It’s twelve PM on a Monday. I’m back at work. And yet I can still hear the sounds of tennis shoes squeaking on hardwood. Perhaps that’s why they call it March Madness. Maybe it will make me insane.
If you want, you can check out Court and Mikey’s latest Voyeur IM (I’d link to it if I didn’t hate computers and everything they stand for) in which they have a little fun at my expense. Now, I thought their piece was kind of funny, but my girlfriend, well she absolutely loved it. There is no feeling like the feeling one gets when watching one’s girl laughing at jokes about one. So to Faerber and Sullivan, in the words of the old guy who works the convenience store down the street from me, “Thanks for the yuks, you Chuckle Fucks.”
This week marks Spring Break for the local grade school students in the Tampa Bay area. Which essentially means that the sexual predators are all hearing an increase in the number of shrieking voices in their deranged heads. Because of this, I predict an Amber Alert sometime within the next 48 hours. And I’m not a cynic. I’m a realist, dammit! (Hey, who the hell drank half my drink?)
Someone threw up all over my couch, my floor and my coffee table; then they left the mess for me to clean up. And because this person is female, I can’t kick her ass. Life is a bitch upchucking on your shit. Wow, that was kind of deep, huh?
Lately, because I don’t feel like I’m getting yelled at near enough, I have been umpiring baseball games for a little extra cash. And you know what? I forgot how much I truly enjoy confrontation. There’s no feeling quite like the feeling you get when some dumbass coach gets a rule wrong and accuses you of not understanding the game. Because, after you finish berating him for being a dumbass and telling you how to do your job even though he doesn’t know how to do it, you are then free to ignore everything he says the rest of the day (because he has set the precedent that he is a moron who yells even when he doesn’t know what he’s talking about). Also, I love kicking people out and telling groups of people to hustle up. Sometimes, I wonder how this didn’t end up being my day job.
Did you know that they have special books that show different positions in which obese people can have sex? Could you imagine being so fat that you need a special book just to be able to fuck? I think at that point, I’d have to mix in a salad or something.
High school girls, I am only gonna say this once: stop flirting with me. I do not want to go to jail.
And finally, because this is one of those entries where I cover logic and fluidity with a thick coat of barf, I leave you with the following, which I saw on the window of a tobacco shop:
“This store is closed because the owner had to go somewhere. Hopefully, he will return soon.”