Thursday, March 29, 2012

Be alarmed, be very alarmed

I don't want to alarm anyone, but if being BURNED is not alarm worthy then what is?

Well probably lots of things are alarm worthy, burglary of course, a sparrow flapping its wings near your car obviously, and I for one think we should all carry a personal alarm machine that we can set off anytime we notice an eerie coincidence, spooky silence, or spookily eerie burglar in our house.

Well this alarm I am raising is for something that is at least as alarm worthy as any of those things, yet more so in some ways, because this one is happening to me, and that affects people greatly, especially people like me, and especially people so like me that they practically are me, and yet even more especially people who so intensely think they are me that they literally are me, and only people like me can think stuff as serious as this, at least to people like me.

That’s right, I burned the tip of my tongue!

It was on chicken, which is ironically often the most deadly of the tasty animals. Chickens are well known for their vicious attacks using chemical war far in the forms of food poisoning and salmonella, which may actually be the same thing now that I think about it, but I can’t be bothered to look it up. Of course the Geneva convention outlawed the use of mustard gas in war, and knowing that some people get ‘hot mustard’ as their dipping sauce of choice for Chicken McNuggets, clearly word has spread around the chicken community that a new approach was needed and they have responded by adding burning to their repertoire and introduced it with a swift unprovoked attack on an innocent civilian in a restaurant – ME! Those evil bastards! And this chicken that attacked me targeted me right on the tongue, that’s a very soft and sensitive area. Fuck you chickens. I mean it may actually have been the satay sauce that burned me, seeing as that was so hot it was literally bubbling, but I still blame the chicken, and I must raise the alarm because I am burned right on the tip of my tongue.

Yes, you know what that means, if I have trouble thinking of a word anytime in the next day or too and that word wants to sit right on the tip of my tongue there is going to be a painful battle royal my friends because that is the very spot that is burned, and this battle royal will be me versus me. Yep, those conniving little chicken bastards have found a way to bring civil war to my own body, and civil wars are always a bloody and painful battle that nothing has any hope of surviving without at least vicious wounds suffered by opponents on both sides of the battle. .

So I am raising the alarm damn it! And watch out for chickens, they want revenge and they want it bad. Keep an eye on the heat of your chicken, and if you’re eating nuggets get the barbeque sauce it’s much tastier than the hot mustard, and far less instigating.

Oh and by the way, who was that royal who famously led the British in the chicken wars? Um, you know, what’s it, um, it's right on the tip of my tong... AAAAAAAGgGGHHGGhggggghggghhhhhfghh!

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Question for the ladies

If I followed you all day would I get good exercise?

Ha ha, you see what I did? I made it seem like I was being creepy, when really I wanted to talk to you about your cardiovascular health.

Albeit in a really creepy way.

Did you know that a recent study found that 98% of men who stalk women are in poor physical health? What do women do with their time that could leave those following them around in such poor health?

Clearly if these women are remaining in stalk worthy condition themselves but those following them are remaining unhealthy then there is a hardcore conspiracy of the core hardeningiest kinds, and as usual it is up to I to expose it.

That’s right, women have a thin making machine and are not sharing it with men! And even worse they're instead guiding men to fast food restaurants rather than hikes, to cheese factories instead of steel hauling expositions, and to gravy injecting rooms instead of much healthier cream of broccoli soup injecting alleys, so what's the deal women? What's the agenda? I’m not even going to wait for an answer, I am once again going to rely on I to expose it.

The lesson is simple, men, listen up, time for less stalking and more inventing shit! If the women keep this up they’ll take control. Yes, women? And you know what happens if women get in charge? Exactly, they’ll start stalking US. Yes, it’s true, women have a big long strategic plan, now aided by a thin machine, to take away men’s damn near monopoly on the creepy stalky arts. Fuck you women! That’s OURS. Next thing you know women will want penises, and I for one will not stand by and allow a world to happen where women want anything to do with the penis.

Wait. Something went faulty there. I think, um, I don’t know, why do you people always leave it up to I to expose this stuff?

And no for some advertisements:

This blog was brought to you by the same people who often report that married men are less likely than single men to be obese and then always somehow conclude that marriage is good for your waste line and completely ignore that perhaps fit healthy men may find it easier to find a wife.

And also brought to you by cynics everywhere, how fun and not creepy are they, I mean I?

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

An important life of lessons

He hated being called a crook. Even from a young age when other kids would want to play cops and robbers Ol’ Kennedy would be all like 'I'll play cops and robbers, but anyone calls me a crook I'll bash their faces in, I hate being called a crook'.

'Ol’ Kennedy the weird violent crook guy' the other kids used to call him behind his back. 'If only they'd learn that I just don't like being called a crook' he would think as he bashed their faces in when he found out the nick name ‘Ol’ Kennedy the violent guy would be fine' he'd think 'but they throw in that crook and I have to bash their faces in, I just don't like being called a crook is the reason' he'd think, with face blood dripping off his hands.

And so life went on for Ol’ Kennedy, he'd make friends here and there, and most people would think he was a supper nice guy, but then the inevitable would happen, his new friend would watch a prohibition themed movie and start talking like a 1920s wise guy 'oh look at this crook' he'd adlib and it'd cost him three teeth, from having his face bashed in. Another new friend would be joking about Ol’ Kennedy stealing yet another ladies heart and say 'she loves you, you heart stealing crook' and get a broken jaw. And of course everywhere Ol’ Kennedy would go lively games of cops and robbers would break out, as they do pretty much everywhere and with every group of acquaintances, especially in Texas, Arkansas, and Beijing, three places Ol’ Kennedy drifted to regularly, and during a spirited session of cops and robbers that word would come out, and Ol’ Kennedy would be forced to fracture cheek bones, and cause brain hemorrhages as he bashed in people's faces all while thinking 'why do they have to call me a crook, I play cops and robbers at least weekly but I can do it with a civil, don't call anyone a crook, fun loving attitude, and yet here I am again, bashing another persons face in.'

The thing with Ol’ Kennedy was that he didn't like being called a crook. It stemmed from childhood when someone had thought he'd stolen a honey and butter sandwich and called him a crook, and then when he rightly said he didn't do it a scuffle broke out and he bashed in the guys face. Later on he was telling someone else the story and told them how weird it was, seeing as he HAD stolen a honey and margarine sandwich that but that no one had ever even noticed that missing. His friend had said 'maybe what you thought was honey and margarine was actually honey and butter' and Ol’ Kennedy had thought 'wow, maybe you’re right' and from that day on anyone who called him a crook would remind him of the day he bashed in a guys face who didn't deserve it, and he vowed to bash in ANY persons face who would remind him of that awful day, and since then he really hated being called a crook, because it reminded him of that awful day.

Yep life ambled on sadly for Ol’ Kennedy. He'd drift around, making new friends, building a new life wherever he could, but he’d keep finding himself forced to leave when people wouldn't understand why he'd bashed some ladies face in for calling him a crook during a thunderous game of cops and robbers and he'd be forced to drift on once again.

Then his hearing started to fail him. He started to bash people's faces in who hadn’t even called him a crook. There was the chiropractor who had asked if Ol’ Kennedy's neck was crook. There was the waiter who had told him that he could 'ask the cook', and there was the hotel clerk who'd told him 'I'll look in the book.' All three had their faces bashed in, and three more times he had to drift on again. He hated being called a crook you see, and sometimes he would hear a different work or the same word in a different context and think he’d been called a crook and have to bash their faces in, because he hated being called a crook.

Then came that fateful day last week, when Ol’ Kennedy accidentally walked into the farmers auction for chooks. As you all know he tried to bash in a lot of people's faces that day. So many that it gave Ol’ Kennedy a heart attack and he sadly passed on.

Sure we can all take comfort in his final words 'why can't people understand that I don't like being called a crook? Also is that brain on my knuckles?' But I for one will never forgive the diary industry; make it easier to tell the difference between butter and margarine you murderous bastards!

Monday, March 19, 2012

Truely magnificant

Dear readers,

I am a wonderful man. A pure example of the definition of awesome. If I were a painting I'd hang on a huge white wall that was stained from the saliva of an endless gaggle of gasping observers.

'Brilliant' is the word used by some. Ha ha 'some' when did people start using the word 'some' when they mean 'all'? If I were a beverage I'd taste like lemonade after a hard days work in the hot sun. Only this lemonade renders its drinker into a state of bliss rarely seen outside of a two hour continuous orgasm. Also, ha ha 'some'. Occasionally my modesty kills me. If by 'kill' you mean to say 'reminds me how brilliant "all" think I am'.

And wow, I sure am handsome. One day my handsomeness will cure cancer, inspire world peace, and turn everyone into lovers of the arts. Yes I am THAT beautiful. Wow, One day photos of me will be worth millions of dollars, and yet I am so generous that I give them away for free. That makes me the most generous man in history. If a were a car I'd actually be a bus, and the biggest bus on earth, and it would be able to fly, and on it you'd be able to watch movies, and then you would get to far away lands inside of me, and those lands would be brilliant and yet not as awesome as me. Ha ha, 'far away lands' why would anyone want to see anything other than a photo of me? Something I give away for free.

Interesting? Ha ha, I put a question mark, that's how beautiful my sense of humor is. If my sense of humor was a sport it would be a sport where everyone wins and yet the drama would still be so high that soccer riots would turn into cuddlefests as opponents commiserated with each other at missing my wit as they had instead congregated to fight. 'We missed Dave's brilliant handsome wit to be HERE' they would say into each other’s tear soaked shoulders. 'We should have watched the brilliant sport that is the metaphors for Dave's sense of humor instead'. Yep, that's how brilliant my sense of humor would be if it were a sport.

Dear readers,
By reading my work, above is how you make me feel about myself!

Thursday, March 15, 2012

I want to get into those pants 2: Even Pantier

The great jean adventure continues.

I went to the exact same store today with a plan of buying the exact same jeans as I bought two days ago, only without the permanent urine looking darkening around the crotch area when a great conspiracy raised it’s dirty little head.

And no, that is not a penis euphemism, and just for thinking that I am taking you on a quick detour that I was planning on doing regardless of your filthy minds. I couldn’t return my jeans because I had already ‘altered’ them before discovering their flaw. In this case I had put a couple of small holes in them, which may or may not have been the end of that. I like making my own changes to my clothes so I am unique. That’s basically the end of this detour. It wasn’t the scenic route, but we avoided all the construction work noise. Are you ready to hear about the conspiracy now?

Here is the thing, I was looking for my size when a staff member came and asked ‘what size am I looking for’ which is a question I hate, because they then take over the job of looking for your size, starting again from the top of the pile, re-checking the fifty items you’ve already established ARE NOT MY FUCKING SIZE!!!!! Sorry. But here is the thing, today the girl looked through the rack and said these words

‘Oh those jeans don’t come in the 31-32, but you can try the 30-32, the way our sizes work that’s essentially the same’.
‘Um, I am pretty sure you do make that size’ I replied ‘I am currently wearing jeans I bought at your store that ARE that size’.
She then looked down at my jeans, noticed they were a different color and said ‘oh we do make that size, just not in this wash’.

Now what I should have said was ‘I know you do, I bought some two days ago from this very store in that very size, of this very wash, from this very pile’. What I did instead was think ‘did I mess up my own size the other day, and if so what size did I buy, and how did I mess that up, because I was very adamant that this was my size, especially seeing as I needed to buy them specifically because the one size up of jeans in this store became too big, so there is no way I would have bought that size, and apart from the fly always feeling open, and the crotch looking like it is always being soaked in urine, they fit perfectly, fuck I am a tool, how can I get such simple things right, I can’t even buy a pair of jeans without drama, hassle, and looking like an idiot, maybe later today if I write a blog I will take a really uninteresting detour just to see what happens, that’s if I have any pants to wear, what size could I possibly of accidently bought?’

The sales lady obviously saw the quizzical look on my face and rather than reading it accurately as going down dark paths of teenage regression ‘this is just like high school you idiot, where you built up the horror of buying new school pants to suck extremities that you never got any and ended up wearing pants so tight that you now literally have nerve damage in your hips, that results in your left upper thigh being permanently numb, which was actually the result of your backpack from your backpacking trip, and why are you talking to yourself in this second person thing, or whatever person this is, your supposed to be a writer, you should know these things you idiot, just get some pants for Christ sake’.

‘I could have someone check for you’ she said, interrupting my lovely train of thought. Then she talked into her walky-talky and explained the wash of jean I was looking for and asked if they came in a 31-32. I am not sure who is on the other end of that walky-talky, I assume either god, someone at a computer somewhere who can look up stuff, or most likely no one at all.

A few minutes passed while I checked the stack of jeans one more time before the answer came back ‘no they don’t make that wash in that size’.

I was now convinced. I am such a loser that when I tried to specifically buy a very specific size of jeans I failed to get those two simple numbers correct, and I had no idea how, or in what direction. Feeling stupid and like an annoying customer who made this poor sales lady look shit up for me and talk to god, only for my ‘knowledge’ to turn out to be mere myth, I did what I had to do. I tried on the one size up and the one size down.

Low and behold the one size down fit, so I bought them, and slinked away into the night. Then I got home. I think you know where this is going.

Yes. The sales lady was there waiting for me. ‘Sorry, I looked up your address on the computer, I’m sorry for the hassle today, I just really wanted to get into your pants, and this was the only way I could figure out how to do so’ she said. And we made sweet, pantless love.

No wait, I mean I checked the pants I bought two days ago – 31-32 DAMN IT! They DO exist. Man at computer/ no one/ god LIED TO ME. I doubted myself for nothing. The most perplexing thing of course is - why lie? This is a conspiracy of the dirtiest kind, and I can only think of seven possibly explanations:

1. God thinks I need to be even skinnier
2. They really don’t like it when you cut holes in their jeans
3. All computers have now broken in a way that randomly throws out minor, yet significant, mistakes and will continue to do so until all hell breaks loose
4. Some sales clerks are idiots
5. Sometimes I buy trail mix instead of nuts, and then end up not eating the raisins because I don’t like them, and wish I had simply bought nuts
6. This clothes chain monitors all internet conversation about jeans, pants and getting into those pants, and having read my post from yesterday sent out a memo to all employees to make sure I suffer for saying that this store that I never named, and never will, sometimes sells jeans that feel like the fly is always open and have a unique colorization that makes it look like the wearer has always just peed his pants
7. American Eagle Outfitter just wanted to sell me more jeans, and rightfully thought this lie would help

I can’t figure out which one it might be, all seven seem equally as likely, so I don’t know how to get my comeuppance. One thing I do know for sure is this – now that I again have new jeans the next time I go out of the house with my groin looking like I have just urinated in my pants I will have ACTUALLY just urinated in my pants! Yay, New Jeans!

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

I wanna get into those pants

It's been a long and adventuresome journey but today I literally bought new jeans. I know what your thinking 'I want to get into those jeans.... Would have been a more literal title for this blog.... Especially seeing as I want to get into your pants bad, and I've been led to believe they may currently be jeans'

Well calm down, no one should ever 'get into someone's pants' without first hearing a story about those pants, and I want you in my jeans, so here is the story.

Its a bit of a roller coaster so hang on to something. A year or so ago I bought two pairs of new jeans. I needed them because I'd recently gotten so fat the one last pair of pants I could squeeze into burst around the groin region. Which is a bitter sweet day, on the one hand you get to show your underwear to strangers, but on the other hand your fat sucks your confidence to the point where your not sure strangers in Mcdonalds even want to see your underwear.

I was traveling at the time and I tend to walk a lot when traveling which can result in weight loss. And I was super excited you guys as my new fat guy jeans got looser and looser on me. So much so that by the end of the trip I needed to buy new jeans again to fit my sexy slim new body. Which is a bitter sweet day, on the one hand your once again comfortable but on the other hand now your pants no longer fall down in McDonald's and so strangers miss out on seeing your underwear.

Upon returning home I got fat again and reverted back to my still newish fat guy jeans. Then I got so fat that I ripped the groin in one of these pairs. This inspired me to diet and exercise till I fit back into my skinny guy jeans. Which is bitter sweet because my diet was so weird and inconsistent my underpants now smelled of bacon grease sweat.

Then I came over here to Canada where I am now, and I purposely only brought that one pair of skinny man jeans so I couldn't afford to gain weight. But I needed new jeans so I could have a second pair and eat the delicious gravy covered poutine fries every day without worrying I'd spill all over myself and end up walking around pantless. The good news is now I can eat without fear and so should be too fat for these jeans within weeks.

The point is, these new jeans, while definitely super sexy, have one small problem. The fly always feels open. This is reverting me to my awkward high-school self where I had pants that always felt like the fly was open. Sardonically this meant I was constantly touching my groin in public to check, drawing people's eyes to my groin, the one place I wanted no one to see, because at the time instead of wearing underpants I just dipped my balls in boiling bacon grease.

No in truth I actually wore the same stinking pair of school pants every day for 4 years, only getting them washed 3 times in that entire period.

Why? Because i was too scared to buy new pants. That would require me going to the school uniform shop and potentially, gasp, both have to talk to a sales clerk for as long as it took to measure me up, and talking to a human for me was a truly mortifying thought AND I'd have to be measured up, something so potentially humiliating I'd rather of cut off my own legs, or even talk to someone.

And I didn't wash them because some strange voice in my head suggested my social skills weren't up to meeting girls so who cares of I stink.

The point is, see how far I've come? I may still have no social skills but now when I need new pants I now GET new pants! Hell yeah!

Also see how much more you want into my pants now that you've heard the story about them? I say make your move now, or you may end up just hanging out in McDonald's waiting for my groin to burst.

Also I wrote all that's above last night. Today I found a very specific colorization on my chosen jeans. A dark patch of denim right at my balls. Wearing these jeans makes me look like I've always just peed myself. The point is I need new jeans.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

A word from a Dictator’s son

Pre Blog Warning: I'm taking a break from humor today to bring you something sad. Please prepare tissues for yourself before attempting to read the following story as written by a Dictator’s son:

"I walked into the bar just as the band ended their set. My Heated Jetty business closed down today so I’m really sad. I sunk like all my money into that business and it’s all gone! I still don't get it. People love hovercrafts right? But who wants to leave their warm ocean side mansion and walk on a cold jetty to get to their heated hovercraft? I'm right, right? Those two minutes walking in the cold can be almost unbearable! So buy a Heated Jetty, what’s the problem? It just makes no sense. I don’t know anyone else who sells Heated Jetties, so where are people getting them?

Fuck I hate the West, that's the third one of my businesses that's failed here so far. I barely had a single customer at my camel diaper store. 'The female circumcision business didn't take off.

They don't like my ideas either. They didn't take to my ‘bring your lion to your friend's amusement park day’ idea. And they never even listened when I told the local fire fighters they'd have more work if they used bazookas on retirement villages.

I'm down to my last 3 billion in allowance now, if I don't turn things around soon I'm going to have to ask dad to take over another country again soon, you have no idea how hard those calls are to make, there are like so many international phone codes, it takes up like ten minutes to dial them all, it's the worst, you just can not imagine, seriously. I shouldn't have to live like this.

I can't believe Pops sent me here to Oklahoma. 'Get to know the enemy' he said 'learn to live on your own'. Fuck you pops, your dad never made you 'get to know the enemy'. You got to start shooting children in the face when you were twelve too, but you made me wait till I was fourteen, just to be superior. You asshole.

I just wanted to hear some music playing tonight but the band said they were going on a break. Couldn't they have their slaves play in their absence? If those were my slaves I’d have caned them for making me look this bad.

Who am I kidding?’ I’d cane them regardless! Ha ha, at least I haven’t lost my sense of humor yet! Oh man, I miss my slaves. Anyway I've had a few drinks here, and the band hasn't restarted, there are no cute skinny Muslim virgins here, and my onion rings are taking forever! I'm just not in a good mood. I might just go home and snuggle up in bed with my lion".

Asmid got run over by a drunk driver later that night while stumbling back to his house and died a long painful death in a pile of dirty snow next to a dead skunk that had been run over a few weeks earlier. It's sad isn’t it? Hard to take really. I mean international phone codes are STILL hard to use and annoying people! I mean my god, when will the world learn. When damn it, when?

Friday, March 9, 2012

A New Era is upon us

It’s here, it’s finally here! The new incarnation of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ is upon us.

There will be no more ‘opening and yet not actually opening’ the well-known modus operandi of the proponents of the past era of the ‘New Era Adventure club. Thank god.

And, ha ha, of course no more orange shorts, the ill-fated theme of the original movement of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ who of course proceeded the founders of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ which itself was an offshoot of the ‘staring at rock adventure club’, that was developed by a bunch of rock climbers when they realized that that if you just put a rock in front of your face you basically get the same experience as you get from rock climbing, only without the need to pack yourself a lunch, which can easily waste ten minutes of your morning, or even fourteen, depending on your peanut butter spreading techniques.

Wow, look who I am telling this too, you guys, as if you don’t know the history of the ‘New Era Adventure club’. I mean at least a dozen of you guys have personally gifted me all twenty-seven volumes of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ encyclopedia. I mean, sure none of you were kind enough to fork out for the not super crappy twenty nine volume version, which I mean is a bit of a backhanded gift ‘here’s a gift, I just wanted to let you know that I don’t consider you worth a nice gift, but here’s a gift anyway’. But still they have the same information, so I know you know it all, even if you don’t think I am worth the beautiful font the twenty nine volume version comes in, that is far easier to read, and therefore crucial to my continued eye health. So what, we’re the new era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ and if some of us go blind who cares?

It’s not like there is no precedent to here to worry about. Oh wait, volume twenty two of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ which states ‘in the old era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ there was a new era who were based on experimenting with a new era of peanut butter spreading technique, who called themselves the ‘new era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ based on experimenting with a new era of peanut butter spreading technique’. This new era incarnation the ‘New Era Adventure club’ was disbanded after only one week after a member was left with a really sore wrist after attempting a ludicrous left handed spread’.

Well I FOR ONE am not going to ALLOW us to go back down those hellish paths. Not in my era of running the ‘New Era Adventure club’. In my era we eat our peanut butter with spoons, you got that right? OK? And I mean orange shorts? Seriously guys? You really thought we’d bring back them? They did not match our burnt sienna shirts, ripening tomato socks, and our carrot colored hats, just stick with the mandarin colored shorts like was written in the original by laws for Christ sake! We don’t need to add this fancy ‘orange’ color just out of the blue. I don’t care that they are easier to find! Plus ‘no goddamn opening something without really opening it, got that?

Now for the reason I was writing to you. We need to pick a new font. Something EASY TO THE EYE PLEASE. I want at least ten ideas from each of you with detailed reasoning by tomorrow please. Cause I mean seriously, if as the ‘New Era Adventure club’ we can’t stop arguing, especially in this new era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ then one of these days we may even get around to going on some adventures, and who can be fucked with that shit?

Thursday, March 8, 2012

That’s more like it

‘It’s been delayed a week’ she said to me on the phone.

And with those words, profound and powerful, yet unfortunately true. I was left with nothing else to do, but attempt to do something profound and powerful, and hopefully true, but not necessarily, because truth is so fucking overrated. I mean consider this:

Hitler? - TRUE
Globes made of helium that tastes like victory? - NOT TRUE
Erectile Dysfunction? - TRUE
Donkey wizards that visit children with boo boos and give them bottomless coasters? - NOT TRUE
Deadly spiders that sometimes live under toilet seats in Australia? - TRUE
True Love? - NOT TRUE

See! ‘NOT TRUE’ can be better than ‘TRUE’, or worse, depending on your relationship status and how that affects your need for coasters.

I for one am guessing that if you’re in a loving long term relationship you need MORE coasters than if you’re sad and alone. Because there are two of you to use coasters. And because you’re probably trying to impress each other with your coaster skills.

Yet kids with boo boos are never in loving long term relationships because for some reason that is creepy (the ‘some reason’ is that it is ‘really creepy’, and ‘immoral’, or both, up to you). And kids are the very ones in possession of bottomless piles of coasters in this scenario, which is PROOF once and for all that ‘TRUE’ love is not just a myth but a genuine impossibility.

But this is not a story about my flawless ability to prove things once and for all in profound and powerful, and unfortunately true yet undebatable ways, no this is a story about something being delayed for a week. Yes, A WEEK!

A week when I could have used this thing, or even ignored it finding myself too lazy to cut the box open after it became clear after two seconds of looking that once again I could not find my goddamn scissors! That’s how profound and powerful and unfortunately true this story is.

When that sentence was said to me ‘it’s been delayed a week’ I was like ‘awww man’ and then I was off like a rocket! By which I mean my feat were on fire because the room had been flooded with lighter fluid and someone had just dropped a match that had been lit on FIRE!

I guess in hindsight this made the delay of the package a blessing in disguise because had my thing been delivered it would have burned in the fire that burned my house down that some bastard did to me merely because I convinced his wife there was no such thing as true love causing her to divorce him and bang his brother and father and uncle and son, which frankly says more about her than me if you ask me.

The point is my box of coasters didn’t show up this week and I was going to put a glass of beer on one of those and without them I had to go to a bar to put a glass of beer on a square of sponsored cardboard, and a bar is the most likely place a person will meet the person they will fall in true love with.

Not fuck that, it’s the ONLY place you can fall in TRUE love, from what I have been told, and yet this did not happen to me. Goddam it.

My plan is to go out and comfort myself by going out and purchasing a globe filled with helium that smells like victory. They better not fucking be ‘sold out’ or even worse ‘not exist’ or I’m going to really fuck up some marriages.