I’ve set some lofty goals for this break; goals so dangerous my mind splits.
Why can’t I do this buddy? I’m not helpless?
So you know what …
I’m going to try to finish the first draft of BIGFOOT WAR ONE, that’s only about 3,000 words a day.
I’m going to get my SHORTWAVE JS8 receive-station for NOTES up and running, this shouldn’t take more than a day, but we’ll see. I need to make the script available and simple to set up. And maybe I start doing more dev work on the notes app again, and get it from BETA to … I dunno … just fix some things and start adding features.
I need to put in 20 hours of training, mostly reviewing assignments for Algebra 1, 2, and Geometry. This should be relaxing. I’m falling in love again with perfect squares and radicals.
But the break starts and I buy two or three boxes of beer and cigarettes and whiskey. I dunk it all in 3 days and then enter a 10 day rampage. I give myself one day to recover … in jail … and then I get fired in the New Year. Maybe?
The break starts and I put forth good effort with the writing bullshit and the various STEED duties of NOTES and GOATS and polynomials. I’m doing GREAT, but the harlot queen DESDRA shows up with love oils and romance-squirrels and arsenic soda. She’s only wearing a black trench coat, all naked and tingly underneath. She grabs my powder-monkey and I stroke her boovula, as she moans and groans the night becomes morning. This could happen, with a likelihood of 1/3.5BILLION … but it could happen.
I should “knuckle down” and get some shit “done”, but will I be the ESCAPE ARTIST on TV, screaming into a hot mic demanding room service, or will I stand majestically upon the mountain of COMPLETION and GOALS MET? – I’ve said too much already, and the target audience is tired of toilsome concerns and the burns from radiation.
I cancelled my DISCOVER card, and left the bard at Stratford by Avon.
I closed down SHOP, like the “RUG WAREHOUSE” from 1986, working on its 8th consecutive “GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE”. Who knew bankruptcy was so TIGHT. We tuned into UP ALL NIGHT, and Gilbert calmed the storm of youthful torment with his Tromaville flicks and his dickish voice. LET US REJOICE the forever “going out of business sale”, evergreen and clear.
So we move ON this CHRISTMAS SEASON … because we got special presents …
FROM SPECIAL FUCKING PEOPLE …
Giving us pause for CLAUS if the cause is made of bras, with BIG BOOBS and a story to go with them; red fishnet stalkings and a bit of the “reveal” so you can steal a LOOK.
Nope …
The grope game is SO JAPAN 1987 … and that’s over, it’s basic.
I see you on a Tokyo subway platform in 1999. You’re wearing coal-black slacks and a Pierre -AS-IF-I-CARE blouse. The louse next to you is drunk and angry, and he see’s your butt and takes a grab. Like a slab of meat, you look into his eyes, and he sees his principles and his backwards lifestyle and decides to make seppuku soup for the ELVES at the POLE. That’s Christmas too, in a bonded world of regret and torture.
So yeah, I’m going to try to get some shit done this CHRISTMAS TIME BREAK, but I’m not going to try too hard.
I represent the WINNERS at the end of the rainbow.
I represent the COOL TRIBE of TRIPE-FILTERS and alley catfish boulder hockey.
Y’all want to go down to Scoblies after work? – sure man, I’ll go down there and sit right next to your millennial ass … all smelly and crumbly … flakes of gray and decaying skin, discarded from my head and face as I scratch, dropping into your pint of 9 dollar beer …
You want me to come?
“I drink alone because it’s too expensive to drink in public.” – Dr. Freckles
The podcast I completed today, “CALL MINGE …”, has an error I commit twice: once at the beginning and once at the end.
It was unintentional and dumb …
I meant to say: “12 and 24 are 36”, but instead I said 12 and 20 is 36, which is false.
Thank you for understanding, I am not a perfect person. If it’s early enough, I’m tired enough, I’m plenty old enough? – I can and have made mistakes in my podcasts, but I try to own up to them and identify them if and when I am able.
You promised something fancy, after our affair in Arabia; when the lost Victoria Zantos-Rockus-Mueller left me for that BRUTE and chesty freak FRANK. He yanked the love button and VICKY dropped her panties into the toilet. Is it going to be like that?
What are you getting me for BOXING DAY?
That autographed mouth guard signed by MIKE TYSON? The one he wore when he bit that guy’s ear off or the one he wore when he got his ass kicked? He was and is a fighter, but could he be a faker as well? Making money the old fashioned way: like the plot of pulp fiction but Bruce obeys his boss, he was supposed to lose and he did.
When the SPRING rolls around you BETCHA there’ll be dollar sized pancakes and butternut grill for the gardeners and the fire forgers. You said “Dan, I’ll give you busket reef and tyg”, and I’ll say “Buddy, that’s a feast!”, and as the sun sets in the WEST the wanderers will start their styrofoam fires and toss another tire on the pyre.
I might want a horse or a pony?
I might want a toy train or an electronic brain?
You might go to FRY’S, if they were still open, or RADIO SHACK, if they hadn’t gone bankrupt again, but they never die. They zombie back like BOSTON MARKET, and you get that sweet and nasty pot roast pudding again you sad old fuck.
Buy me a truck, make it diesel, roll some coal, smoke a bowl.
Buy me that duramax with the broken header and the leaky gasket.
Understand: this is a study in cognitive dissonance, because a fair number of middle to upper level GOP operatives and MAGA HEADS received PPP funds. So, a commie by any other name still smells as foul?
