no longer be an option. Our safety, his own included, was the furthest thing from his mind at this point...or was it? He stared at those bright lights for what seemed like an eternity, then calmly turned his head toward the back seat, looked me dead in the eye, shook his head slowly and said "no." He then proceeded to back up off the ramp, turn the car around, and make us disappear into the deep, dark, and relatively safe side roads.
Earlier in the night, I was at the house of a friend of mine, drinking Bacardi rum and smoking weed. By the time the Pink MicroMites showed up, all inhibition was gone, and I was ready for the next level! The delivery boy explained to me that I didn't want to take three of these at once. Of course I was seventeen at the time and explained to him that I could handle anything he could throw my way, purity be damned! he reluctantly tore off three hits and I promptly ate them.
It's a funny thing waiting for acid to take effect. You can tell from the moment you take it whether or not it's good. When it is good, you get a shiver down your spine once the tab touches your tongue (and man did I get a shiver)! After that you try to stay occupied for the next twenty - forty five minutes until it takes full effect. This particular night, it kicked in on the way home.
The driver was using as well. We pulled up to an on ramp when he suddenly stopped and surveyed what lay ahead. I imagine that while we were parked in the middle of the road, that he was contemplating the pros and cons of using the highway to get us home as opposed to the back roads. He was probably wondering what would happen if he was pulled over. what could he tell the police while I was drooling in the back seat laughing uncontrollably while reading Garfield comics? How would he explain to a traffic cop that we were just good average kids returning home from a long night of punch and cookies while I was rolling around on the floor boards jabbering about sex with his family members? I like to think he had all these things in mind, but I remember looking up and noticing that he was staring at the street lamps. I knew that whenever his eyes involuntarily adjusted, it would leave a large trail, and then another, and another, and so on until he was seeing nothing but streaks of light highlighted by flashing colors like some sort of twisted neon carnival. At that point driving anywhere would no longer be an option. Our safety, his own included, was the furthest thing from his mind at this point...or was it? He stared at those bright lights for what seemed like an eternity, then calmly turned his head toward the back seat, looked me dead in the eye, shook his head slowly and said "no." He then proceeded to back up off the ramp, turn the car around, and make us disappear into the deep, dark, and relatively safe side roads.
Liberate Tuteme ex Infernis
I've been drunk all day. My wife is trying to get her business to actually be profitable, and the only thing I need to do is take care of the house while she works. I'm not even capable of doing that. My idea of the perfect day is to be left alone to do whatever the hell I want to do. Of course when you're the father of six children, that's a hard day to come by.
I like to wake up around noon and then spend two-eight hours drinking coffee and liquor and scouring the internet for useless information about nonsense. Meanwhile, the kids watch television and ruin their minds in between screaming fits.
My wife loves me for some strange reason. No matter how much I try to destroy our lives, she always forgives me after a good cry. The other day, I promised her that I would do whatever it takes to help her with her business. Of course I was drunk and left out the part where helping her doesn't actually include housework, changing diapers, and cooking. No, I'd rather get shitfaced and allow the children to fight among themselves about trivial things like food and water that are not readily available because their father is a loser.Yes, believe it or not, in the deranged mind of the addict, innocent children do not matter. Whether or not they have food and drink makes no difference as long as the one who is supposed to provide these things has a hard drink in hand. Once that minor annoyance is taken care of, the kids still don't matter because children are an obstacle to enjoying oneself.
The human child is the most complex product of unskilled labor in the history of life on Earth. Any two people can have drunken sexual intercourse and conceive a whole new person. A person with a soul. A person so totally pure and innocent, that they will unconditionally love the one who blatantly places the importance of a glass of whiskey in his hand above the importance of a cup of water in theirs. At the same time, children are very demanding. They will love you no matter how much you neglect and abuse them, but they will not do it quietly! You see, children do not understand diplomacy. They only understand their immediate needs (sort of like an alcoholic). When a child gets hungry or thirsty, they will not grin and bear it like an adult. They will make a scene. Not the kind of scene that makes your heart feel full of butterflies like in a movie staring Meryl Streep, but the kind of scene that includes piercing screams like in a movie directed by the guy who made Saw.
In my world, the piercing screams of unhappy children are commonplace. I try to meet their immediate needs, but I fail. As a matter of fact, I fail at every important thing that I attempt to accomplish! I don't know why. All my friends that I grew up with are atheists. Money-wise, they are doing fine. I, on the other hand, can't seem to make shit out of shit, and I'm Catholic! I have no choice but to rely on God. Maybe that's the whole point. Either way it doesn't make a difference because I am not a man. I am a staggering apparition who places his responsibility upon the shoulders of an omnipotent God who loved him into existence. I abuse myself. Moreover, I abuse the ones who have been placed in my care. I don't deserve these little ones who have been placed in my care, yet here they are. Here they are screaming constantly for stupid crap like food and water. I can easily provide these things for them, but that would mean separating my ass from the couch, and I only do that when I need another drink.
I've grown tired of typing. Chew on what I've said. If one thing applies to you, beware! I may be a loser, but you don't have to follow suit! Love your kids! Love your wife! Love everyone regardless of whether or not they love you back! This is the secret to happiness (and eternal life). I may not be capable of seeing my nose before my face, but you can. I refuse to see the forest through the trees, but maybe one of you poor, unfortunate souls who actually took the time to read this can. Save yourself from hell! Learn from my mistakes!
I like to wake up around noon and then spend two-eight hours drinking coffee and liquor and scouring the internet for useless information about nonsense. Meanwhile, the kids watch television and ruin their minds in between screaming fits.
My wife loves me for some strange reason. No matter how much I try to destroy our lives, she always forgives me after a good cry. The other day, I promised her that I would do whatever it takes to help her with her business. Of course I was drunk and left out the part where helping her doesn't actually include housework, changing diapers, and cooking. No, I'd rather get shitfaced and allow the children to fight among themselves about trivial things like food and water that are not readily available because their father is a loser.Yes, believe it or not, in the deranged mind of the addict, innocent children do not matter. Whether or not they have food and drink makes no difference as long as the one who is supposed to provide these things has a hard drink in hand. Once that minor annoyance is taken care of, the kids still don't matter because children are an obstacle to enjoying oneself.
The human child is the most complex product of unskilled labor in the history of life on Earth. Any two people can have drunken sexual intercourse and conceive a whole new person. A person with a soul. A person so totally pure and innocent, that they will unconditionally love the one who blatantly places the importance of a glass of whiskey in his hand above the importance of a cup of water in theirs. At the same time, children are very demanding. They will love you no matter how much you neglect and abuse them, but they will not do it quietly! You see, children do not understand diplomacy. They only understand their immediate needs (sort of like an alcoholic). When a child gets hungry or thirsty, they will not grin and bear it like an adult. They will make a scene. Not the kind of scene that makes your heart feel full of butterflies like in a movie staring Meryl Streep, but the kind of scene that includes piercing screams like in a movie directed by the guy who made Saw.
In my world, the piercing screams of unhappy children are commonplace. I try to meet their immediate needs, but I fail. As a matter of fact, I fail at every important thing that I attempt to accomplish! I don't know why. All my friends that I grew up with are atheists. Money-wise, they are doing fine. I, on the other hand, can't seem to make shit out of shit, and I'm Catholic! I have no choice but to rely on God. Maybe that's the whole point. Either way it doesn't make a difference because I am not a man. I am a staggering apparition who places his responsibility upon the shoulders of an omnipotent God who loved him into existence. I abuse myself. Moreover, I abuse the ones who have been placed in my care. I don't deserve these little ones who have been placed in my care, yet here they are. Here they are screaming constantly for stupid crap like food and water. I can easily provide these things for them, but that would mean separating my ass from the couch, and I only do that when I need another drink.
I've grown tired of typing. Chew on what I've said. If one thing applies to you, beware! I may be a loser, but you don't have to follow suit! Love your kids! Love your wife! Love everyone regardless of whether or not they love you back! This is the secret to happiness (and eternal life). I may not be capable of seeing my nose before my face, but you can. I refuse to see the forest through the trees, but maybe one of you poor, unfortunate souls who actually took the time to read this can. Save yourself from hell! Learn from my mistakes!
I thought I Was Dead. Turns Out I Was just in Nebraska
I haven't updated in a while because I've been working. No, I haven't gotten a job. I've been helping my father-in-law on his corn farm. My father-in-law is the poster child for the American farmer. He can tell you how many inches of rain his crops got in 1978. He is equally meticulous about everything he does. It's surprising to me that a man so detail oriented as he is never swears. In fact, he never raises his voice at all. Well that's not completely true. He shouts and curses plenty when I'm around.
A typical day working on the farm begins with me downing 5-7 shots of hard liquor and wishing I was dead. After that it becomes a fun filled day of picking up irrigation pipe for about 12+ hours in hundred degree weather with no breeze. For those who don't know, irrigation pipe is how water from the wells is transported to the crops. This ensures that a farmer can harvest a good yield even in dryer seasons. A good harvest ensures that grocery stores around the nation can remain well stocked so that folks who never leave the city have enough energy to act all smug and laugh at the dumb-ass rednecks.
The pipe itself is made from aluminum and each section is 30' long with an 8" diameter. The job entails walking behind a tractor at 5 mph and picking up the sections, one after the other after the other........., and loading them on a special trailer that, coincidentally, resembles a medieval torture rack!
The other day I was so drunk that I became dehydrated and repeatedly dropped my end of the pipe sections while attempting to hoist them into the trailer. Each time I dropped my end, it would send a shock-wave to the opposite end that my father-in-law was holding. This would irritate his arthritis and he would begin with the shouting and cursing which he never does. At one point he actually instructed me to walk in front of the tractor. I guessed this was so I could use the fender for leverage. On this particular day I also noticed he had his shotgun with him. That's when I decided to get my act together. I resolved to take at least one drink of water from the cooler for every 5 drinks of whiskey from the flask.
Once I was stationed in front of the tractor, the day went much more smoothly. It's amazing how well an intoxicated person can focus on his job with ten tons of metal bearing down on him at all times. I think dad was in a hurry to get the job done because he kept instructing my mother-in-law (who was driving) to speed up! She was a good sport about it too.
My mother-in-law is the only person I know who's more heavily medicated than I am. Medicated or not, she handles that tractor like an old pro. That is when she's not veering off into the field and destroying all the corn! I'm okay with it, though, because as long as she is driving over the corn, she can't be driving over me! During the rare times when her meds are properly metabolized in her system and not impairing her judgement, she likes to tell stories. She tells stories of her childhood, and fun times with her family. She also speaks lovingly about her children and how much better off her other daughter is mainly because she's not married to me.
All in all, hauling irrigation pipe is the closest thing to purgatory on Earth that I can imagine. As a matter of fact, if I were given a choice between picking up pipe or the torture rack, I would have to think about it for a minute. You would think that being reduced to such soul crushing work at the hands of abusive extended family members might encourage me to go out and look for something more permanent and less punishing, but you would be wrong. A few days of hell in exchange for a couple weeks of heavy drinking is a fair trade in my book! So until next time, bottoms up my friends! Of course I can't guarantee there will be a next time as my internet could be shut off at any time for non-payment.
A typical day working on the farm begins with me downing 5-7 shots of hard liquor and wishing I was dead. After that it becomes a fun filled day of picking up irrigation pipe for about 12+ hours in hundred degree weather with no breeze. For those who don't know, irrigation pipe is how water from the wells is transported to the crops. This ensures that a farmer can harvest a good yield even in dryer seasons. A good harvest ensures that grocery stores around the nation can remain well stocked so that folks who never leave the city have enough energy to act all smug and laugh at the dumb-ass rednecks.
The pipe itself is made from aluminum and each section is 30' long with an 8" diameter. The job entails walking behind a tractor at 5 mph and picking up the sections, one after the other after the other........., and loading them on a special trailer that, coincidentally, resembles a medieval torture rack!
 |
| Torture Rack |
 |
| Pipe Trailer |
Once I was stationed in front of the tractor, the day went much more smoothly. It's amazing how well an intoxicated person can focus on his job with ten tons of metal bearing down on him at all times. I think dad was in a hurry to get the job done because he kept instructing my mother-in-law (who was driving) to speed up! She was a good sport about it too.
My mother-in-law is the only person I know who's more heavily medicated than I am. Medicated or not, she handles that tractor like an old pro. That is when she's not veering off into the field and destroying all the corn! I'm okay with it, though, because as long as she is driving over the corn, she can't be driving over me! During the rare times when her meds are properly metabolized in her system and not impairing her judgement, she likes to tell stories. She tells stories of her childhood, and fun times with her family. She also speaks lovingly about her children and how much better off her other daughter is mainly because she's not married to me.
All in all, hauling irrigation pipe is the closest thing to purgatory on Earth that I can imagine. As a matter of fact, if I were given a choice between picking up pipe or the torture rack, I would have to think about it for a minute. You would think that being reduced to such soul crushing work at the hands of abusive extended family members might encourage me to go out and look for something more permanent and less punishing, but you would be wrong. A few days of hell in exchange for a couple weeks of heavy drinking is a fair trade in my book! So until next time, bottoms up my friends! Of course I can't guarantee there will be a next time as my internet could be shut off at any time for non-payment.
House Guests and fish
As the saying goes; house guests are like fish, they both stink after three days. I never have to worry about house guests though. No one ever stays at my place for more than a few minutes. I don't worry about anything, though. As a matter of fact, I relish in my imperfections. Who cares if the people I love the most see me as nothing more than free room and board for a day? Also, that trout in the fridge is starting to ferment. The smell permeates the house whenever the fridge is opened! I don't care. If you can't deal with a little dead fish, you're not really alive! I had something totally profound and revealing to say just now, but while I was trying to flesh it out in my mind the commotion started upstairs. Everyone is starting to wake up! @ $
The greatest thing about being an alcoholic is that you never have to worry about... well... Anything! As long as that drink is within your grasp, all is well. My wife is, as we speak, hacking up a fur ball. I don't care, though, because I have a drink! While she's busy coughing up phlegm, the little ones are running amok while I'm trying to write something profound and enlightening. That doesn't matter, because I have a drink! Of course profundity and enlightenment are the last words in the English language that I should ever expect my readers to come away with (because I have a drink). If I actually had readers, I would expect them to choke to death on their own saliva because of their brain's inability to decipher enough information to differentiate the drivel being read and the regulation of saliva dripping into their lungs that hasn't been successfully drooled! There is a certain freedom in all of this, however. As long as I know that no one reads what I write, I don't have to worry about pandering to anyone but myself. After all, isn't that what's really important in life? Pandering to oneself?
The greatest thing about being an alcoholic is that you never have to worry about... well... Anything! As long as that drink is within your grasp, all is well. My wife is, as we speak, hacking up a fur ball. I don't care, though, because I have a drink! While she's busy coughing up phlegm, the little ones are running amok while I'm trying to write something profound and enlightening. That doesn't matter, because I have a drink! Of course profundity and enlightenment are the last words in the English language that I should ever expect my readers to come away with (because I have a drink). If I actually had readers, I would expect them to choke to death on their own saliva because of their brain's inability to decipher enough information to differentiate the drivel being read and the regulation of saliva dripping into their lungs that hasn't been successfully drooled! There is a certain freedom in all of this, however. As long as I know that no one reads what I write, I don't have to worry about pandering to anyone but myself. After all, isn't that what's really important in life? Pandering to oneself?
Loser Lay Off
I just got laid off today. I had this crappy job cooking for a second rate college cafeteria. In a typical day I would get cussed out by at least ten students. One time, a very attractive drama student complained about my split pea with rhubarb casserole. When I asked her what was wrong with it her face contorted into this unnatural look of disgust and confusion right before she began shrieking. Then she moved on to the sloppy joes. During the next mandatory staff meeting, we were informed of a new company policy expressly forbidding any and all employees who are me, to "directly or indirectly address a student, faculty, or staff member with either the spoken word, bodily gesture, or eye contact." When I filed a grievance with the dean of students, he told me to "stop sucking" and to kindly never look him in the eyes again as dictated by company policy. Guess I should have seen it coming.
Better Living Through Fermentation
Coping with loss is the most important life skill to master for a guy like me. Drugs and alcohol work most of the time. I'm not able to use as many drugs as I would like because the local dealers won't sell to me being that I'm such a loser. So after I got fired today, I did the only reasonable thing for a man in my position; I bought a gigantic bottle of cheap whiskey with no chaser (you know, because I'm broke and need to be more financially responsible).
The first swig of cheap booze is always the worst. Your throat burns, your nose wrinkles, and your eyes begin to water. That's why I always chug five or six shots all in a row before doing anything. Today I chugged 8, then I was good and ready for the drive home.
The Drive
The drive home sucked today. Besides losing my job, and only being able to afford cheap whiskey, traffic was terrible. Well it wasn't that bad besides the fact that I was pretty drunk by the time I got to the on ramp. I couldn't stop thinking about what I was going to tell my wife when I got home. Do I just come out and tell her about getting fired or try to butter her up a little first. I should probably just come out and tell her, I thought. The last time I tried to butter her up, she immediately began throwing pots and pans at me and whatnot before I could even complete a sentence!
Man the drivers out here are bad. While I was driving home, I couldn't understand how everyone I passed managed to be spinning out of control in my rear-view! Hmph, they must've drunk more than I did! Plus, there were like 5 or 6 patrol cars with lights and sirens blazing coming up fast behind me. I remember thinking I felt sorry for the guy they were after. I figured I better get out of their way so they could catch up to the guy they were chasing, so I switched lanes in front of a gas truck who started blaring his horn! I assumed it was a friendly gesture to the police officers to go ahead and pass because the coast was clear. I felt I needed another belt of whiskey so I looked down at the floorboards and reached for my bottle. By the time I grabbed my hooch and looked back up, the gas truck was in mid jackknife barely out of my line of vision! In my rear-view, I saw the fire, and all the patrol cars were wiping out in the ditch. I didn't stop because there wasn't much I'd be able to help with in that situation. Besides, the police were already there. I hope a couple managed to get through the wreck and catch their suspect. Crazy day I thought, then took a drink.
Man the drivers out here are bad. While I was driving home, I couldn't understand how everyone I passed managed to be spinning out of control in my rear-view! Hmph, they must've drunk more than I did! Plus, there were like 5 or 6 patrol cars with lights and sirens blazing coming up fast behind me. I remember thinking I felt sorry for the guy they were after. I figured I better get out of their way so they could catch up to the guy they were chasing, so I switched lanes in front of a gas truck who started blaring his horn! I assumed it was a friendly gesture to the police officers to go ahead and pass because the coast was clear. I felt I needed another belt of whiskey so I looked down at the floorboards and reached for my bottle. By the time I grabbed my hooch and looked back up, the gas truck was in mid jackknife barely out of my line of vision! In my rear-view, I saw the fire, and all the patrol cars were wiping out in the ditch. I didn't stop because there wasn't much I'd be able to help with in that situation. Besides, the police were already there. I hope a couple managed to get through the wreck and catch their suspect. Crazy day I thought, then took a drink.
The Seathing Underbelly of the Small Town
I finally made it to the off ramp. The chaos behind me on the interstate was fading from my mind as I began contemplating the horrors that awaited me at home. I live in a small town so it is customary for motorists to wave to one another in passing. I mostly just get the finger. Today was no different.
I figured that my wife might throw fewer blunt objects at me if I stopped to get the mail before going to the house. People in small towns tend to move pretty slowly. The elderly especially. When they see me driving through town, they manage to move pretty fast though. When I turned on to Main Street on my way to the post office, Mrs. Bergen who is a resident of the local nursing home was crossing the street with her walker. As I approached, I was going to give her a friendly wave, but she hoisted her walker above her head and broke into a sprint as soon as she caught sight of my vehicle. She must've been in a hurry. No worries, I thought, the post office was less than a block away anyhow.
The scene at the local post office was typical. People coming in and out. Folks chatting on the sidewalk near the door. The busier ones would walk by and put their mail in the drop box while moms were trying to keep their children out of everybody's way. I must have shown up at just the right time because as I pulled into a parking space, I noticed that everyone was suddenly finished with their business and they began to disperse... rapidly. So I entered the post office unhindered and got my mail.
Nothing much in the mail today. Bills, pre-approved credit applications that aren't really pre-approved, a couple of shut-off notices, and a birthday card to one of my children from the refrigerator repair man. Come to think of it, that thing breaks down an awful lot. He's a nice enough guy though, he always come out to fix it for free.
I figured that my wife might throw fewer blunt objects at me if I stopped to get the mail before going to the house. People in small towns tend to move pretty slowly. The elderly especially. When they see me driving through town, they manage to move pretty fast though. When I turned on to Main Street on my way to the post office, Mrs. Bergen who is a resident of the local nursing home was crossing the street with her walker. As I approached, I was going to give her a friendly wave, but she hoisted her walker above her head and broke into a sprint as soon as she caught sight of my vehicle. She must've been in a hurry. No worries, I thought, the post office was less than a block away anyhow.
The scene at the local post office was typical. People coming in and out. Folks chatting on the sidewalk near the door. The busier ones would walk by and put their mail in the drop box while moms were trying to keep their children out of everybody's way. I must have shown up at just the right time because as I pulled into a parking space, I noticed that everyone was suddenly finished with their business and they began to disperse... rapidly. So I entered the post office unhindered and got my mail.
Nothing much in the mail today. Bills, pre-approved credit applications that aren't really pre-approved, a couple of shut-off notices, and a birthday card to one of my children from the refrigerator repair man. Come to think of it, that thing breaks down an awful lot. He's a nice enough guy though, he always come out to fix it for free.
Home Sweet Home
Coming home is always difficult for me because the driveway is normally littered with beer cans, toys, and broken appliances. Sometimes the occasional dead animal will be obscured by the knee-high weeds that grow from cracks in the concrete. These things are especially hard to avoid while under the influence! I must have been doing better than usual today because I only ran over one bicycle on the way to the garage.
The walkway leading up to the front door is equally treacherous because I never mow the lawn and the dog will only do it's business on the stone blocks. I hate that dog. Every time I come home it attacks me and I have to kick it in the rib cage two or three times before it backs off. The dog's yelp when I kick it is the only pleasure it brings to my life.
Upon entering the house, I was greeted with the usual tones of home. The aroma of dirty diapers and cat urine accentuated the over all haze of cigarette smoke and insecticide. The sounds of my wife shouting at the screaming children only subsided when she realized that I was home. Then she began shouting at me. The children, on the other hand, never stopped screaming. I never listen when my wife shouts at me. It's always some nonsense about bill collectors and/or foreclosure statements and blah blah blah! Today was no different. She was still shouting as I made my way over to the couch to continue drinking. I decided to hold off on letting her know about losing my job. The shouting was stressful enough, and the prospect of dodging flying kitchen utensils was too much to bear at this point. Best if I just get drunk enough to pass out until everyone goes to bed. Then I'll have the night to myself. Oh sweet night, my single solitary time of solace.
The walkway leading up to the front door is equally treacherous because I never mow the lawn and the dog will only do it's business on the stone blocks. I hate that dog. Every time I come home it attacks me and I have to kick it in the rib cage two or three times before it backs off. The dog's yelp when I kick it is the only pleasure it brings to my life.
Upon entering the house, I was greeted with the usual tones of home. The aroma of dirty diapers and cat urine accentuated the over all haze of cigarette smoke and insecticide. The sounds of my wife shouting at the screaming children only subsided when she realized that I was home. Then she began shouting at me. The children, on the other hand, never stopped screaming. I never listen when my wife shouts at me. It's always some nonsense about bill collectors and/or foreclosure statements and blah blah blah! Today was no different. She was still shouting as I made my way over to the couch to continue drinking. I decided to hold off on letting her know about losing my job. The shouting was stressful enough, and the prospect of dodging flying kitchen utensils was too much to bear at this point. Best if I just get drunk enough to pass out until everyone goes to bed. Then I'll have the night to myself. Oh sweet night, my single solitary time of solace.
Oh Sweet Night or Sleep is a Nuisance
I only manage to get a few hours of sleep a night. The only chance I get to play Guitar Hero and drink beer is after the family goes to bed. Even then I'll have my wife shouting at me from the top of the stairs. Sometimes I listen in between riffs. I think she's really into time management because whenever she calls down to me in the middle of the night it's always something about "5AM!......WORK...." That's all I ever hear because I instinctively turn the volume up after the first sign of activity upstairs. We have no doors in the house because I kick them down all the time, because playing Guitar Hero is the same as playing guitar and I'm a rock star (rock stars never open doors. They always kick them down). Every time she wants to have a discussion about what time it is, she ruins my 231,234,123 note streak because I rule so much.
I tell her to leave me alone and nail the sheet over the doorway. That's when my star power overwhelms her. 
She dives down the entire flight of stairs head first and starts to throw things at me! So I start cruising from couch to couch while doing mid-air splits and ripping solos and hammer ons! Then she gets so into it that she charges me and starts ripping out my hair and tearing my clothes! So like any rock-star worth his weight in awesome, I kick her over the couch into a simulated stage dive and toss one of my sweat bands down to her. This is when she just can't contain herself any longer. She totally submits to my singularity of awesomeness and begins weeping uncontrollably! So I give her the signal to go wait for me backstage (a.k.a. the bedroom) so she can bathe me after my always stellar performance and we can make sweet love. I usually pass out drunk on the couch before I ever make it upstairs, but she doesn't mind because I am so bad-ass that she's satisfied just thinking about me!
I always wake up with a hangover on three hours of sleep. My wife is never there because she can't wait to get to work and tell all her co-workers how much she enjoys my performances. Life would be so much better if I never had to sleep. Then maybe I'd make breakfast for my kids once in awhile rather than vomiting all morning in between cigarettes.
I tell her to leave me alone and nail the sheet over the doorway. That's when my star power overwhelms her. 
She dives down the entire flight of stairs head first and starts to throw things at me! So I start cruising from couch to couch while doing mid-air splits and ripping solos and hammer ons! Then she gets so into it that she charges me and starts ripping out my hair and tearing my clothes! So like any rock-star worth his weight in awesome, I kick her over the couch into a simulated stage dive and toss one of my sweat bands down to her. This is when she just can't contain herself any longer. She totally submits to my singularity of awesomeness and begins weeping uncontrollably! So I give her the signal to go wait for me backstage (a.k.a. the bedroom) so she can bathe me after my always stellar performance and we can make sweet love. I usually pass out drunk on the couch before I ever make it upstairs, but she doesn't mind because I am so bad-ass that she's satisfied just thinking about me!I always wake up with a hangover on three hours of sleep. My wife is never there because she can't wait to get to work and tell all her co-workers how much she enjoys my performances. Life would be so much better if I never had to sleep. Then maybe I'd make breakfast for my kids once in awhile rather than vomiting all morning in between cigarettes.
Dawn of the Dead
When you're unemployed, 5pm is a reasonable time to wake up. As I made my way downstairs I was greeted with the sweet sweet smell of filthy cat litter. We rarely clean the litter box since the dog eats most of the clumps for us anyway. I guess that's one good thing about that dog.
Coffee is always a hassle in my house. The kind we buy is so nasty that it would make more financial sense to just filter hot water through shredded newspaper rather than spend the money to buy something that looks like a mixture of gravel and rodent droppings! It tastes pretty close too. Besides all that, though, it's the act of preparing the coffee that's the real challenge. Mostly because the kitchen sink always looks like this:
It takes at least ten minutes to clear a space on the counter to store the dishes from the sink just so I can fit my coffee pot under the faucet! Of course there's always left over coffee that has to be dumped first. Today I REALLY needed a cup of joe stat, so I peeled the mold off the stale coffee and nuked it while the fresh pot was brewing. Of course the microwave always trips the circuit breaker whenever it gets used, so I had to run back and forth to the basement several times just to enjoy a nice cup of stale, moldy coffee. I can't believe this is my life.
My kids know better than to come near me before I've had my morning coffee (or liquor depending on what's more readily available on any given day). Today, however, my oldest son wouldn't get off my back. He kept following me around shouting in that shrill voice that he inherited from his mother about a permission slip of some kind. Oh, and I guess I was drunk one day last week and promised to fix his bike and play ball with him or some such nonsense. Right, like that'll ever happen! By the time I made my way to the basement for the third time to flip the circuit breaker, I'd had enough and had to straighten him out a little bit:
Man, I just realized how much my house looks like Sid's room!
I can't wait to finish my coffee so I can get on to the drinking.
My kids know better than to come near me before I've had my morning coffee (or liquor depending on what's more readily available on any given day). Today, however, my oldest son wouldn't get off my back. He kept following me around shouting in that shrill voice that he inherited from his mother about a permission slip of some kind. Oh, and I guess I was drunk one day last week and promised to fix his bike and play ball with him or some such nonsense. Right, like that'll ever happen! By the time I made my way to the basement for the third time to flip the circuit breaker, I'd had enough and had to straighten him out a little bit:
Keeping busy
I decided to keep busy today. Yes! I resolved to turn over a new leaf and amend my life! First I needed a stiff drink or three for motivation. So I knocked back six or seven shots and read the news.
R.I.P. Tony Scott read the headline. Another gifted artist gone forever. Apparently he parked his car up on some bridge and casually leaped over the railing with "no hesitation." In case you were wondering, Tony Scott was a very gifted film director. His most popular film was Top Gun. Top Gun was the heartwarming story of the homosexual love triangle between Tom Cruise, Val Kilmer, and that guy who was in a hospital show and a movie called:
Goose was way more awesome in Gotcha! than in Top Gun. Like, in Top Gun he was a pilot and everything, but then, in the middle of the movie he kills himself by ejecting from his fighter jet! I mean, how pathetic is that? What's the point of ejecting when you're just going to die anyway? This happens even before he has a chance to dump Meg Ryan and have hot sweaty gay homo sex with Tom Cruise and Ice! On the other hand, it was kinda cool because Tom Cruise cried. At least in Gotcha!, Duck gets wrecked on Absinthe while pissing off a snooty french waiter, gets Linda Fiorentino, and defeats the KGB with a freakin' DART GUN! Oh, and naturally, the darts were red. After all, symbolism can be very important in shitty movies.
Speaking of shitty movies, Tony Scott also directed Beverly Hills Cop 2, starring Eddie Murphy and featuring a pre-geriatric Brigitte Nielsen. He also directed a movie about lesbian vampires called The Hunger, starring Susan Sarandon's breasts.
His greatest claim to fame, (and only true classic was a little indie film called True Romance. For the first time in his career, the actual romance aspect of the story involved a heterosexual couple. Of course, in the film, Clarence and Alabama are no ordinary couple.
Besides not being gay, Clarence (portrayed by Christian Slater while he was still watchable) and Alabama (portrayed by what's her face from some tv show and Dream Warriors) are actually married! Clarence, however is a raving psychopath who receives instructions to commit murder from Elvis while urinating. Also, after accidentally coming into possession of a suitcase full of cocaine, he decides the best course of action is to drive it cross country to sell off in California. You know, as opposed to turning it over to the police, or anything. For the sake of argument, he should have at least stored it in a locker or something while securing a buyer rather than driving all around hell and creation with a trunk load of prison! To make a long story short, by the time the movie ends, Clarence is responsible (directly and indirectly) for the untimely deaths of at least ten people.
Alabama is typical Florida white trash even though she makes it a point to say otherwise during the first act. She's also a call girl who believes that the terms "call girl" and "whore" are not synonymous despite referring to her employer as her "pimp." During the course of the film, she tries too hard to be cute and sexy, and can't find a bra that fits. She also kills Tony Soprano.
So what legacy did Tony Scott leave us? Many valuable life lessons such as:
1) Only white trash rednecks and sociopaths have heterosexual relationships
2) Fighter jets hate gays
3) Susan Sarandon never looked good, even topless
4) Murder is okay as long as you only target pimps, gangsters, cops, and civilians.
5) Eddie Murphy began taking bad roles long before Daddy Day Care
Worst of all is that by perpetuating his own untimely death, Tony Scott inadvertently created an outlet for annoying people across the globe to post fake condolences on facebook for the next two days! Thanks a lot, Tony!
R.I.P. Tony Scott read the headline. Another gifted artist gone forever. Apparently he parked his car up on some bridge and casually leaped over the railing with "no hesitation." In case you were wondering, Tony Scott was a very gifted film director. His most popular film was Top Gun. Top Gun was the heartwarming story of the homosexual love triangle between Tom Cruise, Val Kilmer, and that guy who was in a hospital show and a movie called:
Speaking of shitty movies, Tony Scott also directed Beverly Hills Cop 2, starring Eddie Murphy and featuring a pre-geriatric Brigitte Nielsen. He also directed a movie about lesbian vampires called The Hunger, starring Susan Sarandon's breasts.
His greatest claim to fame, (and only true classic was a little indie film called True Romance. For the first time in his career, the actual romance aspect of the story involved a heterosexual couple. Of course, in the film, Clarence and Alabama are no ordinary couple.
Besides not being gay, Clarence (portrayed by Christian Slater while he was still watchable) and Alabama (portrayed by what's her face from some tv show and Dream Warriors) are actually married! Clarence, however is a raving psychopath who receives instructions to commit murder from Elvis while urinating. Also, after accidentally coming into possession of a suitcase full of cocaine, he decides the best course of action is to drive it cross country to sell off in California. You know, as opposed to turning it over to the police, or anything. For the sake of argument, he should have at least stored it in a locker or something while securing a buyer rather than driving all around hell and creation with a trunk load of prison! To make a long story short, by the time the movie ends, Clarence is responsible (directly and indirectly) for the untimely deaths of at least ten people.
Alabama is typical Florida white trash even though she makes it a point to say otherwise during the first act. She's also a call girl who believes that the terms "call girl" and "whore" are not synonymous despite referring to her employer as her "pimp." During the course of the film, she tries too hard to be cute and sexy, and can't find a bra that fits. She also kills Tony Soprano.
So what legacy did Tony Scott leave us? Many valuable life lessons such as:
1) Only white trash rednecks and sociopaths have heterosexual relationships
2) Fighter jets hate gays
3) Susan Sarandon never looked good, even topless
4) Murder is okay as long as you only target pimps, gangsters, cops, and civilians.
5) Eddie Murphy began taking bad roles long before Daddy Day Care
Worst of all is that by perpetuating his own untimely death, Tony Scott inadvertently created an outlet for annoying people across the globe to post fake condolences on facebook for the next two days! Thanks a lot, Tony!
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