The time is 23h20. You wake up… you’re not sure why. The three year old is sleeping in your bed because she’s not feeling well. Your wife is sleeping in the other bedroom with the 7 month old. Your foot is throbbing slightly… because it’s broken.
Suddenly the three year old sits up in bed, makes a concerning gagging sound and then vomits all over you…
Warmth. But not the good kind.
You’re in a bit of a pickle. You can’t exactly leap up and into action… so you do what any grown man would do under the circumstances… you phone your wife from the opposite side of the house to come and assist you.
Fish fingers and French fries and grape juice. In case you’re interested. Still quite chunky. Like more chunky that you’d expect after three or four hours of digestion.
The Basset wakes up. Ooh fish fingers. Yum! You try to dissuade that vile creature from partaking in the second hand sustenance while trying to wipe down the pillows, sheets, wall… husband. I am obviously relegated to last on the list of priorities (as usual). ‘Want to come sleep by mommy?’ She nods. Everyone exits stage left, except me.
Ok… well… I’m fine. Thanks for asking… yeah… I shift a little more right of the wet patch. Hello? Anyone out there?
My foot hurts….
Scooby Doo does not automatically (for me at least) conjure up some deeper philosophical layering that needs to be ruminated upon while smoking a cigar and sipping cognac in the bath*.
*actually I wouldn’t recommend this, having once gotten having gotten very inebriated imbibing more than the recommended daily allowance of Hennessy and smoking an entire Romeo Y Julieta No.3 while soaking my plus-sized carcass in the ol’ claw-tub. (I used to channel Denny Crane as my spirit animal) In any event, ones ability to extricate oneself from said bathtub post event is harder than one might imagine.
I always thought the message entrenched in this particular Saturday morning Hanna-Barbera was that doing lots of drugs would turn you into some form of Shaggy Rogers. And that was… you know… a bad thing. Much better to wear a neckerchief and drive the paedo-van. Fred… eh… was supposed to be the role-model right?
Also, I’d like to point out (at this critical juncture) that a great Dane is actually a German breed. Those Danes… always taking @#$& that doesn’t belong to them. (actually the Danes may just been bystanders in this particularly etymology… but they rarely get blamed for anything… eh… since, those early day amphibious shenanigans I mean… so I feel we need to get our kicks in anywhere we can)
In any event. Scooby Doo. Greatest canine meta-physicists of our time. Who knew?
Hmm. Anyone else notice how that USB slotted right in on the first try… and you didn’t have to turn it over? Like when does that EVER happen?
That happens to other people right?
I also struggle with HDMI cables…
And sometimes keys.
Where the hell did August come from? It kinda snuck up on me all discreet like before charging out from the undergrowth screaming hysterically, poking me in the eyes with its keys and then kneeing me in the groin. Fortunately, having received a fair amount of blunt force trauma to my scrotum (and surrounds) during my tenure on this planet I am now able walk it off much quicker than your average male. Seriously I’m surprised anything down there actually works… no that slight leftward curvature was there before.
I also feel I have been somewhat remiss with my blogging lately and have recently become concerned that my karmic tally might wander off into positive territory, creating spam and digital flotsam that clogs up the internet kinda feels like my calling. Obviously I would have liked to have another vocation, one perhaps slightly more utilitarian that actually bettered humanity, but the divine Sorting-hat that decides these sorts of linear life progressions had other ideas. And so here I am, cupping my bruised testicle with one hand and finger typing with the other.
I’m not entirely sure where I was going with all of this… and it seems difficult to segue into a melancholic whine about the Federal Reserve now and how twenty five percentiles can cause so much consternation and ludicrosity*. Which… might… have been my original intention for this post. But really… I’m over it now. I’ve applied the ointment and I’ve been burn free since ten past three.
*Google says its a word. And I trust Google. Although I kinda have to say that because they know what sort of porn I’m into. Which kinda makes me their thrall. I’d like to say its mostly the regular up and down kind. But occasionally I meander off-piste… for… eh… educational purposes.
In any event. Down with the Fed! I think. My feelings on Central and Reserve banks generally lean towards the dim. But really, they don’t upset me quite as much as they do other peeps with libertarian tendencies. Well lets say its lower down on my list of things we should burn down… like probably near the bottom. Figuratively burn down I mean. Joey with a tiki-torch is really just a recipe for self-immolation.
Which is obviously something we want to avoid. If at all possible.