Bad Mood Rising

Save for waking up in a bad mood -- it happens 6 or 7 times a week, you happy fuckers -- I've got zip. Oh, I've actually got a million grumblings bouncing around in my generally empty skull, but I've no good way to articulate the ones I wish to articulate, which is okay for blogging because I can bullshit my way through that, as you'll soon see if you're foolish enough to read on, but not for fiction writing.

















"Life is like a box of nothing?"

You've got it.

"We'll see. Sports?"

Fuck Pittsburgh. Fuck Arizona. Fuck the NFL for having stolen our team and our would-be GM for Baltimore. Fuck the Lakers, the Celtics, the Magic, the rest of the Central division, the Thunder for having a stupid fucking logo that some 8-year old with crayons could've come up with, but some ad firm yokel got six figures instead, fuck LeBron who'll leave in two years and fuck the Indians logo, a racist, ugly as fuck thingamajig.

"What does all that have to do with your teams either choking or sucking year after year?"

More than you know.

"That doesn't make a lick of sense."











I triple-dog dare you.

"Politics?"

The system is what it is. Let me know when Western war criminals whose current location we are aware of serve jail time instead of being let off the hook, thereby giving the green light to future Richard Nixons, Ronald Reagans and George Bushes to kick brown-skinned nuts and cunts and bring about Patriot Act III: Agnew Returns! I'm a naive, divisive, single-issue guy like that.















Wish I had been your president.

"Even a glass-is-always-empty bastard like you has to appreciate some of the things that Hussein X has done so far."

Sure, in the way I appreciate a quarterback not tossing five interceptions while having all day to throw. Defending the Constitution is part of the job, isn't it? I know that's not a popular opinion in these apparently euphoric days, especially after the last pretzeldent used it to wipe his ass, blow his nose then scrape the mayonnaise from his mouth, but I don't care. If your last IT guy purposely loaded multiple viruses in your system, embezzled company bank accounts and disappeared to South America, wouldn't you demand the new guy not to? Of course, not being an IT guy, I don't know if IT job applications specifically state "please don't load viruses into the company's computer system, embezzle our accounts and disappear from law enforcement," and if they don't, then I apologize.

Now, if they can keep Russell Tice from dying in a mysteriously timely plane crash -- can we have some of the wingnut Supremes and Big Sammy take his place instead? -- get a long string of prison sentences for all the spying fuckery and alter our belligerent foreign policy in a meaningful way -- not shifting billions to Israel to blow the fuck out of Gaza, for example -- then color me mildly impressed. As I am with Hussein X not wearing his suit jacket. Cyclopean kudos, dude. Fuck those things. Since we're on such good terms, how about a signing statement keeping LeBron in Cleveland?

"Giving up on the war criminal angle already? I understand. Neighborhood empires talk the talk but never walk the walk."

Exactement. There's a good reason impeachment was off the table. Hard to tie your own noose if there's no rope in front of you, right Nancy? And don't forget that American Idol was on quite often, you 1.9 million that managed to show up in DC on Tuesday. At least the fuckers outside our borders know the gig. Go, world, go.

"Work?"

Don't get me started on the fuckers that walk into that joint. Stop asking stupid questions that I know you know the answer to because I told you the answer the last three times you asked. Stop asking me how I am, will you? I'm at work dealing with you instead of being at home writing. Have a blessed day? How about you have a secular day, fucker. No, have a Satanic day, you likely McCain voter. Beelzebub! Bleargh!


















"Your devil would be a scantily-clad babe, Mr. Bitter. How about you do your job and at least pretend to be gracious --"

I do pretend, and I'm quite skilled at it.

"-- and take things in moderation."

Okay, Aristotle. Should've given you some hemlock, too. Take symphonies in moderation?

"You'll miss out on string quartets."

Take power chords in moderation?

"Fine, pass on melancholy, single note lines."

Take football in moderation?

"Suddenly hate basketball?"

Take Chex Mix in moderation?

"I'm surprised you didn't say sex."

You know my sometimes-better-half hates me.

"True. So, overdosing on Chex Mix is healthy?"















Bloody right it is. And perfecting the combination of nuts and pretzels and Worcestershire sauce and secret ingredients so that it approximates the power of Proust's madeleine is a quest not to be undertaken lightly. We have various recipes and though having come close, my sometimes-better-half having more success than I, it still isn't as good as the stuff my mom used to make years ago. I'm starting to wonder if the secret ingredient is human flesh. We do taste like chicken after all and it's cheaper to knock someone off then buy a pack of frozen wings. I had always thought I'd be the murderer in the family. Weird.

Well, off to bludgeon someone into ingredients.

"Feel better?"

No.

"There's always YouTube."

Rock on.