There is something to be said for having just too much shit to do in the day.
Perfect example, Friday.
Awaken, shower, breakfast, laundry, blog, drive to work, go to Starbucks, blog, work, work on Writing project at lunch, work, do inventory, ship product, dinner, travel to Hollywood, writers meeting, drinks with writers after, travel home, write skits, game for a bit, watch 3 episodes of a show I am watching on netflix, masturbate, write some actual fiction, sleep.
Do you see what I’m getting at?
What I need is a sugar momma thats into short chubby older Irish guys.
Someone to pay the bills and expect sexual favors in return.
The only people groaning right now are the ladies.
The guys are fine with this and the only reason they are not cheering is because the wife will want to know why.
And thats how arguments happen.
And we, guys that is, are bad at the arguing part.
Mainly because once we get pissed, our mouth runs on its own.
And if you have never accidentally said “Because your mother is a dumb bitch.” before you could stop it, you have no clue what I mean.
Women have their own version of this, but thy utter the crazy shit that makes you suicidal.
Every now and then, I stop and look at where the blog has gone from where I started.
My goal is not to start any arguments, so lets change the subject.
Mainly because the main event has arrived.
In this corner, weighing in at a crisp 320lbs dripping wet, is the bald old guy who is scowling at the barrista.
And in the other corner, weighing in at a buck o 5, sporting blue hair and a confused look, is his wife.
And this dude is ready to rumble.
His first act that brought him to my attention was his loud barritone guffaw at the cost of a Venti House Drip.
Two dollars is a lot of cheddar to some.
His second outburst was when his wife ordered a latte.
I was positive I was going to witness the man shit himself and have a heart attack.
His wife managed to get him under control with a Gracie Allen move that even Gracie would have been proud of.
She farted, loudly.
And blamed it on him.
I swear to you, had I not been standing right behind them in line, I would have missed it.
She handed the cashier a $10 bll and let loose.
Her husbands head spun to look, that was what tipped me off.
She spun on him and said, loudly, “Arnold! How could you?”
Her voice was shocked and pained.
It was awsome.
Arnold was fucked, with no recourse and he knew it.
He sputtered for a few seconds and then just moved down to the pick up counter, muttering to himself.
And she followed as if nothing happened.
The only way this could have been worse would have been if she had farted into her cupped hand, then slapped him in the mouth, shouting “CUP A CHEESE!”
Shades of being twelve again.
I was at a family BBQ recently, when I went out to the patio to roll the sausages and flip some burgers.
A relative was out there with his son and a cousin.
The kids are about 15 or so.
“Mind if I join you, guys?” I am social and friendly around my own blood.
“Only if your not a fag.”
And that stopped me short. I live in the same pc would we all do, so the crudity of it caught me off gaurd.
And then I remembered the ages involved.
I looked at dad.
“Is that the age we’re at?”
He nodded and smiled at me.
I have a son, and I remember that age.
Not something that you encourage, but funny during that period.
I wish I had thought to “CUP A CHEESE someone right then.
This was a crowd that would have truly appreciated it.
And you gotta play to the audience in front of you.