I woke up with a sense of impending doom…somehow it’s related to my dumb job or the state of the world or maybe my approaching solo performance in St. Augustine, Fla (April 10th at café 11) I dunno. It’s just that feeling of utter doom. I’ve heard of impending doom looming as a result of actual tangible problems, drug use, depression, or some combination thereof, but as near as I can tell, the culprit was a cheeseburger. Yeah. A fucking cheeseburger. I don’t believe it myself.
There’s this place called Kuma’s Corner here in Chicago and it’s becoming pretty famous for having great cheeseburgers. The whole place has a bit of a heavy metal theme (the burgers are all named after metal bands, some good [slayer] some bad [clutch]) and it’s always nuts to butts jam packed out the door. The girls that work there are all tattooed girls that make nerds fall in love with them and the bar plays loud heavy metal and serves a ton of stupid microbrews. You get the idea, right? Some dude who loved cheeseburgers, small batch beer and metal just kind of went for it and pulled it off pretty well. The burgers are good, but FUUUUCK, they will tear up your soul.
This is the second time that I’ve woken up feeling doomed after a meal at Kumas. ( Oh, I had the Clutch, add bacon, just by the way) Last time I went, it was my birthday and I chalked up the doomed feeling to potentially having had too many beers and also bravely attempting to eat a burger called the “insect warfare’ which had some sort of green chili and goat cheese thing going on…it completely destroyed me for a couple of days. I didn’t even have a birthday dinner because of the stupid insect warfare…but now I know, man. It’s just the place. I’m allergic to it. There’s no other explanation.
SO, I’m sitting here, doomed. There’s no way to fix it because aside from the usual things (we’re all gonna die, the world is in the shitter, I don’t know how I’m going to provide for my wife/baby/parents/whatever, life is a series of meaningless tasks that shoot us ever closer to the inevitable mental decay and poverty that mark our last pointless moments) there’s nothing wrong. So, I can’t un-doom myself. It’s a rough situation, man.
Here’s what I should do:
Go to the gym- they say that regular exercise does essentially the same thing as any antidepressants. Also, I love watching naked old men stand there waving their desiccated little wieners around, just talking about politics and other important stuff like there’s any way they could be taken seriously in their gross, saggy, naked man suits. It’s also a reminder of impending death though….so…
Drink beer- Usually makes me feel pretty good. And doom is a lot easier to stomach when you’ve got a beer. Hell, I think that’s what beer was invented to do.
Squeeze a baby- babies will cheer you up in a pinch. Unless they’re asshole babies, or ugly, or they’re missing an eye or they have a harelip or something…then they’re a real fucking bummer.
Try to wrangle a beej- These things will cheer you up faster than you can say ‘why yes. I would LOVE a blowjob”
Go see my dumb friends- being around people beats the crap out of sitting alone, listing off ways you could potentially shake the feeling of doom that’s ensconcing you while your baby moans in the next room. My friends probably have some dick jokes they’d like to tell me…did you hear about the guy with five dicks? His pants fit him like a glove. Heyo!
I found out this weekend that I’m not really Irish. That’s not really that astounding when you look at me…I don’t look irish, but my name is irish. Turns out, though, that my grandfather, who I thought was 100% irish is only half irish, making me only an eighth. That’s not really enough to count, is it? I don’t think so. Oh well…it’s the irish American community’s loss, not mine. Also, my dog’s got a serious case of the runs. It looked like someone melted a bunch of candybars all over the bathroom when I woke up this morning. Gnarly.