Friday, April 22, 2005

A nice day ruined by a mustachioed loser.

The guy who I stuff envelopes for, thus providing my only income, said he was going to show up and give me money this afternoon, and it's now 5:52 PM. No longer afternoon. I don't know why he hasn't shown up yet, but the answer better involve extensive damage to his brain, face, throat, respiratory system, guts, sexual organs, and/or dunghole. Otherwise he's just being a dink, and ruining my sunny afternoon. It's beautiful outside, for some reason.

You know what I do lately while taking a shit, something I have inexplicably done thrice already today? I take a pen and an old issue of Entertainment Weekly, and I look through the articles, and when I see a word or phrase that is also the title of a movie or popular song, I circle it with the pen. Now, for it to count, the word or phrase cannot be a direct mention of the song. Like if the article reads "Hello, I'm character actor David Paymer and I sure like the song 'Hell is for Children' by Pat Benetar", I will not circle it. I just won't. It doesn't count. However, if that same article were to read "Hello, I'm character actor David Paymer and I patrol playground looking for unsupervised kids and upon locating them I proceed to beat them to death with nearby rocks, or, in lieu of rocks, chunks of hardened tar, because, let's face it, hell is for children", then I would circle the words "hell is for children" without thinking twice. Cause that's how you play my game. Thrilling it isn't, but it improves one scanning abilities, and expedites shitting.

It really is very nice outside. It almost makes me wish I like being outside, or that every street in America featured a drive-in sized television screen, and you could sign up to reserve TV time for yourself and your family on this giant screen (or simply enjoy whatever program has been selected by whoever's turn it currently is) and sit outside in lawn chairs and watch your show. Instead, what do we get? Trees and grass. And the stupid road. And dirt. Boy, dirt. Nothin' like dirt to really get you in the mood to be outside. There's also bugs outside, and they really make things hard, don't they? Prior to birth, if I'd been informed that all throughout life I'd be surrounded by airborne microscopic monsters that just want to bite you and suck an essential liquid from your body, I probably would have stopped eating amniotic fluid. But I didn't, I kept eating amniotic fluid. And now I'm stuck with all these bugs.

I hate my envelope provider. He has curly hair, and wears ill-fitting stonewashed jeans. My envelope provider is not a shapely teenage girl circa 1991, and thus should not be wearing these stonewashed jeans. A point in his favor is that his sunglasses appear to be the same ones worn by Bret "The Hitman" Hart, an accessory that I cannot argue with, no matter how late you are in dropping envelopes off at my home. His aforementioned mustache, while somewhat depressing in the way that all mustaches not belonging to Tom Selleck or the late illusionist Doug Hennig are, is relatively inoffensive, but probably only in comparison to his silly hair and outdated dungarees. I generally squint at his ass when he leaves, trying to determine the brand of these pants. I'm convinced they're Jordache.


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