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Friday, February 3, 2023
Tuesday, May 16, 2017
AM Shift Manager Paul Ryan Speaks at the Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome Morning Meeting
Gather ‘round. Gather ‘round…
“Nice To See You’re Still Alive, Losers.” Why are
you guys looking at me like I’m wearing a dead squid like a hat? That’s the
official Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome customer greeting. That’s right, troops.
I got big news. You no longer work for Happy Humphrey’s Burger Palace. As you
know we’re under new management. That said…yes, the five-foot pockmarked
vomiting cartoon heart-monitor on the marquee is our new mascot, Barfy
McFlatline. A truckload of plush Barfy squeeze dolls for Fuck You Big Smile
Kiddy Meals are en route as I speak.
Now, everyone, can we practice the new Big Ol’ Fuck
You Burger Dome greeting? With gusto…3,2,1…hell yeah! That’s the spirit. Nice
to see most of you are aboard so quickly, and without pause or inquiry. What
the heck is wrong with a little less than half of you? You better pep up post
haste. You don’t want last Tuesday’s uneaten Fuck You Gone Repealin’ Fish
Sandwiches stuffed in your breakroom locker, do you? I’ll do it. I swear I’ll
do it.
Listen, when I unlock the entrance and the herd
rushes in for their Fuck You Bucket O’ Scrapple with side Turd Tots, smile like
you stumbled upon a duffle bag full of white privilege down by the trains
tracks, and say “Hey, Nice To See You’re Still Alive, Loser.” Everybody. Loud
and proud. Okay? It’s not a choice, people. In case you forget the motto, it’ll
be under your name on the shiny new Fuck You pins I’m handing out now. Take a
gander at mine: “Hi. My name is Shift Manager Paul. Fuck You.”
Okay, moving on. I need to inform you all of a few more
decisions from regional management that need implemented yesterday, no
exceptions. First and foremost, the 99 Cent Pocket Change menu has been
discontinued. Poof. If a customer can’t afford anything off the regular Fuck
You menu, said customer will just have to go hungry. It’s that simple.
Next, we are damn proud to announce that the prices
of all items on the Glowering Don Fuck You Combo Menu have decreased. However, the menu has been scaled back just a
wee tad. The advertised price of any of the selections off the Glowering Don
Fuck You Combo Menu now only cover a yet-to-be-determined portion of the meat
patty, your choice of the top or bottom half of the bun, 13 fries, 7.3 sesame
seeds, a “smidgeon” of lettuce, and the bubbly top part of the soda. Everything
else—onions, tomatoes, pickles, the other 9 fries or 27.7 sesame seeds,
etc.—are priced a la carte.
Furthermore, we won’t advertise the price of these
non-essential items. Customers will receive an invoice from Big Ol’ Fuck You
Burger Dome in 1-3 months. Cashiers, you will be required to casually leaf
through the written protocol detailing the new billing process. If a customer
says “huh?” or “wait, what–?” or issues similar expressions of confusion or
incomprehension, read the text to them. But fast, okay? We’re not feeding these
people for their health.
Oh, here’s an exciting new feature. Customers may
now choose to have one of those colored tooth picks stuck into their sandwich.
These adornments are offered at the small fee of full price, as they are for
cosmetic purposes only. Customers’ entry into the premises constitute their
binding acceptance of a waiver of our liability if they, or their minor child,
eats one. FYI.
We will also be following an age-based pricing
policy. For instance, take the Fuck You Wake ‘n Bacon Croissant. Let’s say
you’re 23 years-old and spry, and just stopping by for a quick bite. You’re
still young enough to decide not to be poor for the rest of your life. But the
older you get, the more of an investment breakfast becomes. For those older
folk who’ve made poor life choices, who depend on the Fuck You Wake ‘n Bacon
Croissant for survival morning-after-morning—perhaps because they’re too needy
to shop at Whole Foods, or too enfeebled to push a grocery cart, or hell, maybe
their nursing home trolley only stops here—there’s a soup kitchen up in Canada,
Grandpa. On the other hand, parents of all ages are still allowed to share
their leftovers with their children, provided said children are 26 years of age
or younger.
Listen up, this is an important one—customers
seeking the Great Again All-You-Can-Eat Salad Buffet will not be allowed to
partake in dining if they enter the premises with pre-existing hunger. A fellow
who skips breakfast then pays seven dollars for the buffet, but eats seven
dollars and thirty seven cents worth of iceberg lettuce and fixins’…well, you
don’t gotta’ be Copernicus to know that that equals an unsustainable lunch
model. Hunger must be acquired on Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome property, formal
geographical co-ordinates of which are of course available at the Country
Registrar’s Office.
Finally, and we won’t advertise this for obvious
reasons, but one out of every 150 Fuck You Big Coup-huna Burgers may or may not
be saturated with potassium cyanide. Hey, such is the unavoidable collateral
cost of providing such hearty meals to a hungry populace at the cut-rate costs
available only from your local China. Besides, Big Ol’ Fuck You Burger Dome
mercifully gives customers the god-damn freedom to opt out of any participation
in dining. Which is to say, nobody here
is being strong-armed to pay a grossly unfair fee for possibly dying. It’s
called “freedom” for a reason. We all want freedom-from-death, and sometimes
you can actually have it.
I know what you guys are thinking. “Shift Manager
Ryan, as both an employee and a loyal customer of Big Ol’Fuck You Burger Dome,
will I also be eligible and/or forced to take advantage of all these awesome
changes?” The answers is no. All employees are exempt. Sorry.
Ok, so let’s all hustle our butts today, and be sure
to implement and enforce all policy changes as hurriedly as possible. Yes, some
customers may give you guff concerning the new and improved Fuck You policies.
Tell them to call their congressman. Oh, one last thing. Fuck You Super-Patriot
Freedom Fries are off the menu today. Bernie, the mouthy line cook, called in
sick.
Hey, who knew the deep fryer was so complicated.
Hey Ellis
I have pledged to myself time and again to ignore
the headlines and go back to writing Monongahela River Fish Power Rankings, or
Gary Busey's Commencement Speech at Southwest Paducah Institute of Driveway
Drainage, or whatnot. But I can't. My buddies say "less politics, and more
Bumper Balls reviews." But I just can't.
The chorus of gobbledygook sung from the DC Shitshow
All Star Band is an earworm that's munched into my brain and nests in the
frontal cortex. (I mean, for Christ's sake, whenever Trump sullies the airwaves
you can practically see the shiny zipper on the human body suit that disguises
the babbling gollum underneath). Short of pouring potassium cyanide into my
ear, I'll just have to deal.
I don't blame Trump for the mess. He is who he is; I
don't blame my four-year-old son when he dumps his bowl of noodles. I don't
even blame the GOP in Congress, really. Sure, they're greedy cutthroat
mercenaries who disembowel common feeders to feast like royalty themselves, but god love 'em
for being true to themselves. Who I want to curb stomp with nuclear-tipped duct
boots is the sea-to-sea league of nincompoops who rolled out the plush red
carpets for the child king and his merry gaggle of dickheads. These people are
the real disease, and they've developed pseudoscientific, dogmatic, patriotic
antibodies to facts and critical thinking.
Regarding genetically engineering embryos to achieve
certain traits—I recall my college Biology 301 professor saying that humans
have evolved to the point where DNA can be altered so that a baby is born with
blue-eyes and a cleft-chin, if that's the parents' desire. Therefore, the
thinking goes, genetic engineering is as biologically natural as two penguins humping or a sprout of ragwort growing in a cruddy gutter. That concept
blew my mind. That humans have developed the technology capable of destroying
the planet via greenhouse gases or H-bombs, or mastered the mass manipulation
skills to convince a zombie population to vote against their own interests,
etc, etc, etc...I can't help but think that the self-inflicted oxidation of
mankind is simply nature taking its course, albeit in a macabre yet poetic way,
like when a bee stings an enemy to survive, but dies when it rips its fucking
guts out attempting to flee.
As George Carlin once said, we in America have front
row seats to the freak show that is humanity. Maybe it's time to stop throwing
tomatoes at the stage, and start eating popcorn instead. White cheddar, please.
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
I'm Thinking About Adopting a Terminally Sick Hamster For My Son
Throughout
much of April and May, our backyard was home to a garter snake. My son Uri
considered him an outdoor pet. "Let's go see the snake," he'd say, excitedly. Docile the snake slithered among the grass nearly every time we
visited the backyard. (The name Docile is earned). Eventually, my son
emboldened himself to touch Docile. When our family returned home after an
Easter weekend away Uri was eager to greet his friend. Instead, he
discovered Docile upside down and ripped in half. "The snake's tail is all
broken," he said.
The
following is inspired partly by that moment.
I'm thinking about adopting a terminally sick hamster and giving it to my four-year-old son as a pet. Ideally, he'll will fall in love with the hamster shortly before the damn thing dies. I want this because I love my son.
Docile |
I'm thinking about adopting a terminally sick hamster and giving it to my four-year-old son as a pet. Ideally, he'll will fall in love with the hamster shortly before the damn thing dies. I want this because I love my son.
Stay
with me…
Here's what I imagine: I visit a Pet Smart on a
sunny low-humidity Sunday afternoon, and stroll by all the dopey "pwease
take me home…pweeease" looks on the faces of the puppies and kittens. I stop at the hamster cage and scan the critters for
the one most likely to croak within a week or two. "Hey, look at the
pathetic balled-up one, half-buried in the cedar bedding—the shaky 'lil bastard
with all the shit coming out of his bloodshot eyes. Please plop that one in a
box for me, my good man. My son will be so excited."
Surely enough, my son is swamped with glee when he
unfolds the take-out box with air holes. I tell my son his new pet's name is
Squiggly. Though my son seems bemused by the sludge bubbling out of
Squiggly's nostrils, I assure him that his new pet is healthy. At least
Squiggly isn't smothered in vomit crust. Hours later, when Squiggly barfs all
over his fur, I say "Don't you worry, boy. Squiggly is fine. Hold him.
Love him. The muffled banshee squeals are hamster-speak for 'You’re my best
friend.' Hear that? Squiggly is telling you he'll be here forever and ever. "
Okay,
listen, I know this seems morbid—it is morbid—but hang in there. My son is endlessly affectionate. The
aforementioned stunt, albeit fantasy and confined to a blog post, is cruel. But
stay with me, please. I'm not as think as you sick I am, officer.
Anyway, my son falls in love with Squiggly, despite
the critter's waning existence as a cuddly petri dish for the Bubonic Plague.
My son carries him everywhere in his tiny palm, and pets his new bestie with
his tiny inger. Everything Is Awesome (the theme from the Lego Movie,
duh) thumps from the stereo while my son claps and skips in hopes of enlivening
the wheezing fur ball in the five gallon aquarium. Amid her weekly phone call,
Grammie is regaled with tales about how Squiggly crawled along the plastic
Duplo train tracks, and collapsed near Thomas the Tank Engine. My
son's daycare playmates are tired of hearing the excitable boy yammer on about
the toddler love triangle between himself, Squiggly, and their sparkling future
as owner and pet. In an infinite universe in which there are an infinite amount
of things to fall asleep staring at, Squiggly is who gradually fades from my son's loving
gaze in the pale nightlight -- another unwilling
surrender in the nightly war to stay awake forever. Goodnight you two
buggers.
My son loves Squiggly.
But Squiggly dies overnight.
“Fix Squiggly,” my son says.
“I can’t,” I reply. “He’s broken, buddy. He’s broken
forever.”
“FIX HIM,” he repeats, holding Squiggly against his
chest.
“BROKEN FOREVER,” I say. I pry my son’s fingers from
stiff chilly Squiggly one-by-one as tears drip onto the corpse that had been a dear
companion hours ago. I dig a small hole in the back yard, hold Squiggly out
like a dirty sock and drop him by the tail into the hole. I replace the dirt
then tamp it down. Snot is smeared about my son's contorted red face.
I'm sorry, kiddo. Truly.
***
I would be right to gift a four-year-old a
terminally ill hamster. Sure, the mere thought of my son's reaction to Squiggly's
death is heart-wrenching. But it's for the best. Squiggly’s death would constitute a life lesson.
Yes, I could try to explain to a four-year-old the concept of loss, but I might
as well be having a heart-to-heart with a gardening trowel. Loss, if it is to
be understood appropriately, needs context. Only the emotional impact of a
palpable loss—Squiggly in this case—would prepare the boy for further
adventures in life. Yes, my teaching method is perhaps unsavory, and god knows
I'm no child physiologist, or even an experienced parent, but surely the benefits to
my son are understood.
I'd say "long-term emotional scarring be damned," but that's the point. A scar is a reminder of pain, but is not painful.
I'd say "long-term emotional scarring be damned," but that's the point. A scar is a reminder of pain, but is not painful.
Moreover, Squiggly would spend the last few days of
his miserable life in the presence of my son's love. So Squiggly wins too.
I have to prepare my son for a future of life on
Earth…THIS BEAUTIFUL, INSANE, TOO OFTEN GROTESQUE EARTH. I don't consider myself a tough love parent. I'm not going to tell my
son to touch the stovetop burner so he learns it's hot. I'll just tell him it's
hot. Besides, physical pain is easily forgotten. Wait until he's a teenager at a river
lot party and he drops his cigarette too close to the fire pit. Wait until he
does it again the next weekend. He can
blame drunken instinct and a momentary lack of self-awareness when he curses
the blisters on his fingers.
Specifically, I want him to learn, before puberty, that shit is
fucked up. Real shit, I mean. Not stovetops and camp fires—they always have
been, are, and always will be, HOT. Don't touch them, idiot. I'm talkin' real shit, like
neurotoxins in the drinking water, or North Korea aiming a long-range nuclear
missile at Sunshine Garden Daycare. I'm talkin' real shit, like a loved one getting
splayed about Route 22 after being t-boned by a half-asleep overworked Big
Ron's Transport driver, or mankind's murder-suicide of Earth; it's easier to
ignore Bill Nye than do the one simple thing he suggests will save the planet
from becoming a dystopian greenhouse—"everything, all at once."
You know what I mean. You read the news.
Not to suggest that "things are worse nowadays" as the cliché goes.
Hostility has actually decreased since the advent of the printing press, or
thereabouts. (Thanks Steven Pinker) "Nowadays" worldwide coverage is
24/7, be it CNN or social media, and the rockets and bombs are deadlier.
People, on the other hand, like stovetop burners and campfires, have always been,
are, and will always be, HOT.
As a father, I sometimes feel like a con man. Part
of my paternal assignment is to shield my son from shit reality, or, at least,
distract him from it. (What?! Some jackass martyr rammed a dump truck into the
maypole festival! Look kiddo…a butterfly!)
I morph into the blanket monster and tickle him into oblivion. I sacrifice my back to give him laundry hamper roller coaster rides. I read him Frog and Toad Are Friends at bedtime; those two amphibious amigos continually find themselves in a heap of trivial burden but always wind up cozy and carefree, and together. Although I never tell my son that everything will always be fun, or be cheery like the ending of a Frog and Toad adventure, I certainly give him that impression.
I morph into the blanket monster and tickle him into oblivion. I sacrifice my back to give him laundry hamper roller coaster rides. I read him Frog and Toad Are Friends at bedtime; those two amphibious amigos continually find themselves in a heap of trivial burden but always wind up cozy and carefree, and together. Although I never tell my son that everything will always be fun, or be cheery like the ending of a Frog and Toad adventure, I certainly give him that impression.
Believe me, I want his life to be endless tickle
traps and breakneck hamper rides. But I'm selling him snake oil, in a way. I turn out the bedroom light and rub his head while he drifts to sleep, and I
tell him I'll see him in the morning when the whoopee and hoopla will begin anew. Literally two minutes later I'm watching babies choke from the effects of sarin gas, or Kim Jong-Un leak pre-cum at the notion of an intercontinental ballistic missile lambasting Seattle. Or Donald Fucking Trump. So when I whisper bedtime pleasantries into my son's ear, I kinda' feel like a goddamn fraud. I do.
But not the night Squiggly dies.
"Sorry about Squiggly, son. He was a good
friend; you loved him and he loved you. But he's broken forever. Sometimes good
things just go away. Poof. And sometimes bad things take their place. For now,
rejoice. The water isn't poisoned, your daycare isn't leveled, Dad's guts
aren't strewn about the interstate, and global warming hasn't yet…well, forget
that one. Well, don't forget it-forget it. Take heed of it. Lots of heed. But
don't worry about those other things. They don't affect you, yet. Hopefully
never will. Probably never will, actually. But maybe. Regardless, all I can
promise is that the blanket monster will tickle you and you'll swirl though the
air in a laundry hamper as long as Dad has his faculties. But Dad's
faculties are tenuous. Someday he may not be strong enough to lift you, and his
brain might go wonky and he won't recognize your face. Who knows? Hopefully you
will have grown too big to fit in the hamper by time Dad is diagnosed...if he
ever is, but he probably won't be. Listen, I'm not trying to scare you. But
everything you have in life...everything is like Squiggly. Squiggly, be he a dead hamster, is also a metaphor. It's really just a
matter of time before...poof. But some "Squigglys" last a long, long time.
Sometimes you vamoose first. Oh Jesus, let's not go there. I'm not trying to spook
you into not falling in love with something, or someone.
Love stuff, boy. Love stuff fucking hard. Love stuff the way Dad loves you, if you feel so compelled. You're like my Squiggly, less the hemorrhaging.
Bottom line here -- just don't forget how much you loved Squiggly, and planned on growing old together. And don't forget that, now, he smells as putrid as a...well...what I mean to say is that...ah...maggots are feasting on his...ah...he's rejoining the circle of life. Anyway...TICKLE TRAP!"
***
Love stuff, boy. Love stuff fucking hard. Love stuff the way Dad loves you, if you feel so compelled. You're like my Squiggly, less the hemorrhaging.
Bottom line here -- just don't forget how much you loved Squiggly, and planned on growing old together. And don't forget that, now, he smells as putrid as a...well...what I mean to say is that...ah...maggots are feasting on his...ah...he's rejoining the circle of life. Anyway...TICKLE TRAP!"
Besides kiddo, Squiggly's death rattle and pus
trails should've been red flags concerning your impractical-reptilian-brain commitment to inevitable disappointment and ruin.
Where's your critical thinking skills, boy? You don't want to be one of them*, do you? Ah, but that's a lesson/blog post for another day.
*Trump voters/GOP Congresspeople/concussed second gradersTuesday, April 4, 2017
An American Patriot’s Apology to Those Not Pre-Selected to Board the "Fuck You Alex Baldwin" Deep Space Colonizer
Stop whining. You can't be in too dire straits if
you're reading this. I mean, you're alive, right? Right? I bet your latest monthly
heating bills chart like an upside down hockey stick. Huzzah! Atlanta is now
within a carefree Sunday jaunt of the creeping Georgian coastline. Surf's up,
brah! Hell, you can fry lizard meat on a rock in Missouri. You know, in case you're
in a "Most Dangerous Game" type situation and you desperately need food.
You're welcome, by the way…Ugh!
All joking aside, how were we supposed to know that
shit on Earth would get so catawampus? It's not like internationally respected
scientists Neil degrasse Tyson and Bill Nye "The Sorry-But-The-Planet-Is-Royally-Screwed-You-Idiots
Guy" weren't exploding our Twitter and Facebook feeds daily with grim
warnings that our Earth would careen toward desolation if we didn't curb our
fossil fuel dependency. How could any sane person take either seriously? For
Christ’s sake, Tyson wore those god-awful flamboyant science-y suit vests, and
Nye taught seven-year-olds how to make whirlpools inside 2-liter bottles of
Coke.
Sure, there was also the other 97% of worldwide
nameless climatologists who were proclaiming the same ominous predictions. But
they weren't personally bothering us on YouTube, so….
Of course, what if all those guys were flat-out
wrong? The remaining 3% of climatologists are climatologists too, right?
Besides, throughout history, science has changed its
mind sooo many times. Remember when we were told acid rain would ruin
everything? Nowadays, I'd swear "acid rain" was a nickname for a
newfangled street drug. Remember that so-called hole in the so-called ozone layer?
I sacrificed years of dousing my pompadour in Aqua Net, and for what? That shit
musta’ closed up overnight. Hell, not too long ago scientists were worried
about “global cooling”. Hah! That Doomsday prophesy was forgotten real damn
quick when those beady eyed nerds with their dorky numbers realized with nearly
100% certainly that industrial carbon dioxide was rising to the atmosphere and
trapping heat, thus threatening humanity. "Global cooling?”…FAIL.
"What if these climate alarmists are
hoaxers?" we wondered. Surely one can understand that stance? Intellectual
luminaries such as ex-vice presidential
candidate Sarah Palin sure as hell thought the jig was up. And what
right-minded patriot wouldn't paint her likeness into the Last Science Supper
alongside fellow geniuses Carol Sagan, Steven Hawking, Dr. Emmet Brown, Bruce
Banner, and...ah…other super-duper smart experts. Hell, Ted friggin' Nugent
thought global warming was balderdash too. You know, 70's rock icon Ted Nugent—the dude who penned the classic ballad
"Wang Dang Sweet Poontang," and once adopted a 17 year-old so he
could legally fuck her. I'm sorry, but when Ted Nugent screeches incoherently
between bouts of snarling at himself in the mirror, I listen.
Okay. Okay. Palin and Nugent aside, what
honest-to-goodness blue-blooded star-spangled American wouldn’t take as gospel
the worldview of the freely elected leader of the industrialized world, the
45th-47th President of the United States, Our 1st Big League Vanquisher of
Intergalactic Binary Star Systems, Donald J. Trump? He warned us from
practically day one of campaigning that global warming was a big fat joke
perpetrated by China. When you connected the dots, it seemed to make perfect
sense: The worldwide scientific community was actually a clandestine horde of
Chinese foreign actors—students of the Inspector Clouseau School of Foolery—hiding
in plain sight behind lab coats and novelty periodic table ties, and planted in
these United States to punk the American people into ditching their
gas-guzzling Hummers for much, much, much more economical two-door Ford
Focuses, recycling trash bags full of empty Schlitz cans, and preventing
millions of children from suffering the lifelong effects of asthma.
Personally, I figured the whole charade seemed
nothing more than a highly coordinated Chinese scam to sell Americans Bonsai
trees on Arbor Day.
Donald Trump was a godsend. Finally, here's a fearless
non-politician politician who actually spoke his mind, man. Bully for him. Not
only that, the guy assured us he was very highly educated. He knew words. In
fact, he had the best words. Who were we simple-minded peons to fucking
question a juggernaut like him?
Alright, so maybe we goofed. I'll admit that some
among us became a little concerned when, within exactly 37 seconds after taking
the oath of office, President Trump pledged to gut climate change research, and
signed an executive order to halt carbon dioxide emissions regulations. But
Uncle Biff didn't despair, boy. He tossed his coal miner helmet in the crisp,
clean air like it was friggin’ graduation day. "Fuck yeah! Coal won the
war on coal," he screamed in delight. The family took him to Chuck E.
Cheese's and bought him a pack of multi-colored glow sticks and five spider
rings to celebrate. He was so giddy that he almost forgot his iron lung between
the out-of-order Dance Dance Revolution game and the animatronics stage.
Uncle Biff is dead now. He never got to use that
coal miner helmet again. Actually, that ain't altogether true. He was buried in
it. So, yeah, I guess you could say he got to wear it underground again. RIP
Uncle Biff.
Anywho, apologizes to those who weren't pre-selected
by The Divine Overseer of The Ministry of Perfect Human Specimens Steve Bannon
("his DNA be praised forever and ever") to board the "Fuck You Alex Baldwin" Deep Space
Colonizer with Trump and the boys. I wasn't one of them either, if that
makes you feel any better.
Seems Bill Nye was right—Earth is royally screwed. Moreover, that blasted Hillary Clinton never was fitted for that orange jumpsuit after all, so this whole knowingly destroying the planet thing was all for naught, but whatever. For me, I'm just going to wash my hands of this whole dang mishap and die guiltless, knowing I had my reasons.
Hey, look on the bright side. No one is worried
about their internet service providers selling their browser history to "evil " corporations
anymore. Hah! Now excuse me while I put a lil' "Wang Dang Sweet Poontang"
on the ol' stereo and let The Nuge power chord my worries away…"Wang dang,
what a sweet poontang. A shakin' my thang, as a rang-a-dang-dang in the bell.
Ohh baby…"
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
What I've Noticed Since I Quit the Daily News Cold Turkey
1. The night terrors are in gradual remission.
2. The sun.
3. I'm getting boners again.
4. Laughter is still a thing, somehow.
5. I can have a conversation just about baseball.
6. The lesions on the back of my neck are healing
after week-upon-week of subconsciously clawing at my skin.
7. I have new neighbors (hi, Pam and Emmet—I’ll
shovel the sidewalk soon, I promise).
8. I haven't overstepped the data limit on my cell
phone plan this month.
9. Hot damn! Did I mention the awesome boner
resurgence?
10. There's a knee-high pile of junk mail (mostly
Comcast Triple Play deals) on the porch.
11. The tail of a dead squirrel is sticking out of
my gutter.
12. Jesus, how long has the downstairs closet
smelled like a tire fire?
13. Wait, what the hell are these Facebook posts
referring to?
14. Why does everyone I respect intellectually look
so glum?
15. I'm sorry, but did I overhear you correctly?
Please tell me I didn’t just hear that Trump’s fucking budget proposal
eliminates funding to…
16. AAAHHH!!
Friday, March 17, 2017
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