Posts (page 2)
Twenty days until I leave my job, 22 days until we're in Kentucky ... and probably 23 days until I say, "What in the FUCK was I thinking?!? Sheeeeeeeeit!" But there are so many positives to this move, I can't really complain. Just living near my parents, on the farm, outside this maddening clusterdoink that is metropolitan America, will be worth it. (Think about how happy our dogs will be to have all that space, too.)
Still, let the nervousness begin! (OK, that's not fair -- the nervousness began awhile ago.)
Mortimer von Itchycrotch was a Prussian transplant to London back in the day. Mortimer was a striking figure, noted
One fine morning the folks of his village (rich and poor alike -- Mortimer reeked of garlicky fish, remember?) all turned up at his house and started pelting it with big fucking rocks. When he crawled out to see what was the matter, the townsfolk set fire to his hovel and tied him to the ass of a particularly ill-tempered goat, which dragged him all the way
to Iceland. (Luckily for Mortimer, the goat had no teeth.) The Icelandic folk, being rather upstanding fellows, turned the goat around and set him off for medieval Britain, where Mortimer's odor fit right in. There, he started a successful lice-juicing enterprise and became the talk of the town -- the town being Blackpool, which has hated Mortimer for centuries, not his new home of London, but I digress.
Von Itchycrotch was the guy who brought potato blight to Ireland after that drunken bastard Pat chased out all the snakes that weren't in post-glacial Ireland in the first place. He also is the patron saint of bad dogs, beergoggles, shitty pickup lines for people whose jobs are nowhere near as important as they claim, and hangover cures that don't work. Feel free to call on his divine power whenever you find yourself sitting in a bar, 10 minutes to closing, trying to bed someone you have no business even speaking with, fuckface.
Happy St. Mortimer's Day!
Has anybody seen Paris Hilton recently? For real, I haven't seen her in what seems like weeks. One day, the airy heiress is all over everything (take that as literally as you choose), the next, she's seemingly out of headlines and off the tube. That's great, of course, except instead we've been hit with an expired Anna Nicole and a bald Britney. Think about it: Real newspapers -- those things Tom Jefferson said he'd rather have than government -- had the late Vickie Lynn Marshall front page, centerpiece. Most had her splayed out there for days, some even weeks. I could almost swear I smelled her TrimSpa-thinned corpse ripening in the Bahamian sun.
That's no surprise, however. As a nation, we're such fiends for celebrity, news organizations neglect such stories at their peril. Sex -- in whichever form it may take -- sells, and the media is way into selling. (You would be too if you had media-style profit margins.) If I thought I could make a difference, I'd become a cannibal and start chompin' at the famous goofballs who make up the non-news. But there are far too many of those fevered egos for one man to make much of a dent, regardless of his taste for the long pig. Good thing we don't have cable, or I might've snapped by now. Or even worse, started watching some reality show religiously.
Then again, Jefferson also said, "I do not take a single newspaper, nor read one a month, and I feel myself infinitely the happier for it." He was probably on to something, if one is to place any credence in that tired "ignorance is bliss" adage.
These days, I'm reminded of another Jeffersonian quote on the subject of the press: "Advertisements contain the only truths to be relied on in a newspaper." After all, isn't that all Paris or Anna Nicole or Britney are? Ads for -- or warnings of -- our oh-so-hip-and-sexy American culture?
Eh, pay me no nevermind. I have no mixer for my bourbon, so I'm mad at the world at the moment. I'll be better on the morrow. (And who knows? Maybe we WON'T always have Paris. Ain't that a fine thought?)
"A thing long expected takes the form of the unexpected when at last it comes." -- Mark Twain
