Man, fuck McCain, I'm voting for that plumber!

Work work work work work work work work work. Yup. It’s one of those days people. Cutting limes, wiping up sticky spills, washing glasses, breaking the shitty, cheap cocktail glasses as I attempt to stack them, listening to the same bullshit over and over on my ipod. Oh work! You’re so exciting. If only there was some way to get dumb, overblown, self important dipshits to sit down and talk endlessly at me while I performed these tasks. That would be divine.
Last night was a big night for television, right? I mean, this contest has been heating up for a while and now, this is the last big showdown. Who’s gonna come out on top? The black chick, the chick who’s never used shampoo or the hipster bitch who looks like her vagina smells like rotten refried beans (actually, they all look like their vaginas smell like rotten refried beans. More on that later). What? Was there something else on TV last night? Cuz I was watching homos and aging hags hand judgment down with the fury of a vengeful (and sassy) old testament lord on Project Runway’s season finale.
Oh yeah, that’s right. The debates! And it was cool because the old man was unable to get the black guy to go all ‘angry black guy’ on television. “Angry black guy” is a guy that America is NOT ready for. It’s true. I’d love to think more highly of our country, but I think that it’s pretty much in the pledge of allegiance:
‘and to the republic, for which it stands, except for angry black guys, cuz they scare the shit out of us, one nation, indivisible, under, um…something, pigs?” I don’t remember. Second grade was kind of a drunken blur.
Yeah, so the old man looked cranky and the black guy was unflappable. That’s nice. Maybe, once he wins, Obama can put McCain in charge of, you know, if Canada hits their baseball onto our roof, or tosses its Frisbee into our yard, or if Mexico drives by us too fast or plays its music too loud. McCain can come out in his slippers and shake his fist, keep the baseball and threaten to tell Spain. Good times.
So, back to the show about hideous women dressing anorexic disgusting barf smelling sticks up for the amusement of snarkily revolting gay men. Did you tivo it? The chick with the safety goggles and the shirt made out of butcher paper won. You don’t need to watch it now. Heh.
I’ve realized something. I don’t feed my brain anymore. I only read yahoo news and I only watch pornography. There’s nothing nutritional going in. I don’t watch movies or tv shows (project runway season finale was kind of a happenstance thing. That’s not a regular occurrence for sure). I don’t read books or anything these days. I don’t even listen to music, except the shit that’s already on my ipod when I’m at work. My brain is dying. I’m getting less intelligent by the moment. Well, I’ve got some great ideas about how college parties sometimes get out of hand and wind up in gangbangs, and I’m somewhat confident that I could tell you the basics of what’s going on on Wall Street (we’re fucked. Time to panic…WAIT, no! Don’t panic. uh…it’s cool.) but other than that, I got nothing.
I blame the baby. There’s no time for that kind of leisure anymore. It’s either ‘go out and see your friends cuz who knows when you’ll get another chance,’ or ‘sleep’. Those are the choices. SO, that being said, I don’t know where I’m even coming up with this stuff to ramble about here. I’m perhaps just eating my own brain, a sort of mental anorexia. Perhaps I can put my brain on the next season of that show. That’s an idea. Jesus, there I go, regurgitating again.
Fuck, people ask me all the time, what records I like, or what good movies I’ve seen, or even (and this is a rich one) what plays or comedy troupes around Chicago I’d recommend.
Uh, I don’t have any preferences anymore. I don’t even want recommendations. I file those away right next to advice from assholes who tell me how to bartend or what my band should do next.
Hmmm…so, what’s the moral?
The shackles of work and offspring will suck the creative soul out of you by way of cutting you off from what is actually current and going on. And you won’t even care, because you’ll be too tired. Huh. Pretty good. Sounds depressing, but it’s not. In fact, I don’t even care.
My friend is going to see Norm McDonald this weekend and she wanted me to come up with an attention grabbing opening line that would show her she was interested, but not slutty, pique his interest and ultimately lead him to marry her.
My suggestion:
“Hey norm, my vagina is a lot like Machu Picchu. It’ll take you a while to get there, but once you finally do, you’ll be amazed by the craftsmanship.”
I think it’s pretty good.
I mean, it would work on me.
Off to work.