Dude, guys. Dude.
Listen, I’ve got no good reason to have suddenly jumped ship on the regular blogging thing, a thing I had, until recently, been committed to in a balls out fashion. I’ve got some half a**ed reasons, though!
For one, I had a post that was shared and liked much more widely than most, and if you’re me bouncing back from success is much harder than slogging on after failure simply from lack of practice.
Also I’ve been settling into the newest new normal. New home again, where shall we put the things? In the basement, apparently. New job with new work acquaintances gnawing on their inappropriate snack choices in training rooms I can’t run screaming from if I want to keep this job. Which, surprisingly, I really do.
There’s the feeding the cats and supporting the husband and herding my own worst thoughts which wax and wane in difficulty with no rhyme or reason.
And so on.
If I’m going to get over this hump and blog again, I think I must resign myself to the lukewarm side hug of mediocrity. Posts can’t all be home runs, but they have to be actual posts so today I’m just going to catch you dudes up with me via a grab bag of things that didn’t really merit a post all their own, but did happen to or at least got thought up by me in the past bazillion days or so since last I posted. It’s the shotgun approach to blogging.
Vacuous wolf tattoo
My new job uses an online tool for bookkeeping and another for time cards. So we have a few spare laptops kicking around at any time. On overnights this is a godsend because they won’t tell us the wifi password but I can still google “cat testicles” on the work computer. I consider this paying it forward because my night was made when I found “vacuous wolf tattoo” as a recent search suggestion at about 4:45 a.m.
Sadly, I think autocorrect is right and that one of my coworkers is considering a vicious wolf tattoo. Not what I would go for and not at all what I was hoping for, but for a moment I was able to contemplate beautiful possibilities.
I hope that the next mid-shift internet browsing coworker has the same breathtaking moment of joy as they wonder why anyone was wanting to look at images of cat balls.
Do I have a problem?
The last 12 songs I’ve listened to were all Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” and I have no intention of stopping soon.
Every gambler knows
That the secret to survivin’
Is knowin’ what to throw away
And knowin’ what to keep
‘Cause every hand’s a winner
And every hand’s a loser
And the best that you can hope for
Is to die in your sleep
D***, Kenny. Don’t f***ing sugarcoat it or anything.
Mackey’s relationship tips: Even if your early relationship was based largely on imparting random animal facts post coitus, and even if you have just learned a really cool fact about pigeons and it reminded you of another cool fact about pigeons, and even if you suddenly recall both of these facts mid-coitus and can’t wait to share them because they’re super cool, still you must exercise patience. First coitus, then animal facts. Always.
I’m too old for this shit
Sean and I went to see a movie and, as it was his birthday and he had used a gift certificate thingy for the tickets, I handed over the cash for our obligatory enormous Diet Pepsi. This was largely a token gesture, as we’re working on a loose communal money system, but it was MY token gesture, d*** it! Birthdays demand blowjobs and token gestures and Mega Man hoodies. It is known.
Anyway, the girl behind the counter, a dewy-eyed ash blonde who seemed nice in a vacant sort of way, handed the change to Sean. “Because of course,” every woman who’s been out in public with a man more than three times is thinking. This is a thing that happens on the reg. Cashier hands money back to the person in charge, and to them that person is not me even if the money is mine. Arglebargle.
And I get it. I’ve cashiered. After a billion customers you’re in a sort of fugue state wherein your lizard brain does all the heavy lifting and you and your forebrain are left to have erotic fantasies about David Duchovney or whatever. And because of this, in the past I have let such slights go.
No longer. I am now quite certain that I am too old for this shit.
I took my change from Sean and told this fawn in a Dipson polo, “In the future, you’re gonna want to hand the change back to the person who handed you the money.”
“Ok” her lizard brain responded.
I am not too old, however, to remark quite loudly, “Just because you have a penis doesn’t mean you get my money!” as we walked away. I like to think of it as an education for the rest of the fawns milling thereabout.
Three days later I yelled at a youth and his old lady on a mototrcycle that they should keep their slow-ass joyriding to the righthand lane, thank your a** very much.
My takeaway is that I’m only a few years away from needing a knobby-a** blinged-out pimp cane with which to whap whippersnappers