Being 30 and Living With Your Parents Isn’t Lame — It’s Awesome This is a big fucking joke.Every year since 2001 I have heard about how bad the economy is, except now I'm supposed to like it. Bullshit. The economy was good from 2005 to 2007, after that everything went to shit. It's only gotten worse. In 2013 watch for a pent-up hiring splurge, watch people start going back to work, and watch Time magazine post cover stories on the return of the "homeless". English majors will be the first ones up against the wall come my revolution.
You know that old "work hard... play hard" bullshit that people throw around? I just spent six days in Vegas where I managed to eat very little, drink a lot... far more than enough... win 200 bucks, and still work sixteen hour days. Then I came home, missed the Indy 500, mowed the sprawling grounds at the McMahonsion, replaced the gravel in the drive and made it to several graduation parties. Sleep? Fuck it. I even made it to Mass. It's nice to sit in a pew, stinking of gin and stripper sweat, and remember how Jesus helped you pull that third seven when you were down to your last twenty bucks and you figured you'd screw the odds and hold the low pair instead of the pay card for once. Gotta love ol' Jesus.
...and not in a good way. Churchill's "Black Dog" is upon me. I am lugubrious. Moreso, moribund. I am blue. It happens. I blame a chemical imbalance. If anyone has some chemicals, I could use a couple. Brown paper wrapping, please. Normally this is a February phenomenon. This year, it's late. Or early. I dunno. Can't work up a shit to give. I'm buried to the tits with work, my kids are all growing up and will soon be gone, I'm aching, poor and old, no one likes me and my breath stinks. The lie I told in college about being born in Kenya? That shit's been dogging me ever since I got elected. Supermodels are afraid of my abnormally large penis too, I guess people are just damn picky. (I got to admit, the Kenya thing made me laugh. What an asshole. All I can think of is Eddie Murphy in Trading Places, "Want some beef jerky?") AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAnyway. I'll be in Vegas next week. Working. Booth babe duty. Goddamn heels hurt my back. Maddmom will be home, cleaning the gun collection and taking care of the rottweilers and the insomniac, violence prone, teenaged boys who carry knives and baseball bats and stuff around the house at night. Would it kill these fuckers to put an underwire in the top? Twelve hours is a long goddamn day. I'm old now, all I need is saggier boobs. But yay, Vegas. All I want to do is sleep.
I've just been informed via email, that the reason no one reads my blog any more is because I stopped writing about "my issues". So. Here we go... Last night I ate almost an entire group (crowd, mass, herd?) of Chilean grapes. This morning I had a bowl of generic Rasin Bran and three quarters of a pot of store-brand coffee. About twenty minutes ago I think I issued my lungs out. I am now extremely upset that I have to bail out my hall bath. Immigrant grapes and Generics are ruining the quality of life in my hallway. Bastards.
USFL relaunching! No grabass you little shits! (Inside joke) (Not that kind of "inside" you filthy minded freaks.)
On probably the most boring road in the world, I-71 between Cincinnati and Columbus. No turns, no scenery, just... Ohio. I decided to liven things up by filling the old iPod up with hundreds of hair metals songs.. with all of the Bon Jovi, Stryper and Winger removed... Oh, I'll keep the Cinderella out of some strange loyalty, but seriously, Fuck Bon Jovi. The summer "Slippery When Wet" came out, I had to endure thousands of replays... on the radio, in cars, at work, on TV... and I ddn't complain, much. Could have been because of my penchant for dirty, big-haired girls from North East Philly and Norristown, but mainly, I think was that it just faded into the background as white noise. There's nothing to it. It's the hair metal equivalent of Lawrence Welk, only not as rockin'. Now, when I don't actually have to listen to it, I won't. UPDATE: I spent most of the drive on the damn phone, texting, and running over teenaged black people in monogamous gay marriages, but only if they had been divorced and were previously Amish, Mormon or Muslim and smoke cigarettes. Anyway, I ended up listening to Wanda Jackson instead. And some youtubing brings you this:
It's my wife's birthday today. I bought her a present, but it hasn't arrived. Really. You can't lie to maddmom, besides, she can't hear you anyway. Plus, the nurse gets all bent out of shape if you work her up... on the other hand, it's good fun when she says things like, "Why don't you just twenty-three skidoo, ya mug!", as long as she doesn't manage to hit you with her cane. Happy Birthday, maddmom.