Losing drawing winning game no. 3745 of computer chess last evening to a chorus of ever-evaporating mid-priced vino slosh & the above sludge aficionados hazily summoned lazy summers that were still desperate to be youthful, the last time(!) I played the kynge's pastyme (not lawn darts, as I later discovered much to my chagrin) till the shiny new adding machine chez Randal & being a pop to a two-year old Doodily, standardized college testing as I type. If she bombs, I blame myself for not having her replicate my test eve experience of a Sammy Hagar Weekend inhaling doobie aroma* at a rock and/or roll show.
*recall, the definition's been recently updated, phone home
A hoop jump to be sure & she knows it, such realism offsetting my dismal failure to inculcate the cold, calculating murderessness of loud, sweaty, life-affirming power chords. SLAYER! SLAYER! just doesn't fire the synapses of either lunatic offspring, but as long as the system is used to bump up bill-paying skills -- folks gotta not desiccate -- in her career (nein!) field (non!) personal interest (oui!) of choice, I'm proud papa. Try & find a happy gig, kids, unless you get tingly designing weapons-grade pieces-parts, then may an industrial accident befall you in the nether regions.
Since I'm a selfish bastard, am I happy at my gig? What is my gig? This?
I remember those idealistic days. I also remember not lying. This?
Not mine, don't sue, thanks. I'm so old school I rhyme.
Anyway, in lieu of a frank & not that fascinating discussion of how our already subsumed if not outright ax-murdered-by-our-own-idle-hand-under-orders (ten bucks says the Germans already have a word for this) self-definition wicked witches when in direct contact with a vengeance neither swift nor entertaining, meted out over decades, so that we will wonder if the misery in our life is manifest, the machinations of Leonardo Leonardo, or... some third thing, tonight's program sublime. Told you. Would I lie? Cheers.
A Cold War bunker just outside of Tirana, Albania.
The world leaders descend a dust-strewn, crumbling staircase.
...you're dead! 
Bunga bunga! Fin.
13 comments:
//Try & find a happy gig,//
oh oh oh... Iffen you're really looking... I left a happy gig up in Duluth back in 75, or maybe it was 74, anyways... it was stashed behind a cardboard box with Starkist writ all overz it....by the big honking bridge up dere. Her name was Melinda and she had a thing for socket wrenches. Say 'hello' if ya find her.
I think I should be more worried that I almost understand Randal rather than failing to do so.
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Sorry Randal you can't go home again. It was foreclosed on torn down and turned into a wetland. Now it's just a fading memory. Get over it you aging hippy.
okjimm, dude, you're so old.
if, imagine how enlightening such a revelation would be if I was a guru of anything.
demeur, you can't tear down the metaphorical cardboard box of the non-guru with your "reality."
"not lawn darts, as I later discovered much to my chagrin."
I hate when that happens. I'll never forget the horror, the embarrassment, when I realized -- I still can't talk about it.
Told my son that I don't care what he does in life as long as I do not have to shoot some damn military recruiter for coming to the house.
As for Berlusconi, got to admit I'd love to hang out at one of his Bunga-Bunga parties.
Since most of my kids are great at throwing tantrums and trying to change deals in mid-bargain I figure at some point they'll each spend some time as Speaker of the House.
wow, so much awesomeness in one post where do I begin?
tom, I - sniff. I'm sorry, I can't go on.
BB, I remember getting a constant stream of form letters and calls back in high school, and that was twenty years ago, though we were gearing up for Desert Storm and when one's not abiding by Vizzini, one needs bodies. Imagine how fucked up it is now.
chef, can you at least get them to spearhead a movement to make Halloween a national holiday?
thatgirl, Enver was calling out, demanding to make his presence felt on the internets.
Wow, this post is like when the Brady Bunch goes to Paris for a two-parter, except entertaining. (I'm pretty sure the German's have a word for that, too.)
Nine out of ten hot babes prefer men to wield swordfishfistfights in their faggy poems, I've discovered.
Not lawn darts?
Well I'm taking my hoops and lawn darts and going home, then! Cripes!
FB, Gay Pairee? But -- no, wait, cave-dwelling Vincent Price can hide out in the catacombs. You're a genius.
Note to self: swordfishfistfights in faggy poems.
karl of the österreich, fine! No more bocce ball for you!
I think that you are really a consumer debt advocate.
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