I realize I haven't been around much for you, dear readers. And I also realize that when I have been around, I've basically been bitching about living in a corrupt fiat-money ruled society and those kind of whiny soliloquies don't get as many laughs from the web medium as they receive at the local nudist colonies when I act them out in my penis puppet parties. Mediums are funky stuff to be sure.
I'd apologize for my lack of give-a-damn but this is a free site that pays me nothing and I have two jobs so you can all just basically take what you get and/or meet me in hell (I'll be the guy Satan cursed with an endless supply of beer and a tolerance so strong there's no way I can get drunk-the humanity of it all). Anyway I figured I'd use this post to catch you guys up on what's been going on in my life. Because we all know that there's nothing the average PIC reader worries more about than how the fuck I'm doing.
For the last four months, I've been dating a part-time surgical assistant who also models in magazines that advertise strip clubs. In these magazines, her name is Lindsey and she is available at a popular strip club in New Port Ritchie, FL. Her name is not Lindsey and she is not available at a popular strip club in New Port Ritchie, FL. Not Lindsey also works for several liquor and beer distributors. Her job with these libation promoters is to wear skimpy outfits and look like she's having a great time. She is recovering from a strong bout of bisexuality and her ex-girlfriends all hate me. She feels guilty about all of this trampy-ness and makes it up to me both sexually and by cleaning my home/car/umpire room (yes, umpire room) on a consistent basis. We fight about three times a day, drink heavily and criticize each other if our skin gets too pale. She's very loving, caring and totally… you know what? Fuck it. Here's a picture of her laying out.
And that's why I gave her a key to my apartment. Enough said.
In addition to my time consuming day job, I have also been regularly attending a gymnasium and umpiring little league baseball. I have been put in charge of training the junior umpires at the ballpark because they are all punk teenagers and we get along great (all the other "adults" at the park think it's amazing how well I work with teenagers because said grown folks don't understand that I'm pretty much still a punk teenager at heart). I'm pretty sure the main reason the punk teenagers like me is because they're horny young men and my girlfriend cleans the umpire room in tight outfits but whatever. I'm a role model… perhaps.
(The umpire room is an air-conditioned, grimy, dirt filled locker room sans lockers in which umpires change clothes, tell game stories, eat and sometimes gape at my girlfriend's boobs.)
In addition to umpiring baseball, working my job, working out at the gym, maintaining a relationship with Budweiser Barbie and occasionally writing stuff for you I have also been… watching television.
Seriously, I've been busy as hell and my downtime is tough to come by. What did you expect that blank to be filled with instead of "watching television"? Composing a concerto? Writing a novel? Please, I barely have time to argue with my girlfriend about what kind of body language constitutes flirting on my behalf. Life is tough sauce sometimes, kiddos. No joke.
Anyway, onto the observations. Logic and fluidity be damned.
It's hard to properly assess which is more evil: women or text messaging. But the combination thereof takes a little bit of my soul each day. To keep myself from going ballistic and stabbing a saline implant with a steak knife, I only answer every fourth text. This philosophy of avoidance only serves to alienate and upset my text-happy girlfriend, which yields more angry text messages… Basically, I'm about one more, "I luv u when can I c u again?" from chucking my phone into the goddamn bay.
I don't think I'll ever understand how members of the print media could have been so slow in adapting to the internet model. I mean, the mainstream media had so much information and so many resources at its disposal, yet it just sat back and watched random hacks who wouldn't even proofread kick their asses. This is akin to a major automotive manufacturer shitting out the same unreliable gas guzzlers while petrol prices skyrocketed… wait a minute.
Fuck, this country's citizenry are as lazy as they are dumb.
Boxer briefs are a fucking stupid idea. I just don't get it. All the discomfort of tighty-whities but with a greater surface area for the cotton to irritate? Well then, sign me the hell up.
Massachusetts: you can stop bringing Florida your citizenry. Seriously, we're full up on assholes down here. Got it covered. Thanks and all that.
It is the opinion of my personal trainer that I am not taking in enough calories or fat. So I MUST eat more calories and fat. Life is super awesome totally fun stuff sometimes. Seriously, sometimes I just want to skip to my lou while eating a chocolate chip cupcake and drinking a banana shake.
And finally, because logic and fluidity are gearing up for a sex picnic (they don't know what that means but they're still excited), I leave you with the following, which a twelve year old boy said at the baseball game yesterday:
"It's a good thing Red Sox Nation is only a metaphor, because if it were a real country we'd have nuked it already."