What a day!

Jesus spoke to me today!

You don’t know how lucky I was! I could barely hear him over the lawn mower he was pushing in my neighbors yard.

Beware! It’s Dangers of Heteronyms Day!

America’s Greatest Resource

Know what it is?

Nope. Not text messages

Or even a teenagers snarky expression.

Sorry, it’s not even boomers who bitch about how much better music was back in the day.

Yes, they’re all close and fairly related to the actual greatest resource, but, to be fair, without America’s actual greatest resource none of that would be possible.

And that resource is: opinions.

Ever flowing, constantly renewable, and free to all who happen to be within earshot of the nearest American!

Makes your heart beat a little faster, don’t it?

Welling up with American pride as I speak, aren’t you?

One of those rip-roaring, toe-tapping, flag-waving country-western songs are playing in your head right now, isn’t it?

Have I told you recently how good you look in those pants?

See? Even nice ones seem to pop up when you least expect it and, frankly, seem a little cloying. I mean, you may look awesome in those pants (which, hopefully, you are wearing) but if you actually gave a shit about how I felt about your and your crotch coverage choice you’d ask me.

Why do I think you’d want my unsolicited comment about anything? What makes me the arbiter of fashion? What makes me think you need to hear from me about any topic?

My fucking ego, that’s what bitch!

I think whatever I think needs to be expressed like a fetid boil.

I am, after all, the foremost expert on everything and you would only benefit from my words of wisdom!

Evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.

I’ve had people I wouldn’t let mend my pants give me medical advice. People who’s eyes couldn’t decide among them which planet to focus on give me life advice. People who have never said anything funnier than the opinion they’re giving me at that moment tell me how I should have written a bit.

I’m not saying all unsolicited utterances are useless (“Look out! He’s got a gun!” is one I’ve come to appreciate) but do you think I give a shit you hate the TV show I am currently enjoying? Seriously? I made the effort to sit in front of the TV, singled out this program, was probably in the middle of a chortle, if not full blow guffaw, and you decided I should be informed of your opinion?

I am not sure that is in your best interest. Yet, being polite, I wouldn’t tell you that. I’d just wait until you turned to leave in disgust and punch you in the back of your fucking head.

I honestly don’t care what you think of what I watch; how I dress; how I comport myself in public or your imagined private. I might if your opinions were actually helpful or, let’s be honest, not actually veiled insults.

Yes, it’s true, you do look good in those pants. Unlike all the others you have that made your ass look like you’re smuggling marshmallows. Not that the ones you’re wearing alleviate that problem. It just looks like fewer marshmallows.

What got me thinking about opinions this week (it does seem like a reoccurring subject, doesn’t it?) was, of course, an opinion.

I was at dinner with half a dozen or so people. I didn’t know half of them so pretty much ignored them. I do that more for them than myself. Just like my opinion I know it’s sometimes best to keep myself to myself.

It’s a fairly polite, not very rousing but not unpleasant, series of conversations until dinner arrived. I don’t know about you but I don’t give a shit about what others are eating. As long as there is no tossing of it in my general direction I won’t even look at it.

Unfortunately, not everyone does the same.

“Ugh!” I woman I’d barely realized was at the table grunts. “You’re eating meat?” Oh fuck! “That’s inhumane.”

Don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are vegans/vegetarians/whatever term they prefer (Hi Ange!), and they can do whatever they feel.

As can fucking I!

I look at this disapproving woman and her glare and I smile. I slowly cut into my dead animal, stick my fork into it squeezing out the last of it’s blood, lift it to my face and I say,

“Actually, ma’am, you’re wrong. It’s in human.” And I stick the meat into my mouth.

The good thing is, after that, everyone ate in silence.

Well, sort of silence. I did make many yummy meat sounds.

RV For Sale

One owner. Low mileage. Needs new paint job.

See last post for photo.

Coming to your town one last time!

Happy Friday The Thirteenth!

I Anger People

Most times I honestly do not try to.

Just a natural gift I guess.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?” I say to someone fully knowing what’s up. The only time he calls is when he needs jokes.

“I need jokes.”

See?

“Yep. When?”

“Tonight. I gotta. . .”

“. . .sorry. Can’t do it. . . ”

“. . .thing so want. . .wha?”

“Sorry, no time today.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means you should have called a day or so sooner or, here’s a novel approach, when you scheduled it, let me know then you’ll need jokes.” (I know why he, and others, don’t. They don’t want to spend any money. They think they can write them and when it turns out they couldn’t or didn’t they turn to someone else at the last moment)

“Well, I didn’t. So what are you going to do for me?”

“Nothing. I told you. I haven’t got time for this conversation much less to write jokes for you.”

“Oh, busy man. What’s more important? This or what you’re doing?”

Do you see how easily and swiftly my life spirals out of control? I’ve already told him, maybe not gently but at least quickly, that I’m stacked like a plastic surgeons waiting room so it’s best he goes another route.

But, he fails to go gently into that good night.

“You should have pulled a ticket earlier.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You too busy for me now? Too big for me now?”

Neither of those things were offered. I just know I won’t have time. I have work, two deadlines, a previously scheduled appointment this evening and, honestly, I think I need sleep.

“Sorry.”

Let’s play a game. Pick a person. A person you want to say nasty things to. ALL the nasty things to. You ready? Unload!

It was that level of vitriol. Yeah, I know I’m letting him down. Yeah, I know he’s painted himself into a corner. If I thought I could toss a few barbs his way I would, but, can’t.

I let him wind down. He’s hyperventilating over the speaker phone.

“You done?” I take his breath catching as a yes.

“Got it all out of your system?” I take his guttural nuance as a yes.

“Good. Now, remember this, you’d better hope I don’t see you for a long, I’m talking VERY long time because, if I remember the shit you just pulled, and I might just write it down, next time I see you I’m going to punch you in the balls so hard your wife will be spitting blood for the next five years of blow jobs.”

Hey! He could use that!

I’ve got to remember to send him a bill.