Steve Perry’s latest post mentions the line from the Big Chill about rationalizations are more important than sex. What kind of week are you having when you have no time for sex? Seriously. I’ll tell you what kind: Fucking miserable. Take my word for this. Sergeant Sausage has been on bread and water for the past two weeks, due to me & Caren just not having five minutes to spare. Between the two of us, our work schedule has occupied almost every hour of daylight we have. For that matter, I can’t seem to find the time to evict a batch of orphans from the tubular ejection cannon on my own. Which is weird, considering I have the libido of a 21 year old nymphomaniac & just thinking about SAND gets me in the mood.
Maybe it’s the weather. Of course, it’s Seattle & we are just into our flooding season. Complete with floods. If my neighbor starts speaking to me about transportation measured in cubits, I’m gonna scream. After that comes what the local Injuns call the Time of the Big Winds. This is the incredibly funny, because the wind shears that rip through downtown have pulled off toupee’s, lifted dresses to shoulder-height, and bent umbrellas completely backwards, no matter how strong they are. The sky is constantly grey & if you’re feeling even the slightest bit depressed, you’re likely to drive your car straight off the next cliff you come to, just to end the damn thing. If you aren’t actually BLOWN into the next lane. Or over the rail. It’s happened.
Hey, speaking of driving, you know what that object jutting out from your steering column is? It’s a TURN SIGNAL SWITCH. Not that I think you would ever employ it. Damn thing must weigh a TON, considering how little you see it used.
And to top it off, the summit of suckage, the pinnacle of my misery. Every time I turn around, I see the one thing that I hate, the one sight that can inspire me to untold levels of HULK SMASH: Holiday decorations.
I hate the holiday season. I truly do. Sleigh bells ringing. And ringing. SHUT THE HELL UP ALREADY! Gods, the tintintibulations of those silver bastards. Bing Crosby, or some retarded variant, played from every sound system within a thousand mile radius. Oh, and do not get me started on those fake-assed Santa’s on every corner, ringing those annoying little alien headache-inducers with one hand & begging with the other. And that judgmental look they give you when you walk by and don’t throw your loose change into their oh-so precious pot.
And the hats. Did I mention the hats? Those conical red dunce caps that everybody walks around in like they got it from Fortnum & Mason’s. Idiots.
Everybody running around trying to grab a Playstation 3 (or Xbox 360) off the shelf before somebody shoots them. What the hell is that about? It’s a goddam VIDEO GAME! It’s not like they’re passing out tracts of land, folks. I remember when I was a kid and those freakish Cabbage Patch dolls were all the rage. Parents had fistfights over them at the local toys “R” us. You know what I’d like to see?
“Christmas Thunderdome!” Parents competing for Playstations and their very lives, using chainsaws, swords, bats and spears. I would LOVE to see this. I would donate my entire paycheck to attend one event. I’d probably cheer for the unwed mother division, with the ever popular Rabidly Vicious Grandmother category for alternative seating.
Oh, I know: I’m a perfect Grinch. And it doesn’t bother my rotten black soul one bit.
In my case, I’m doubly fucked: Caren’s birthday is exactly two weeks before Christmas, and because I’m a sensitive guy I won’t cop out and combine the two. Of course, because I’m a guy in the first place, I always run out of gift ideas early on and I spend countless days just wandering around downtown Seattle like a fucking zombie staring at the shoppers with their bags filled to capacity…How did they figure it out? WHAT THE HELL IS IN THOSE BAGS??!?!
I’m so easy to shop for, even a caveman could do it. Or cavewoman. Whatever. You could be done with me in about 10 minutes on the cold steel website, spyderco, or anything blasphemous with tentacles. Maybe a year’s subscription to slant-eyed suck maidens in bondage, or something. Shit, there I go with sex again. I have GOT to get laid, and soon. Fucking Starbuck’s baristas are starting to look hot to me.
I think I’ll go home and make a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich…“With arsenic saaaaauuuuuce!”
1 comment:
I'll see if we can find you something blasphemous with tentacles. That way the Xmas gift and getting laid will get taken care of at the same time.
If you're close to the edge and have had up your ankles with the Christmas Crap before Tryptophan Day I strongly urge you not to read Terry Pratchett's "Hogfather". Whatever you do don't read the section about the Shopping Maul two or three times. Every year Tiel does and has to be physically restrained from kicking over the holiday displays.
Hell, read it. Cathartic physical violence is good for the soul.
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