Man, oh man! It’s two zero zero nine up in this bitch!!!! WOOT WOOT! Since it’s a new year, I’m gonna go ahead and catch up with the current lexicon of what’s going on here on the internet. How come people use zeroes instead of ohs now? Like if I write “hey d00d, th0se were s0me sweet n00ds y0u st0le 0ut 0f y0ur m0m’s jewelry b0x! Let’s g0 d0wn t0 Tim’s burrit0 fact0ry and get a t0rta and maybe s0me lem0nade.” Does that somehow make me cooler? Kids? Daddy’s asking a serious question here.
Okay, just writing that last sentence made me feel like a pervert. Addressing anyone as ‘kids’ on the internet while referring to yourself as ‘daddy’….let’s just say it’s got a tough legacy. Oh, did I mention I’ve got an Xbox and some wine coolers back in my shed?
So, while we’re on the subject of things that seem to indicate that a person, just perhaps, beats off to Teen Beat or at the very least, drives slow around playgrounds for all the wrong reasons, my best Christmas gift this year: crocs.
Right? Yeah, I got me some motherfucking crocs, bitches. Step the fuck off my crocs! For those of you who don’t know, Crocs are the equivalent of sweatpants for your feet. They’re those plastic clogs that your fat aunt with the teddy bear sweaters wears, and they indicate, in no uncertain terms to the rest of the world that you no longer give a fuck what they think of you. Sure, they might be comfortable, but so is pulling out your balls on a hot day. So is farting. So is masturbating. I guess what I’m getting at is, man, that’s not a very good argument.
So the crocs I got, man, they’re not just your daddies fucking run of the mill crocs. No fucking way bitches! I got me the fucking (drum roll, trumpets, black guy [a la flavor flav] screaming ‘yeah yeah’ in the background to build anticipation) MICKEY MOUSE CROCS!!!!!! You all know what time it is now? That’s right. It’s time for me to step out in my Mickey Mouse crocs and watch people look at me like they’re positive I’m walking around the block on my court ordered journey to alert the neighbors to my sex offender status.
Yeah, they’re great. Best gift by far. I’m wearing them now. Well, one’s hanging off the tip of my dick and the other one’s up my ass. So I guess, technically, I’m wearing one and one’s wearing me. Heh. How droll.
Okay, so it’s the new year, and as such, it’s time for a little stocktaking. Right? In the past, I’ve kind of looked around and gone ‘woah, everything’s pretty sweet’ and just sort of kept on trucking. This year, however, I’ve got some shit to do, apparently. I want to…no, I resolve, to do my best to get out of working at this bar. I no longer enjoy the mindless drudgery that is part and parcel with making SoCo lime shots for fat sluts and putting ham sandwiches in front of dickheads. I guess this is growing up, kids. Daddy is growing up (ew).
SO, today, in keeping with my resolutions, I sent out a bunch of emails regarding my movie script…which, you know, should be all I have to do, really, right? From what I’ve heard of Hollywood, all it takes is a blog and a dream and a Midwestern upbringing, some tattoos and a pretty hackneyed and contrived movie script full of whipcrack dialog, and you’ve pretty much got a reserved seat at the Oscars. Well, I’ve got all that shit like you wouldn’t believe (and some crocs) AND the academy awards are coming up soon, Hollywood Jews, but I still haven’t gotten my invite…Huh…Maybe after these emails get opened.
I’m also gonna take some steps to getting this book published. This is particularly scary because I’m no longer confident that it’s any good…which is perhaps the meterstick that indicates that I’m still properly functioning as an artist…but hey, that’s neither here nor there. I’ll save those “what does it mean to do art” blogs for another time. I have a croc up my ass, after all. Right now, I just need to actually do a little bit of real work. I’m gonna go out to LA and act in some gay porn, because I hear that’s how you get into straight porn, and from there it’s just a tiny little hop into playing members in crowds in infomercials. Sounds painless.
Also, I’m gonna clean the kitchen and call and get my washing machine fixed and get my dogs trained. That’s 2009. Fuck. It’s already more or less over. I can see myself now, out there in the future, January 3, 2010, just sipping champagne in my Hollywood mansion, right outside the spotless kitchen, trained dogs at my feet, flipping through the paperback of my best selling book, washing my clothes in my repaired washer/dryer and watching my infomercial. It’s gonna be fucking sweet, boy, let me tell you.
Okay, I’m gonna go to the gym. That’s not a resolution. I’m 32. If you don’t go to the gym you start to look like a slob, and I’m not gonna do that. Now, where are my sweatpants and my crocs? Oh, that’s right. Again. How droll.