Sleep, my dog of war...

Yesterday, after a little brunch with my buddies in the Cobra Skulls (a great band, in town recording at the infamous Atlas Studios) I started to head out to get my baby from his grandparents place, but then I suddenly started to feel a little sick, so I went home to take a nap. I was kind of feeling sore and I had a scratchy throat and had a bit of a chill, so I thought I maybe had a fever. I searched around and got a thermometer and was standing there taking my temperature, craning my eyes to look down at the digital display thing to see when the thermometer was done working, when suddenly I realized something.

This thermometer, the one in my mouth RIGHT NOW, is the baby’s ass thermometer.

So terribly sad. Well, I decided that my actual temperature was no longer important and instead brushed my teeth twice and took a nap. Sigh. That’s life though, right? You’re trying to do something, go out of your way to actually not cut corners and get all the info, and it blows up all over your dick and reinforces that you should never stop cutting corners, man. Just keep fucking around, you know?
For example, I’ve been nagged all my life, by my mom, girlfriends, teachers, bosses, wife, etc. Someday it’s very possible that I will have a daughter or even a granddaughter that will nag me. This is hardly my unique burden to bear. It’s the burden of lots of guys and gals. Disgustingly messy gals, and guys who aren’t hyper anal retentive, and therefore gigantic nags themselves, that is. SO, anyway, if you’re a guy and you’re at all like me, you’ve actually lived through the kinds of scenarios that crappy, hack comedians like Bobby Collins talk about in their acts. You’ve been scolded for drinking out of the milk carton, or farting at the table (God, I hope you all watched that south park about queefing last night. Mercy.) or having stinky shits or putting the ketchup/peanut butter/vodka back with only just the tiniest bit left. Fine. It’s the kind of shit that you don’t really think about, and it drives the people who DO think about it crazy. And they’re right. We’re disgusting, for sure. But there’s this tiny little transference of guilt and blame that happens every time, and it’s fucking exhausting. And yes, it’s exhausting for the nagger too. And this FURTHER makes me feel like I need to get my shit together, just to make all our lives less exhausting. SO, I decide, I’m gonna shape the fuck up, man! What would my wife/mom/irritating teacher/OCD roommate do in this situation? That’s how I’m gonna behave from now on.
And I end up standing there with an ass thermometer in my mouth.
I don’t go to the doctor. I don’t go to the dentist. I don’t do any of that shit because, like all men, I don’t have a body part that REQUIRES maintenance (uh, the vagina…right?) so I’ve fallen out of the habit of going. Plus, nothing’s ever wrong. And it’s not fun. Fingers go funny places and cup things. It costs money. I mean, there are a thousand excuses, but it all comes down to essentially the same reason that I don’t finish the milk and throw the carton away. It’s just not there, in the forefront of my mind. I’m lazy? Kind of. I’m lazy in THAT particular way. The way of basic, simple, ultimately unimportant, detail oriented maintenance. That shit’s important. Make no mistake, but I just don’t have the instinct necessary to properly do it. SO, of course, a big thing that I’ve been nagged at about over the years is going to the doctor. I mention sort of half assedly that ‘yeah, I should’ but then I forget, and it never really comes up again, so I don’t. Well, this time I decided that I was gonna be like the fucking moms and wives in the world and take my temperature and I ended up learning the same lesson I have when I’ve accidentally made the bed sideways or folded all of the jeans wrong or washed the china in the dishwasher or dried the towels along with a sweater or whatever the fuck it is…That shit’s a waste of my time and everyone’s energy. I should just go back to not paying attention to the details and deal with the bitching. It’s a lot less painful to sit through fifteen seconds of complaining than to have to unfold all the improperly folded laundry and refold it for a second time. There you go. Secrets to success. Or an easy guide to failing in style. That’s probably better and more accurate, right? Yeah. Okay, enjoy your stupid day. Barf.