My point is this, dude: follow these instructions to the letter. If it
doesn’t work, you did something wrong so you must try again.
this is what makes a man. that, and a pair of balls.
1. open the email to those previously mentioned items. are you with us so far, dude?
2. using the mouse–and if you don’t know what that is, dude, I can’t
help you. You are beyond hope. You are hopeless. You are a nilihist.
–using the mouse, hold down the left button as you move the pointer
over the text of the link. the text should magically become highlighted
in some fashion to make it noticeably different both from the other
text and that very same text previous to highlighting it.
3. carefully remove your finger, thumb or toe from the left mouse
button. notice that if you click the mouse button again, the magical
highlighting disappears, like David Fucking Copperfield, who, if I’m
not mistaken, has banged Claudia Schiffer and you haven’t.
4. So do it again, and this time don’t click the left mouse button
again. Instead, click the right mouse button. If you are not
comfortable with that, click the conservative mouse button. Notice
that, like the conservatives, it gives you options to help you and you
have to choose one, instead of having a liberal agenda forced on you as
your only option, like the liberal mouse button (or the left) as long
as you still have the pointer in the body of the text when you click
the conservative button, it should give you options similar to these:
undo, redo, cut, copy, paste, delete, select all, and properties.
5. undo and redo have absolutely no bearing on what we are doing here,
so ignore them. what are they for? None of your fucking business, dude,
don’t worry about it. If you persist, you will be entering a world of
A world of pain, Dude.
For our immediate purposes, you need the copy button, and then very
soon after you will need the paste option. don’t use the cut option, it
is very unforgiving. Delete should be self explanatory, so don’t make
me explain it. Select all is only for socialists. Properties–well,
that is secret, and I can’t reveal it at this time, but there is a
conspiracy web site that explains it in detail. But the FBI tracks all
visitors to that site, so be warned. It’s www.youareadickhead.com
6. Since you have lost your train of thought, Dude, I’ll recap:
you selected the desired link with the liberal button, and you have
clicked the conservative button and are about to make a choice. choose
"copy". this takes a picture of what you have chosen and saves it, like
on a post-it note, until you decide to do something with it, or copy
something else and then it is replaced, like old news.
7. Now take your mouse pointer and point it either at the address bar
or a search bar. If you don’t know what these are, Dude, you are
completely lost, like I was in the jungles of Da Nang. But I made it
out. We lost some good men that day, fighting to save the world from
communism. And I dont appreciate you comparing something as serious as
that to your complete inability to FIND THE FUCKING ADDRESS BAR!! HAS
EVERYONE BUT ME GONE FUCKING INSANE???
8. Now that you have found the address bar, point your mouse pointer to
it. Even if there is text there, that text is irrelevant. That text is
about to be wiped clean with agent orange, and every last vestige of
life will be obliterated, God bless the USA.
9. Dude, you are getting off the subject. try to focus here. when you
are in the address bar, once again click the conservative button, and
choose "life". I mean choose paste. Not as meaningful as choosing life,
but apparrently that is not an option we are left with. It is a cold,
cruel world, and it is especially hard on pacifist.
10. after you choose paste, if you followed all of my fucking
instructions correctly–and there is no reason you shouldn’t have been
able to; they are as clear as day. Concise, to the point, full of
facts, just like a CIA briefing—If you followed my instructions,
whatever text that was in the address bar is now gone, and the text
which you had selected will now be in its place. Like Magic. Like
fucking magic, Dude. David Fucking Copperfield.
11. Here is the part where we test to see how well you were paying
attention. If you did it right, you only selected the single line of
text that was the web address. Any more that that, and you will get an
error. any less than that, and you will get an error. The computer is a
very unforgiving machine, like the VC, Dude–unrelenting. So hit go, or
search, or enter, or whatever the fuck button you feel the need to push
to get this under way.
12. If you did it correctly, the new web page will appear and you will
dance with glee on the inside, both at the marvels of technology and
your uncanny ability to follow a simple 2-step process. If you did it
incorrectly, no new page will appear, but you will get an error message
and nilhilist will come knocking on your fucking door, seeking to cut
off your johnson, Dude. the stakes are high.
Dedicated to Donnie.
Donnie who loved bowling.
society in general. We are all puppets. Or is that “muppets”?
Even when the government does something good, it is for dubious reasons. The news is not really the news. but only what they want us to see.
When he explained it like this, it all made perfect sense.
But I had an epiphany the other night, and as with most epiphanalia, I took it to the most secure medium I could think of: the white board where I work. But I continued to go back to it, until I had run it into the ground and stomped on it. It had metamorphosed. The next logical step, of course, after an epiphany, is sarcasm. This is what appeared on the board:The true conspiracy is creating conspiracies to keep the nutbags occuppied.
This doesn’t apply to you, Karl
Unless you think it does.
Then it really, really doesn’t.
It went on too long, and yet I still had a burning desire to go back and write “Soylent green is people!”
years. I’m like that guy in "Unbreakable" except I have bad knees. So
knees are my Achilles tendon, if you will. And they are connected to the
knee, so if you take into account several centuries of rewrites and
translations, and the occasional poetic license, Achilles may have
actually had bad knees. And his insurance at that time did not cover
surgery. They used leeches, instead.
But my point is that I am
actually a super hero. And I can prove it. I have a super power. The
other night at work, I walked across the floor after they mopped and I
DIDNT fall! Plus, I didnt leave dirt tracks, but something more
unusual: the floor was actually cleaner where I had walked.
To be honest, these are not the super powers I would have picked, and
I’m not sure how well suited to crime fighting they are, but I will do
what I must, for I am Clean Traction Man!
fighting for truth, justice, and no-wax floors!
I mean, that and the health thing combined should put me in the club.
The Justice league is a union shop though, so I have had to apply at
the reasonably fair league
the league of ordinary gentlemen
the X- chromosome men (kind of oxymoronic, really)
the Altruistic four!
They have my resume.
Domino’s Pizza part time. That, in itself, is worthy of a book, because I have worked there off and on for over 18 years.
But it does explain some of my recent behavior. Because I have been there so long, in every capacity including GM (general manager) several times over, I am at the point where I feel I can do anything I want. I shamelessly take advantage of this situation, and do things that no one else would ever conceive of do to do, like walk out with a stack of pizzas to feed my family. For free. And also what I have done this weekend and last weekend, which is the point of my melancholy.
I drive on Saturday dayshift, and these last few weekends the weather has been nice, and people have had yard sales. And people have had estate sales. Last week I stopped, while on the clock, and in uniform, at six sales. It was after I delivered the pizzas; I do have a sense of duty (minimally). Two of these were estate sales, and yesterday, also, was an estate sale.
The estate sales made me sad. It was everything in the house and garage and sheds, all laid out on tables. The reality of it came over me slowly: The person had DIED, and all of there stuff was being sold. And, generally, it looks like old people, who have had a literal life time to collect things. My own mom and dad have been great collectors of things, and in fact, we had an auction one time, but we were all still alive. But mostly, at yard sales, one man’s garbage is another man’s garbage also. But at estate sales, it is everything, so there is all the good stuff, too.
Like all the tools.
At this one man’s house, rows and rows of tables with all of his tools, of every possible variety, and also building supplies, the screws, nuts and bolts, and various fasteners that you just collect over a lifetime of building and home improvement projects. If a man’s home truly is his castle, (and if not, what else is in this life?) then this is a fossil record, a glimpse at the history of one man’s life, laid on in pieces on the tables, for sale at 50 cents a pop.
But my initial reaction remains, the one I shared with my wife, and the one I will share with you, is this:
Was there not a son, or a son-in-law, at least, to take the tools? There is a legacy there, and a story to tell, with each piece of cold metal,
there is a story to warm the heart, of determination to finish job, of satisfaction, or learning and of teaching, and of being the protector
and benefactor for the family. And that is not what the man is thinking at the time. At the time, it is simply a man, doing what he has to do, with tools.
In my own family, my Dad, my brother and sister and I, have on occasion discussed what is to become of my dad’s stuff. He has some things of value, a gun collection, some antique cars. My dad has devised a system whereby we all take turns and pick a gun, so they all get distributed equally. My mom had determined, before she died, that my brother would get the old car (1939 Chevy coupe), however, not until Dad goes, I believe, will he give it up.
And there are other things too. But I have had the several months since my mom died to think about it all, and all I want are my dad’s tools.
I’m sure they are valuable, but that’s not the reason. Ever since I was old enough, like 10 or so, my dad has had me help him with the cars.
And when I learned to drive, he really pressed on, to make sure I could do the basic things, and tried to get me to understand the importance thereof. As I got older, we did even more, working on my own cars, working on his, and spending time together. I am certainly no mechanic, and arguably not even mechanically inclined, but I have just about done it all, including changing an engine in my Jeep about 8 years ago.
They mean something to me, and I believe it means something to him, also. I have an older stepson, who is a mechanic, and another son coming of driving age, and I want to pass the legacy on to them, and give them a sense of family history, but also, just to spend time with them, doing a guy thing, so they will pass it on to their boys.
Like the stories of days gone by. My dad has made his youth, and his dad, who I had never met, come alive with his stories. The 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s are in color for me now, told with vibrant accuracy (although not necessarily the truth) by my dad. His friends, his jobs, how life was in that bygone age–in this post modern technology-ridden and information-overload age, the verbal hand-me-down is still relevant.
So, go. Go to your elders, and hear the stories, and try to remember, and pass them on to your children.
And look at your life, and try to see it through this pane of glass: What do YOU have, to pass on?
One of the fundemental joys of moving is packing stuff up. Implicit
with that is the endless search for wherever your shit might be.
currently live in a tiny, tiny house, made of sticks and gingerbread,
on a narrow pathway in the woods. Up in the attic of this cozy little
shack is all of the stuff we didnt have room for but because of
stubborness or some other genetic anamoly we were completely incapable
of getting rid of it. Maybe its the kryptonite near the trash cans.
Today we ventured forth, bravely, planned accordingly, got up early,
and made our teenage son climb up in the attic. In the midst of his
complaints, which fell upon deaf ears (because I am old) I explained to
him that this is one of the reasons that we a) had him and b) kept him.
So he tosses down box after box after box after……
empty boxes. I was somewhat releived, but perplexed and possibly in
denial. THE RULE IS, YOU HAVE TO KEEP THE BOX FOR WARRANTY PURPOSES.
When do you imagine the warranty ran out on sound card I bought for a
386. . . ?
I bring down boxes of stuff which my wife lovingly, carefully, and
wistful with nostalgia browses through like it is her own personal
friggin’ yard sale, while I find empty boxes from stereo and pc
equipment which took two trips in my pickup to Dominos dumpster to get
It reminded me though, of a lesson I learned about 2
printers back: printers are disposable, like diapers. When it acts
shitty, get another one. I had 4 printer boxes, empty, up there. The
printers were long gone.
Also was boxes containing all of my stuff from karate, and lots of Domino’s Pizza memorabilia. Don’t ask.
also alot of stuff that makes you go "Hey, that’s where it is!" and
"Hey, I need to return that!" But also boxes of my books, which I never
had room for. I threw away some boxes of magazines, and that was hard,
but never the books, although I may take some and trade at a used book
store. I still have lots of the paperback science fiction that webd’s
mom (my sister-in-law) gave me, because my brother made her get rid of
it. Otherwise she would still have it. It is hard to part with a book.
But someone told me that I should try to simplify my life and get rid
of unnecessary extra stuff and clear things out and make room and then
I wouldn’t need a bigger house…
And that is when I said BULLSHIT! I
have been getting rid of my stuff for a long time, and this is all that
I have left! I am not getting rid of anymore of my shit! I’m keeping
it, it’s mine! It’s my shit! I want to keep my shit!! I want a bigger
house, just so I have room for my shit! It’s the American way, fuckers!
If I never move again, I will never have to throw anything away, ever again.
Tags: time travel
shortly after the document -gate thing with Dan Rather concerning
Bush’s Guard service.
Okay, now bear with me, because the concept of time travel is full of
paradoxies and contradictions, not to mention problems with grammar.
That is why it has taken so long for this news story to come to the
forefront, and even so, the details are still unclear. But I am here to
straighten it all out, as best I can.
Gates, at the behest of the evil republicans in the RNC, was tricked
into building a time machine and travelling back in time. They came to
him using a pre-programmed Steve Jobs Clone. The SJC informed him that
Linux was going to merge with Casio, and be in the perfect position to
develop time travel. This new company, Lin-io, would then go back in
time, change the early pc history so that ibm would use the linux
operating system, and thus destroy Microsoft before it’s inception.
Apparanty, they had watched Star Trek: First Contact.
So Bill Gates
is entrusted with a mission, he builds a time machine, and travels back
to the year 1973 with a Dell pc and HP printer. He finds his younger
self, explains the situation, and the young BG helps the old BG make
his way to Darpa, to ensure the use of their technology, and they make
a deal with the government. Some of these names may sound familiar:
George Bush Sr., head of CIA, Gerald Ford, president, and Dick Cheney,
who was serving in some mysterious capacity in the shadow government.
Having secured the deal, bound in blood and witnessed by all, including
Satan, the Old Bill Gates comes back, and the young Bill Gates is left
with his complete agenda. It is a formidable task, but he knows he will
be a quadzillionaire when this is over. Plus, only the winners get to
go back and change things, so he goes over to Linus Tovald’s house and
gives him 12 hits of acid.
The government, meanwhile, has made a
deal that gives them certain assurances also, and some lovely parting
gifts. The Dell pc and HP printer wind up in the Texas office of some
Air National Guard Officer because of a favor owed to him for keeping a
certain young pilot from being drafted.
I hope this clears up any misunderstandings.
Okay kids, I was wondering how to post all the goings-on that I have
experienced in the last few weeks, like should I post it in reverse
order of the most important, so that at the end, the climax? Innuendo
aside, I’m not that organized. Likewise to do it in chronological order,
because I— I forget why. So I will take the appropriate choice, which
is to ramble incoherently until I get done. Any thing resembling an
order is only a coincidence.
So, we closed on the house, which was 2 hours of nothing but signing
papers. Most of it seemed legit, but if I wake up on ice in a bathtub
with a long row of stitches on my back, I guess I’ll know that I
donated a lung. But in the time leading up to the close was all of the
coordination, and arranging to turn things on, and stuff like that.
Hey, we have cable now, because we are too far away for an antenna,
which was our previous mode. We had 6 and sometimes 7 channels of
broadcast glory! Now we have about 50+ channels (just the very basic,
because I am cheap) And now I do nothing but change channels. I may
just put tape on the channel up button. I need a tv guide, stat.
then we began our adventure in moving. Actually, that began a month or
so ago, when we started putting our shit in storage. We filled up a
10×20 storage, and our house was still full of all kinds of crap. This
was a complete mystery to me how this was possible until I realized
that our house was the convergence of a 4-dimensional space/time flux,
so we had extra space. For free.
But then we began to move our
actual STUFF, in my truck and borrowed trailer, and our van. It should
all go smoothly, but wait! There was an auction at the high school
where they were selling surplus stuff. I had to go; I was drawn to it
like a bee to a flower, or a fly to shit, or a man to a hardware store.
When we closed on the house, they had made a mistake calculating the
interest, so we got a check back, so I had some cash.
on the auction block was the computer stuff. The first piles of stuff
weren’t that interesting, but I picked up a few things, like a switch
and some other hardware. Then they turned to the skids of computers.
Macs, Lots of them. I am so sorry, Keri, but I couldn’t see the need
for a Mac. Plus these looked old. There were hardly any takers. One guy
bought about 23 of them for 2 bucks apiece.
They turned to the
pcs, which is my field, and I had already perused them. I —
15 computers. Four of them were 20 bucks apiece, included a monitor and
keyboard, and almost as an after thought, I bought 2 more skids, which
was 11 of them for 7.50 apiece. I wasn’t done. I bought six or 9
printers (to be honest, I dont know how many) about 4 of them line feed
like we use at work, a laser printer, a scanner, and some other ones.
Nope, not done yet. I bought a big-ass honking Xerox machine for 40 dollars.
wife is a real trooper, seriously. Like I expected, she was upset at
first, but got over it. But as I filled up the back of my truck AND the
entire trailer with all of this stuff, I had serious doubts as to my
sanity. I still do.
What I really wanted was a school bus, but they
didnt have any short ones. I mea, honestly, what would I do with a LONG bus? That would
be ridiculous. So one of the first things we moved into our new house,
into the garage, was a large pile of computers. I have high hopes of
being able to string them together to form a super computer, and from
there, take over the world.
But then we continued to move our shit, and
we are almost done. I still have all of my tools at the old house,
because I need to fix it up, because we are keeping it, and renting it
out. After we had cable installed, I asked the dude about the cable
internet dealy. He said not until the end of the year, maybe. "Oh
really? Cause I heard October." "Doubt it…" So I caved and called the
phone company to find out aobut the DSL. They said it was fast, but Im
thinkin, I live on the the NW corner of the middle of fuckin nowhere,
so how fast can it be? Our old DSL in suburbia was apparantly on the
edge of the service area, because we got download of about 250k. At
first it SEEMED fast, because we came from dial-up, but I was hoping my
porn would load faster.
Anyway, I get it here, install the thingy, and it is rocket fast! It is virgin-on-prom-night fast!
Go to toast.net, and they have some free speed tests you can perform. I am at 1.6 MB download!!! Fucking aye, baby!
Let me give some background on this part, for the people reading this
for the first itme on the blog: I was working at a restaraunt
owned by some friends of mine, and they were going to make me a deal,
and sell it to me, and finance me, and they were going to buy this
other restaraunt venture. All of this going on while I am having
a house built and trying to close on it.
Okay, but the thing is, in the meantime, the restaraunt deal
may have fallen through. My end was good, but it was contingent on my
boss buying this other restaraunt, and as they got closer to the deal,
things seemed fishy, and there are some legal things going on with it.
They may not be able to buy it at all, or if they do, it could be 6
months or three years down the road. In the meantime I still have to
pay a fuckin lawyer 500 dollars for taking care of my business
incorporation. Merry Christmas!
Addendum: It ends up that I didnt buy the restaraunt, and it is
probably for the best. I know my limitations, and I am a good
manager, not a good owner. Plus, he is struggling to make ends
meet and has to work a lot of hours, which I knew, having been in the
restaraunt biz for 20 years. But Kim made it up to me, in a big
way, actually. She got me a job where she works, at a bank.
Banker’s hours, great benefits, easy work, and the very real potential
to move up, not to mention pretty decent pay. I still work for
Scott a couple of evenings per week so he has some time off, and as of
this writing, he hired another part-time cook, so he can be home a
little more, not run up against the wall we call "Burnout."
Tags: 2000s, holidays
I had been charged with a quest.
A wise old wizard had charged
that I retreive for her a newspaper. And not just any newspaper, but
the newspaper with the Christmas ads. For, you see, the day after
Thanksgiving is a magical day, a day when, throughout all the land,
crazy people get up at 3am and stake out department stores, waiting to
get in and spend buckets of money on "bargains."
I have digressed.
My wizard had indicated to me the importance of this, and however
illogical I found it to be, I would nevertheless be rewarded greatly if
I were to retrieve for her the "Golden Newspaper." Many obstacles stood
in my way. For one, I wasn’t even sure what day the bloody thing came
out. Two, we live so very far from civilization, that the appropriate
paper might not be had locally. But the "rewarded greatly" weighed
heavily on my mind, so I took it upon myself to accomplish this great
and silly task, no matter what the price. I believe it is 53 cents.
Tuesday night, or early Wednesday morning, about 4 am, I ventured out
in my steed, drove about half an hour (24 miles) to the closest
Quiktrip, and there perused the papers. It was not the golden paper,
but merely one of . . .paper. I purchased anyway, on the chance that it
might have some value, and so I could read the cartoons. I inquired of
the clerk, who passed along this sage counsel: "Oh, yeah, Dude, that
comes out tomorrow." Thusly armed with this intelligence, and a
breakfast burrito, I returned to my village.
Again the wizard
spelled out for me what the "rewarded greatly" would entail, and also
reminded me what failure would bring me. No more "rewarded greatly" for
quite some time, if ever again. No problem, I thought. I had staked out
the joint, found out when the papers arrive, and all that was necessary
was that I once again wake up at an insanely early time. But the
elements and the gods conspired against me. Apparantly, it is written,
that middle aged men such as myself are not to be "rewared greatly,"
but to only languish in the dreams of our youth, when we could be
"rewarded greatly" on a daily basis.
A horrendous, powerful
snowstorm, the storm of the century (we are in fact, only a few years
into the century, so it could be the "storm of the century–thus far.")
Deluged the countryside with a full FOUR inches of snow. I have
successfully convinced many people that four inches is an incredible
quantity, so just take that as a given and let’s move on. It was a wet
and sloppy snow, and much of it melted, leaving the roads black with
ice. My trusty steed was in great need of new tires, and I had no
weight in the back. Surely, this would be dangerous. But other items
were added to my quest. Since I was going near the place I worked, I
would need to pick up the silver stockpot. Since guest were coming, I
would also need the magic salt, to clear away the ice from our driveway
and porch. This much pressure I did not need. It was now imperative
that my mission be fulfilled.
So again, on the day of the feast,
I awoke at the ungodly hour of 3:30 am, and dressed, and set out the
door on quest. I had been down this path before, but that was only in
practice mode; now the obstacles were real, and the
Just to start up my trusty
steed and clean off the windows was a chore, the doors were frozen
shut, and I had to pull very hard while uttering several magical
phrases. I set out. Cautiously, I drove. Not another vehicle in sight.
The moon hung low in the sky, like a starlet’s cleavage, and nestled in
the clouds like an opportune nip shot.
The trail was long, and
somewhat treacherous. The roads were mostly clear, but the occasional
black ice on the roads, placed there by a random number generator, kept
me alert. Along side the highway, cars, trucks, vans, lay ominously in
the ditches, warning me of impending peril. Finally, I made it to the
Quiktrip where only the night before had I reconned. The clerk seemed
not to recognize me, and only wanted to converse with me about the
weather, and about some "bird." I knew not of what code he spoke, and I
answered carefully, lest I be forced to begin again, since I forgot to
save when I arrived. We bargained carefully, and I spent all eight
dollars I had. A bag of salt, 2 golden papers, a cup of coffee, a
fountain soda, and a breakfast sandwich.
I bade him well, and
continued on my quest. A short distance was my own shop, and, using a
cheat code, I obtained a key. I retrieved the silver stockpot, and also
a golden brown cookie, to verify that the stockpot was authentic. My
quest now was half over. Having retrieved all of my items, I now began
the journey home. I knew it would be fraught with peril, because I was
now vulnerable, having my hands full behind the wheel, and possibly
I drove home, and the dj on the radio refused to comfort me,
instead playing only music to lull me to sleep. But my twin elixars,
coffee and soda, served to save me from the perils of sleep-driving. I
arrived, finally back to my village, turned off the highway, and slid
for quite a ways, missing by only 30 or 40 feet any obstacle.
That was close! My nerves properly rattled, I made it safely home,
whereupon I felt compelled to share this story with all of you. This
story of newspapers, and salt, and "great rewards." Hit "x" to save.
Tags: 2000s, holidays, poetry
have had time to reflect, and here it is. A poem, for your enjoyment.
As I get up, a bright new day:
I’m off to work, I’m on my way
My wife stayed home, she didn’t go
She called to say she wouldn’t show.
They told her that would be just fine
Because they know it’s Christmas time.
Buying and wrapping and decorating fun
By the time I get home it will all be done.
“Look,” they will tell me, when I get home
“All is prepared, like a Christmas poem.”
It looks very nice, and their faces are glowing
It’s wonderful to see all they are showing.
I go to bed tired, but fairly content
I know the reason for all of this is meant.
I wake up again, not sure of the date
But I do know that I don’t have time to wait
Regardless it is a work-day for me.
For lately most of them are, you see.
There are mouths to feed and bills to pay.
Bleary-eyed but dutifully, I am on my way.
My wife goes into work that day,
But she gets to leave early and that’s okay.
She does all the shopping, the whole entire list
Rampaging the stores, items clenched in her fist.
Whe I arrive home, the house is alit
As well as inside, all proper and fit.
They are all baking cookies, with glasses of milk
Wearing Christmas pajamas, of satin and silk
I wanted to help, but they were all done
“You should have been here, it was much fun.”
I get undressed and go to bed
Completely unsure of when I had beed fed.
So again, I awake, and begin my day
I wake up the wife, for I have to say
“Get up or you’ll be late for work”
She rolled over and snorted, “Leave me alone, you jerk!
I don’t have to be at work today.”
It wasn’t fair, for me to go and her to stay.
She sighed, “It’s almost Christmas, there is much to prepare;
Presents to wrap, and decorations to flair.
Lot and lots of cooking and canoodling.
There is much I will be do-doodling.
Go to work, I’ll get up soon.”
Eyes closed, voice trailing, “At least by noon.”
I hop in the car and begin to drive
Fuming and bent, I thusly arrive.
Another long day, full of long hours
I daydream of having mystical powers
The thing I would wish more than anything,
Is to know the joy this season should bring.
It is now Christmas Eve, and I’m not to be found
Of course I’m at work, and it’s beginning to sound
Like I do this on purpose, but it’s not really true.
I just have to work, it’s just what I do.
I’m bitter and jaded, and a little bit pissed
Thinking of all the things I have missed.
At last I am home, but every one is gone.
All that is left is just one more dawn.
At last the big day, I awake bright and early.
Still feeling bitter and a little bit surly.
But I’ve really got no reason to moan;
Today, at least, I get to stay home.
Family arrives from near and far,
We joke about where to park all the cars
This is the moment that makes it worthwhile
As we eat and drink and catch up with a smile.
Now I did want to tell you my wife was upset
And because of that part of my day was spent
Staying out of the way so she could play hostess,
But that’s not what this is about, I think, at least mostly.
She said she was upset because things weren’t quite so,
But I feel it’s because I wasn’t there enough, you know?
It wasn’t a great Christmas, but okay, to be sure
Especially after all that we’ve had to endure.
As we lay down that night, I should have told her,
“Next year will be better…” but I just held her shoulder
But I will try harder, and I will make it right.
Merry Christmas to all. Man, I’m tired. Good night.
I did some introspective searching, some meditating, some chanting, the thing with the beads, and all that. Then I took a nap. Then it comes to me. All men want more…Johnson. If you know what I mean. I mean, hey–I have plenty, more than enough, but if I ever want to live out my dream of being in porn (and I am through with the gay stuff), I need larger, more impressive equipment.
If you search diligently, you will find that there are various drugs and treatments and even surgeries available, but I went for the easy way out: Supplementation.
So I order the stuff over the internet, and it comes in a plain, brown, inconspicuous wrapping with large type that says “INCREASE YOUR SIZE!”
I follow the directions for the first week, and notice subtle differences, like better aiming for the toilet, and my pants are tighter. But it’s not good enough. Against the recommendations on the label, I first double, then later triple the dosage. I no longer notice any more increases.
So I again double the dosage, and smile to myself at all of the admiring looks I get. My confidence is firm and swollen. After a month of this, it is time to take stock.
There I stand, naked, and dismayed, in front of the mirror, and now realize just how effective the supplement was. I look at my head: bald, and helmut shaped. My one eye blinks back as I stare at my reflectio. A rounded ridged runs all the way down my body. My feet are now round and hairy–but taut. Very taut.
I have become a complete dick.