Okay, this is getting out of control. Now the IRS is hassling me about some travel expenses from three years ago. Don’t they know I’m unemployed and about to have a kid? I mean, jesus, Jesus, what else are you gonna throw at me? AIDS? Long lost creepy brother who wants to stay on my couch? Bedbugs? I mean, fuck! It’s a good thing I’ve got an accountant, because I understand taxes about as well as I understand Chinese crossword puzzles, which is to say I can do the easy shit but then I get pretty distracted.
Seriously, there’s nothing scarier than a letter from the IRS. It’s like getting called into the fucking principals office, even if you’re, to the best of your knowledge, just cruising around doing the right thing, you can’t help but think “man, these motherfuckers are the most notorious hard asses in the world…and now they’ve got their sites on me. Fuuuuuuuuck. (this is to be groaned in a note of overwhelming despair). So yeah…fuuuuuuuuuck. Anyway, should be fine, it’s not like I have or have ever had any money, so that’s a good thing. AND, it’s not like I’m sitting around in a house made of diamonds and Stradivarius’s snorting strawberry cocaine off of a gold plated dong that was found in Jefferey Dahmer’s fridge and purchased at some weird auction in Amsterdam or something either. Is that a thing? Do you think that those dongs that they found in Dahmer’s drop freezer found any sort of commercial success after the whole trial was done? Like one of John Wayne Gacy’s paintings or Hitler’s sketches or anything like that? I mean, those dongs were his art, weren’t they? Well, I guess they were also his snacks. Uh…anyway.
Look, now it’s just getting ridiculous. Since I started writing this today my dog has gotten into my kids dirty diaper pail and eaten up some of the yummy shit from inside. That means she’s gonna be sick, I’m gonna be sick and then I’m gonna have to clean up frothy baby-shit-re-imagined-as-dog-barf later today, which I don’t feel I need to overtly express, is gonna be gross as hell. I mean, seriously, how much can one man take?
This evening, Nofx is playing in Milwaukee. Now, for those of you who don’t know, Nofx is the punk rock flavored proof that when two jews team up to subjugate the Mexicans and the poor white folk, they can pretty much do anything they want, even play songs that sound like old ragtime numbers about how it’s cool to be gay to a bunch of amped up bro-style frat boys and mongoloids. (editor’s note: holy shit! I’ve been spelling mongoloid wrong for maybe my entire life! I JUST realized that…sigh). They’re a great band and I know them a little and it’s always a great time to see those dudes, and my friend, sidekick and Jughead/Gargamel impersonator Toby is going up there and I’d love to go too, but I can’t. There’s no way. I’ve got a baby coming any second.
I mean, can you imagine that fucking scene? I’m in Milwaukee, drunk off my face, asking Eric Melvin (for the probably twentieth time) if the rumors about him having the biggest wang in punk rock are true when suddenly my wife calls, screaming from the back of a cab to announce that she’s just gone into labor ninety miles away…sigh. That would be the real end of days, folks. That would make my unemployment, my letter from the IRS and my shit eating dog seem like nothing worth thinking about. And let’s be honest, none of it’s a really big deal, is it? It’s all stuff that weighs on my mind, but really, it’s all stuff that will work itself out (a particularly gross expression when applied to the shit in the dog, I guess). Okay, I’m gonna go ride my bike to the gym and then hit some places to see if they want to hire me.
See you kids later.