This summer I have been busier than your mother’s digestive tract post all-you-can-eat special at the Sizzler. Not only have I been moonlighting as a freelance web designer, my lady and I moved in together after spending two and a half months painting and tiling our town home. Thankfully, our good friend/neighbor works for Coors and brought over many cases of free beer to placate my laboring ass while I was up to my tits in tile mortar. So, my apologies that I have not been diligent in finding links regarding chicken fucking and adolescent impalement.
Once before on this site, I directed my rage at Jehovah’s Witnesses. The reasons for my anger were threefold:
- They cruise my town home complex with complete lack of respect for the no-solicitation ordinance.
- They ring my doorbell early on Saturday mornings.
- They bring their Jesus shit to my front door, inches away from where I eat, fuck, sleep and shit.
While the methods of Jehovah’s Witnesses piss me off, I still love me some Prince. If he appeared on my doorstep, I would invite his little ass inside and tell him to hurry up with the Son of God rap and ask him to sing Purple Rain for me and my sort of lady.
Friday. It is my birthday so I take the day off. I wake up, make some scrambled eggs and bacon and watch Clash of the Titans on the digital cable. My sort of lady and I play nine holes of golf. My sort of lady gives me clothes and candles that smell like pumpkin musk. We crack a Michelob Ultra and toast to my 28th year. After killing three Michelob Ultras each, My sort of lady and I realize that Michelob Ultras go down very smooth. My sort of lady departs to get ready for birthday festivities at Old Chicago. Kaye, Aaron and Johnny Ballgame stop by to check out the town home improvements. We leave for the pub where I drink the night away with family and friends, consuming only two shots (thanks to Monica and an old high school friend Rachel). For the first time in three years of birthday celebrations, I do not wind up face down in some skeezy parking lot in downtown Denver dry heaving on a tree.
Saturday. My sort of lady and I drive to Redstone (20 miles outside of Glenwood Springs) to attend the wedding of a childhood friend she has not talked to in six months. I soon find out why my sort of lady does not talk to aforementioned friend (the term bourgeois princess comes to mind.) Together, we know a total of three people at the wedding. We sit at our table and drink ourselves half blind. I begin to spin yarns to the gullible and uppity wedding guests. My best story begins when someone at the table asks me, “How long have you and your wife been together?” I reply “Six long years,” and then proceed to tell them how we met on the frozen sea ice of Antarctica where we were both studying botany and the psychoactive effects of blue-green algae on the human brain. I am sure to include my harrowing smack addiction and how my wife supported me through the dark times when I brought home filthy drug addicts to fuck and spike the vein with in our basement. I conclude the story with, “I am going to get a drink, anybody want one?” (I told you I am good at weddings.) My sort of lady and I dance. On the drive back to Denver, my sort of lady falls asleep somewhere near Glenwood Springs. She wakes up when I nudge her pulling into our town home complex. She stretches and proclaims, “That drive was so short.” I drove three hours in solitude.
Sunday. My sort of lady and I go for an early morning run as a pre-emptive strike against the assault our digestive tracts will face during the birthday celebration at my parents house. We arrive at my folks shortly after one in the afternoon and are presented with heaping plates of food. On the menu is stuffed shells (shell pasta filled with ricotta cheese and covered in homemade spaghetti sauce) and peach pie. My sisters get me candles that smell like vanilla musk, a candle holder (I begin to think the women in my life called forth a candle conspiracy for my 28th year) and a gift certificate to Old Navy. My parents float me duckets and two books: Ortho’s Home Improvement Encyclopedia and Techniques of the Great Masters of Art. We then head back to my sort of lady’s house and I fix her screen door and hang some mirrors on her walls. I play in a late hockey game and receive my first ever game misconduct penalty. Much like Claude Lemieux after boarding Kris Draper in 1996 and destroying his face, I stand by the hit.
I have completed my home improvements for the summer and I have to say the place looks sexy as hell. My town home now dominates all other town homes. I know I promised awhile back I would post pictures from my recent backpacking trip and this time, I really mean it when I say they will be up later this week. I realize I am more of a cock tease than a panty-clad high school junior in the backseat of a 1984 Honda Accord, but I promise you will see my chiseled, mountain man ass climbing narrow, winding trails behind the backdrop of Colorado fourteeners very soon.
I have a problem with Jehovah’s Witnesses. It stems from the fact that they like to pound on my door early on Saturday mornings. One particular Saturday these Restorationist pricks came a-knocking. I awoke from deep slumber, threw on a pair of boxer shorts, stumbled down the stairs and opened the door. Before me stood two brainwashed youngsters spouting off at the cake chute about Jesus. Politely I informed them of no soliciting ordinance that governs the town home complex. They responded by telling me they obey the law of God and not the law of man. I was tempted to deconstruct the entire history of human law all the way back to the Code of Hammurabi, but I was tired so I slammed the door on their Jehovah-loving faces instead. My lady lives in the same town home complex and gets the door-to-door action, pamphlets and letters. I read one of their pamphlets; it was a detailed dissertation about the evils of pornography. Jehovah’s Witnesses think pornography is bad. You see what I am saying? They are completely out of touch. Unfortunately, according to this, their tribe in increasing.
“When you are using that paint gun, be sure to wear safety goggles. You do not want to get paint in your eyes.”
The summer of home improvement has officially begun. I spent some serious coin on paint stripper, paint and tile at the Home Depot. I currently have discolored linoleum in my bathroom and kitchen and white paint in every inch of the town house. I started last night by stripping paint off three windowsills. It took me five hours. At two this morning, after sanding and sweating like I gave your fat mother a piggy back ride, I decided that the summer of home improvement is going to suck assholes.
I am living in the waning hours of my vacation and getting woozy from the giant swig of NyQuil I just took. The only good thing about having a cold is drinking all the delicious NyQuil. Last night, after whacking down some of the green goodness, I blacked out and came too sometime this morning in the exact position I fell asleep in. NyQuil also has my two favorite preservatives in it: propylene glycol and green #3.
I do not want to go back to work tomorrow. There are two things I learned during my time off:
- I would much rather be on vacation then work.
- The new He-Man on Cartoon Network kicks ass. Teela has been transformed into a cock-teasing whore in a cod piece.
My time off was productive. I completed a giant painting (three 4 foot by 2 foot canvases), re-caulked my shower, wasted many hours with She Who Will Not Be Named playing Dynasty Warriors 3, read The Jungle by Upton Sinclair and I took numerous power naps.
I am now prepared to trudge back into fluorescent-lit cubicle hell a weakened, husk of a man. In actuality, my job is great, I feel refreshed and I am grateful to have work in a down economy. I am just bitching because I will miss the time off watching He-Man cartoons.
Christmas was nice and fattening. Between an amazing all-you-can-eat buffet at the Adams Mark Hotel, heaping platefuls of homemade raviolis and more cookies than I can count, I estimate I gained seven pounds over the holiday. Luckily I have the metabolism of a 16 year-old girl on cocaine. I received some decent booty: assorted hats, fleece sweatshirts, books, video games and various kitchen appliances.
I am on vacation until January 6. Yesterday, I awoke at 11:00am and met She Who Will Not Be Named for lunch. I came home and caulked my shower, played video games for six hours, made some dinner and read for a few hours before going to sleep. Today I awoke at 10:30am, ate a bowl of Peanut Butter Crunch, watched Heathers on cable, played video games for three hours, went to Home Depot to buy a plant and touch-up paint, applied said touch-up paint to various areas of my town home and, finally, shaved for the first time this week.
As I post this my moronic neighbor (yes, that one) has been loudly playing techno music for the past two and a half hours. This is aggravating as my intentions for tonight were to quietly eat a plate of fish and watch some hockey on television. I have now muted the hockey game and am giving my neighbor an education in music. I have turned all my speakers to our shared wall and am blaring the Dead Kennedys album Plastic Surgery Disasters. What adult male listens to techno for two and half hours? Christ. I am going to repeat the album until 1 in the morning as a special Christmas treat. It is the season for giving after all.