i shouda stood in bed

Man, first thing that happened when I woke up this morning was that, on the way to the coffee maker, I stepped in dogshit. It was early morning, and I was still in my underwear and barefoot. The results were that the dual logs of shit were ground into not only the creases of my foot, but also the rug right in front of the kitchen sink.
At the coffee maker, yesterday’s grounds decided to ricochet off the garbage can and spill all over the floor. An offhand comment by my wife about my stinky ass and a shower and a quick breakfast later, I’m off to my take my kid to his second day of his new school and as I pass my other car, I notice that the rear tire is flat.
I drop my kid off only to realize that the one teacher that I saw him bond with yesterday isn’t there, which sends him into a bit of a ‘don’t leave me here with these fucking strangers, man!’ kind of panic that I (despite my sympathy) just kind of have to shrug off and smile and ignore in order to not wind up raising a total pussy.
Back at my car, the lug nuts were frozen on. The jack was under the seat where the carseat is. I had to struggle for about forty minutes to get the nuts loose (that would be funny if I wasn’t so pissed right now) and then remove the car seat to flip up the regular seat to get the jack and then put it all back, and man, installing and removing a car seat sucks in the best of circumstances and today, it’s fucking twenty degrees outside, windy and snowy, just by the way.
THEN, as I’m on the nasty ground, jacking up the car, I come to realize that the reason my tire is flat is because some dildo knifed it. There’s an inch gash in the sidewall. Where the fuck do I live? In a back alley full of satin-jacketed street toughs behind a broadway theater? Who slashes tires anymore?
Anyway, once I get the car jacked up, the real dickpunch sets in. At this point I’ve been in the cold for almost two hours and I’m pissed, and a little concerned that my kid’s gonna have a rough day at school and I’m dirty and did I mention pissed? Because yeah, I was pissed. And the fucking flat is frozen to the wheel mount.
I got a mallet and a lighter and banged and lit and cursed and kicked and now I’m waiting for triple A like some sort of old lady or otherwise dignity-free pussy who can’t even change a fucking tire.
Now, I’m no mechanic. Hell, I once poured oil into the power steering reservoir in my stepdad’s car. But one thing I can do is change a tire, and this, my friends, has been a terrible day so far, and it’s just gonna get stupider. I’m missing all my meetings. I’m not getting to the gym. I’m fuming like a dumb fake-tanned slightly beer-gutted cunt wearing the same dress as the super fat chick at the club, and thereby drawing unflattering comparisons. I’m fucking bummed, bros and hoes. Bummed.
This morning, between the dogshit and the stinky ass comment, we had vh1 on and were watching videos to see what the kids are listening to these days. That band Train was on, and we saw the video for their song “hey soul sister” which, uh…I don’t even know where exactly to begin enumerating all the things that are fucking terribly wrong about the entire thing going on there.
Firstly, and most glaringly, I suppose, is the name of the song. Um, who are you? Oprah? Because she’s the type of person that shouts woefully out of touch salutations along the lines of ‘hey soul sister!’ I mean, shit. That’s some shit that an old wise black woman would have shouted to Punky Brewster during a very special MLK day episode.
Then, there’s the dude singing. This guy is like, I dunno, fiftyish, and he’s dressed like a twenty year old girl. He’s got all sorts of medallions that hang to his navel and they’re on hemp type burlapy rope, and his shirt is just…no, he, HE is just gross. He’s so old and he’s desperately trying to be young and he looks like the California Raisins version of John Stamos dressed as Mischa Barton and he’s singing this adult contemporary, islandy little song with lyrics that were seemingly written by an 80 year old trying to click with the zeitgeist of the new millennium (sample lyric: “you can cut a rug” [which meant ‘you can dance’ back in the fifties] and the aforementioned ‘hey soul sister!’) and he dances like my kid. Just all flailing and elbows and pointing and he obviously has no business dancing and it’s gross. It’s all just so gross.
Imagine your dad won some contest and the top stylists at the fashion mall in Council Bluffs Iowa made him over like a rockstar and then someone shot a video for that one song that your mom wrote for him. That’s this.
This day sucks so far. Send me pictures of your clams pls. Thanks.