Shit Revisited

        I can deal with someone calling me out for being a liar. I can deal with someone calling me out for being a sack of shit, on the rare chance that I am a sack of shit. However, I can't handle someone calling me a lying sack of shit. It's a double entendre. A double insult if you will, which doesn't sit well with me. It's like killing one bird with two stones--brutally excessive and covertly humorous. Actually, it's something of a quadruple entendre if there's such thing. It's quite befuddling. Let me break it down for you.

Lying sack of shit #1:
Dirty, rotten liar. This is the most obvious translation. Insulting? Yes. But it gets worse.

Lying sack of shit #2:
Lazy sack of excrement. So, basically, now I'm a "lying" sack of shit, which means I'm lounging around all of the time just stinking up the joint. It doesn't matter what kind of shit, because let's face it all shit stinks. So, in the end I'm a lazy sack of excrement.

Lying sack of shit #3
Mythical talking sack of shit that's very dishonest. This is what I call Absurdist Literal Expressionism. This one basically suggests that I'm a sack of shit that has the capability of telling fibs which means I can talk--mostly out of my ass. This sends me mixed feelings like, "This isn't possible. Now you're just insulting my intelligence, but tickling my fancy all at once. I always wanted to be a mythical creature. Hmm. Wait! This is ridiculous!"

Lying sack of shit #4
Possibly the worst of the four. This is where all four sides of the quadruple entendre dice are viewed. In this instance I'm a lazy, smelly, mythical sack of shit that likes telling fibs. Shit just got real...or really unreal.

        In a sense, there's always another insult within an insult, making it somewhat sophisticated in one respect and absolutely moronic in another respect. I'll choose to ignore the latter.

Writer's Quarrel

I feel like the "simple life" is greatly underrated. I can't help but wonder how much more I would get done in a day if I didn't waste my time focusing on the wrong things. There are too many distractions, even in this quiet town. It's frustrating for a writer. I can easily get side tracked if there is a television on in the room (even muted), my phone starts ringing, or if I have the sudden urge to tweet some meaningless piece of dialogue that I overheard in the grocery store today. I should be contributing to a real piece of work and hone in on my craft.

And there I go, searching for an alternate word in the online thesaurus because I don't want to use the same word again. However, I accidentally click on the tab for Twitter. By doing so I illuminate the true redundancy in my life which encompasses the technology that we as humans are ever so magnetized to. This technology is wrongfully associated with our leisure time and the "simple life." As we know the "simple life" isn't all that simple. But, technology definitely makes it easier. Easy living. Simple life. They sound pretty similar. However, we know damn well how easily technology can complicate our lives. I mean, shit, we survive on our Keurig coffee machines and GPS units. If you remove these things, we may never find our way to work. It's a sad cup of coffee; half empty. But, hey, it holds some truth.

I feel like I need to lock myself in an empty room with pencils and paper and just write. No. That makes me sound annoyingly proud and pretentious. So, scratch that. I'll lock myself in a room with a laptop. However, this laptop will only have writing software and that is it. But, you know what? It's hard to find laptops like that these days. They always want to fill it with junk and other things that take up space until you have 73 icons on your desktop. 

Back to basics. That's all I'm trying to say. Let me find inspiration in the wind, starry nights, and my weird neighbors again. And may I shy away from the temptations (not the Motown group, which I love) of day time television, the entangling web of sites on the...interweb, and all of the other distractions found in our lives.

Now quick, let me post this on my blog and tweet it to my 46 followers. Oh wow, what's this? A magazine which showcases the Bachelor, which I have zero interest in. However, there's a slew of attractive women hanging around him. What do you know? Sex does sell.

Third of a Life Crisis

     Things that are overrated: “stable” jobs, good benefits (a.k.a. bennies), and pension plans. It’s interesting. A stable job, which you hate, seems to make you quite the opposite: something like umm, unstable. This is due to the monotony that dictates your existence. Your passion lies dormant. By the end of the day your brain rests, smoking on a long Virginia Slim, as you sit and stare at a wall. The only thing you manage to mutter is, “Hmm. That sure is a wall.” Your passion, like an old friend says, “Hey man. Remember me? So…what’s new?”

     Benefits are actually really important. So, I can’t say with 100% conviction that benefits are overrated. This is one of the anchors of any job. Benefits alone can be the deciding factor when it comes to debating your next move. One thing is for sure though--the moment you decide to take a chance on your passion and forget about your great benefits is when life will say, “Hey, look out for…Too late. That sure looked painful. I hope you have good insurance.”

     A pension plan seems like a great, practical…thing. But, really, the only thing you’re planning on is living to see your pension. You might have been great at dodge ball in elementary school and maybe you still have moves like Jagger. However, sometimes you just can’t dodge cancer, heart disease, and that demon Mack truck heading your way. So, chances are this American "ideal" probably won't work for you. Sorry to sound so bitter. But, life is like that bitch in The Rolling Stones song, "She's So Cold"...it's so cold.

     In conclusion, I probably shouldn't complain. But, what the hell, everybody else does. There's a time and a place to grow some balls. Usually that's in your mother's womb. In my case, it's right now...probably not though. I'm my worst enemy, my worst critic, and my worst nightmare--not exactly in that order. I guess I'll keep on keep keepin' on, doing what I'ma gonna do. Now I'm just rambling. 

     I'm going to write a second conclusion like a hobbit would eat a second breakfast. In conclusion, I'm just going to grab life by the...not balls because that's weird...not boobs because that's perverted. So, there will be no grabbing whatsoever.  Instead I will...eventually take a chance...and maybe get life into a headlock.

I Done Got Showered

A surprise indeed.

Midnight Munchies

www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqNxIi1g3RI

When My Dad Finally Sees the Redwoods

One fateful day my dad will trek through the mighty pine, through the mystical forest and leave his footprint next to the greatest Redwood anyone has ever seen! He will then realize that that footprint isn't actually his, but of a twelve foot tall Sasquatch. Suddenly, what should appear before his very eyes? Yes, the friendliest of squirrels named Chipmunk--he has quite the identity crisis. Then, suddenly, the biggest foot of feet smashes down upon the squirrel. Dad trembles and slowly looks up to see the montrosity before him. But, to his astonishment, it's just an average sized man lurking around with an over sized boot--maybe a Doc Martin, maybe a Timberland, I don't know. For some reason dad is without any shoes, boots, footware whatsoever because he wanted to be one with nature and feel the earth beneath his feet. Then he realizes that his foot pain tolerance is nonexistent and begins to freak out due to a baby splinter lodged in his toe.

"The sun appears to be falling away to the dark side of the Earth," says the man.

"Nope. That's just the shadow of a Sasquatch behind you bro," replies Dad.

The Sasquatch grabs the man.

"Ahhh!" screams Dad.

The man manages to get out his last words, "Here. Take my boot."

"I can't. It's your only boot," replies Dad.

"Take the boot man. Where I'm going, they don't wear boots or boot. Take it. I insist," says the man insistently.

Dad cries for what seems to be an eternity.

"I do have one last request. Can you tell my wife that I love her and that there really is a Big Foot?" exclaims the man.

But, it's too late. Dad has already made his getaway--both feet in one boot, hopping off in the distance.

Drunkard: The Christmas Party Elf

www.youtube.com/watch?v=aSPRU56hS0k