Son, you got a panty on yo' head

Well, well, well. Yesterday I got quite a few emails regarding my previous post (And now for something completely familiar…) which was some advice I was giving to my recently betrothed brother. The majority of the emails were concerns about marriage itself, specifically from guys and gals who are currently on their ways to becoming husbands and wives, and who had become, as per the dreariness of my post, suddenly concerned. Perhaps the picture I painted yesterday was none too pretty, and that’s because, well, let’s fucking face it: marriage sucks, BUT that’s only because being an adult is one kick in the dick after another anyway, and life gets more and more difficult as you get older and feel worse, look worse and your friends and family start dying and suddenly you’re wearing the most ridiculous clothes because you haven’t gone shopping in a decade and then you’re bald and the chicks you want to get blowjobs from weren’t even born when you got your first summer job and the climate changes and the rivers rise and Bangladesh is submerged along with, like, 70% of the earths lepers, and suddenly all the girls in playboy are younger than you and then they’re the age of your friend’s kid and then you break your hip, a bunch of untalented shits become wealthy for doing the same thing you do, only worse, your funny little dalliance in vicodin becomes a full on heroin addiction, and you always wanted to learn to play the piano but you got old, so that’s not happening now, ditto for that stint on the soap opera and suddenly you’re just another old, pathetic worthless dildo heating up your spaghetti-o’s in the microwave at the Citgo, trying desperately to make conversation with the incredibly polite yet disinterested muslim teenager who works there (I think his name’s Ali?) and then as you walk out go back to your crappy shack with your cats or your playstation (depending on gender) it hits you…Life is a fucking shitty row to hoe, man. Being a kid…about four months to about twenty four, that’s the window, then it starts closing and man, you don’t even see it. Oh, yeah, you’re twenty nine and you’re thinking ‘shit’s awesome. I got a decent job and I get my share of blowjobs…what could possibly go wrong? Let me tell you, buddy. Decent job becomes crappy job as you suddenly realize that you’ve stagnated too long in one shitty spot and now all the new positions you want are being taken by younger people who are more qualified and willing to work for less than you, because they’re only 22 and they don’t give a shit about all the creature comforts you’ve grown accustomed to, like shampoo. Those blowjobs? Let me lay it down for you, sport. The chicks that are A) good at those B) decent looking C) not totally nuts are getting snapped up left and right in their youth. You’ll have a brief window in their early thirties once the ones who made big mistakes get divorced and back out there, but by then, they’re bitter, maybe a kid into the game and it’s just all-around different then the sweet beej that you used to get under the blanket just sitting right there in the seat on your flight back from Philly. Nope, just wait a few seconds, and before you know it, the only no strings attached blowjobs you’ll be getting will be from the craziest/sloppiest/dumbest/most un-deal-withable bitches in the world.
Suddenly, marriage isn’t so bad, eh?
I mean, I love my wife and I loved my wedding. I mentioned before that I’m pretty sure that getting married was the best day of my life, and it was for sure the best decision I ever made. BUT, like everything in life that’s worth a shit, it’s hard and it can be pretty unbearable sometimes. Think about this…getting old sucks, but it beats the alternative, which, for the mongaloids out there, is being dead. Being married may be a series of compromises and barter that involves forced trips to Bed Bath and Beyond in exchange for resentful blowjobs, but hey man, at least you’ve got someone with you at BB&B, right? You’re not that lady picking out another cat bed for yet another cat. And YOU! Dude in the mix! How dare you question the value of having her around. Man, without her you’d be eating brownies for breakfast, shitting in the sink and you’d still be wearing that dumb sweater and those fucking sandals (I don’t care HOW comfortable they were). You’re lucky someone will so much as breathe on your dick! Marriage is a great thing that is also terrible, and I believe this firmly, despite the inherent seeming contradiction, but you know what else it is? It’s a treaty. It’s a pact, it’s like playing survivor, man. You get out there in the middle of the bullshit where there’s nothing but leeches who want to suck your blood and dogs who want to eat your food and wreck your stuff and pigs who want to shit on you and some conniving rich bastard fat cats who have a vested interest in your life being miserable so you go up to the best guy you can find upon looking around (the black guy is a good bet) and you go “hey, as long as we’re out here, let’s make a deal. You don’t fuck me around too bad, and I won’t fuck you around too bad…Hell, maybe we can even fuck around some of these other people for our joint amusement.” He says yes and that’s it. The game’s a little better. Sure, you’ve gotta share the peanut butter, but it beats the shit out of NOT sharing the peanut butter, when you consider that people who don’t share the peanut butter are usually eating it with a spoon while they play World Of Warcraft in their jizz encrusted easy chair in their mom’s basement. That’s the thing, man. Marriage may suck, but it beats the alternative. That’s it.
Oh, but before I go, let me say a thing or two about bad decisions. Everyone knows someone who married the wrong person. This is WAY worse than being single. WAY worse. This is like being forced to cohabitate with someone who doesn’t have your best interest at heart. Jail is a good example of this, as is freshman year in college. There’s no polish in the world that can shine up that turd, so if that’s you, or it’s about to be you…life’s rough, you shouldn’t have picked that bitch. Dump her, then cruise down to the disc exchange and see if you can still buy your records back.
Here’s a story about bad decisions that you’ll all maybe enjoy. It’s a thanksgiving tale, in that I’m so thankful that I haven’t seen the dipshit protagonist of this story in ten years. I hope it brings you joy on your holiday.

Okay, I was getting tattooed about ten years ago by my friend Tom. Now, I’m not sure if this is the case everywhere, but in almost every tattoo shop I’ve ever been into, there’s always a guy, heavily tattooed, kind of a mongo who doesn’t really work there, but acts like he does and essentially hangs out, pretends to the customers that he works there and tries to scam free tattoos. In the shop I went to, this dude was named Carl. Carl was everything you could imagine and less. On his knuckles, he had “shit” and “Fuck” tattooed respectively. Totally, bro.
So anyway, I’m getting tattooed and Carl is the only other person in the shop. He’s making fun of me for being a pussy (big, ugly tattooed guys do this a lot to smaller, less ugly tattooed guys…hmmm) and suddenly he announces to Tom that when I’m done, he wants to get a tattoo.
“Man, right when you’re done with this, I wanna get something, Tom!”
“You know what you want?”
“Nah, not yet, but man, that’s the best way to come up with shit, just spur of the moment. That’s how I got the crafty beaver on my leg!”

Now, for those of you from outside the chicagoland area, Crafty Beaver is a local hardware chain with a mascot that can only be described as a meth addicted beaver in green overalls holding up what I believe is a monkey wrench. Carl lifted the leg of his jeans up, exposing this very mascot, permanently stained onto his thigh, except for one key difference. Carl’s crafty beaver had a speech balloon. The beaver was saying “Fuck it!”
So Carl’s sitting there, and then all of a sudden you can just see the bulb go off in his head and he says:

“Tom, I got it! Right here, under my belly button, hip to hip I want you to do “Time To Eat!” in big ass letters!
“Okay, man. I’ll draw it up as soon as I’m done here”
Carl sat back, pleased with himself, smiling the vapid smile of the mentally infirm, smoking not unlike the way a truly satisfied chimpanzee would smoke. Then, suddenly he sat bolt upright.
“Nah dude! Fuck ‘Time To Eat!’ I got a better one—‘Eat at Carl’s!’ How fucking awesome is that man? Eat at Carls…Heh. Carl, you genius.”
This was met with bemused silence and nods. Carl tipped his chair back on two legs and just kind of owned it all. Suddenly, (I swear this is true) Carl stands up and he’s so fucking excited that he’s literally turning red. When he next speaks, it’s in an excited, spittle flecked shout.
“No dude! I got it man! Under my bellybutton, big ass letters, hip to hip, soon as you’re done with this pussy, ‘Carl is Good Food!’ That’s what it’s gonna be man…’Carl is Good Food!” Oh shit, bro. That’s so fucking awesome. I can’t wait!”

As far as I know, that’s what he got.

So there you have it, decisions, people. They can start out terrible (Time to eat) and quickly, if unchecked, devolve into completely horrendous I’ll-never-get-another-free-or-even-retail-priced-blowjob-again type decisions (Carl is good food). I forget my point, but as I walked out of there with my tattoo of burt and ernie eating a single hotdog from both ends, I chuckled to myself that Carl was a real dumbass. Um…That was also the last time I saw him, or Tom for that matter. Hmmm…Anyway, whatever. I’m done with this bullshit. Have a good holiday, you fucks. I’m doing my Thanksgiving with my mom and the Cobra Skulls (look ‘em up…they’re the best).
As-salaam-aleykum, and happy Turkey day.