Orange Marmelade!

Here’s the deal. Every couple of months my job actually requires immense amounts of work. I am currently in one of those immense amount stages. It’s cool and all but it really limits my ability to be an internet God. This is as hard for me and it is for you. After all, judging by the comments left here the only people reading this slop are one extremely sad sack bastard (an doof ass) and allen. While allen has lots of serious ambitions, sexy college coeds and doctor status, An Doof Ass has absolutely nothing in his life, but this blog (see his myriad and scitzophrenic comments) and I feel a responsibiilty to keep him off the ledge. Well, maybe not off the ledge, but at least from actually jumping. I mean, the guy owes me 10 dollars and I’ll be damned if I let him kill himself before paying off his debt.
Added to this is the reality that I have been horribly sick, watching the World Series and battling off a severe bout of emotional darkness and car explosions. My life blows right now and the last thing I want to do is give An Doof Ass anything to feel good about. He just doesn’t deserve it. So without further ado. I return, slaying stuff.
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An Doof Ass: you’ve lost your edge working boy, you’re washed up.
Working Boy: Fuck you douche! I’ll never be washed up so long as you’re alive and downloading female singer songwriters off of itunes at 9:15 on a Friday night.
A.D.A: argh! My most prevelant and well known character flaw! Have mercy on me oh great Working Boy.
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Working Boy: No one can stop me.
Job Monster: Give me your soul.
W.B: I’ll think about it! But just so you know I’m calling in sick a lot, even when I’m not!
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Home Monster: Cook me food and wash the dishes!
Working Boy: I’m happy to anything you want!
H.M: Shut up and go buy my brands.
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Old Chums: You’re angry more often and always tired.
W.B: I work for a living and have all my money tied up in the markets. When you get a real job you’ll be angry and tire too!
O.C: No way man, we’re keeping it real.
W.B: You all suck and have no futures that were not already written the second you step into your institutions. The world is my oyster and I’ll pretend you never existed when i hit it big!
O.C: Yeah, well, until then we’re demanding you buy us drinks because you’re the one with a job.
W.B: I refuse! Please stay up all night talking to me about old times anyway!
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Well that was unpleasant. In other news, An Doof Ass is in Chicagoland. Rumor has it he has returned to buy "new" clothes at some of Chicago’s finer thrift stores and go to a crazy Halloween party that his little sister is throwing. While neither of these two things are in themselves lame and pathetic, the combination of them makes him more lame and pathetic than we can ever know.

insight into my day.

today i had the priviledge of reading the phrase "25 Golden Albinos." It really is quite a nice conglomeration of wordiag-isty.

rising from the ashes!

I have some great excuses why I haven't been updating as of late. the most awesome is that i have been rather under the weather. I've also been busy trying to pick up the pieces of my shattered life. but don't let my failed dreams and manic depression get you down. after all, it's october the month of the day of the costume party. not oly that but an doof ass is returning just in time for a much deserved break from drinking Jim Beam alone.

this weekend spanned the gambit of totally sweet activities. on friday, i sat in my apartment alone drinking tea and watching Whit Stillman movies while my supposed soul mate was out till all hours with her new, exciting co-workers. on saturday i coughed and sat in my living room organizing papers into appropriate piles. then on glorious sunday, my car broke and I discovered a stain on my new Hermes. There is no justice, beauty, love, peace, joy, compassion, etc...

slayin' by elf!

And so begins a journey into class. Last night I was in bed before 9:30 after, I shit you not, eating two peanut butter cookies with a glass of warm milk. Nor did I smoke any of my customary 7 cigarrettes or even look at the half full decanter of fine caramel Kentucky bitchmistress. It was like something out of fairytale written by a reformed arena rock star. Last night, I was that reformed arena rock star.

Associate: What are you doing?
Working Boy: I’m going to bed.
A: it’s not even 9:30.
W.B.: That may be but I have had quite enough excitement for one evening.
A: Excitement? You ate a Cobb salad.
W.B: Please don’t mention that. It will get me all riled up before slumber.
A: What the hell is wrong with you?
W.B: What do you mean?
A: You can’t still be hung over from getting drunk in the am on Monday.
W.B: Um, i don’t know what you’re talking about.
A: You are still hungover!
W.B: Please don’t yell, it’s bad for my digestion.
A: Here smell the whiskey.
W.B: Um, that’s okay, I’d rather just drink decafinated Lady Grey.
A: Smell it.
W.B: Oh good heavnes. how can you drink that vile stuff?
A: I knew it. You’re still hung over and passing it off as a turn towards class.
W.B: unfounded lies!
A: yeah, we’ll see come Wednesday night.
W.B: I’m done with that life. It brought me nothing but dilusions of grandeur and the occasional fight or ill-conceived gushing.
A: What are you going to do comes these next few weekends when all form of friend is around?
W.B: I’ll drink Squirt and judge them with my eyes.
A; the hell you will. All you’ve been talking about for the last two weeks is how drunk and irresponsible you’re going to be.
W.B: That’s not even the least bit true.

In other news, over the next few weeks people will be around and those not planning on being around should think about coming around. Except for the lame asses. You know who are you are.

the man you knew is dead!

So the Twins lost. Big whoop. Who gives a doodle? I’ll tell you what, it was some ride while it lasted. All I can say is that at least I’m not a Notre Dame football fan as they eliminated excitement and potential glory from their year quite early on. At least, we’ll always have September.

In light of my most recent obsession falling by the way side, I've decided to take up decency as my new major interest. On the agenda? A sensible dinner made up of various colored vegetables and a fillet of fish with all it’s omega-3 goodness. Then I’ll watch one of the two television programs in which I indulge during the week and follow that with 2 hours of reading, half an hour of journaling and 15 minutes of light clerical before a sensible bedtime.

Frozen ropes for everyone!

The mighty metaphysical hammer of cosmic justice has fallen. Twins win! Twins win! Twins win! Of course, this probably means nothing to you because you fall into one of two categories of philistine: the backwards or the idiotic.

Your basic backward philistine enjoys sports that have more to do with smashing and/or lame fashion. Sports such as football, basketball, tennis, golf, NASCAR, curling and anything "X-treme." Observe.

Man of class: Just yesterday the Twins capture at AL Central crown after what was believed an insurmountable lead by the Tigers.
Bacwards Philistine: What does insumountable mean? Is like when the quarterback throws a "long-bomb down the gridiron?" Or is it more like basketball players and their lack of team work and awesome ghetto tattoos and baggy shorts.
M.O.C: It’s rather unlike either of those things.
B.P: What about tennis and its racist, WASPy metnality that permeates the international rankings? Or NASCAR pile ups? Or like when some 33 year-old BMX rider goes up and down a half-pipe?
M.O.C: Excuse me please, I have to go have martinis on the veranda with movie stars now.

Then of course there’s the idiot philistine. Often times this is an individual who, having discovered books without pictures, believes sports to be below their refined tastes.

Man of Class: Just yesterday the Twins capture at AL Central crown after what was believed an insurmountable lead by the Tigers.
Idiot Philistine: Insurmountable reminds me of a quote by G.K. Chesterton: "All things in moderation except quoting fat ass Englishmen who like to swap religious convictions."
M.O.C: That was unnecssary.
I.P: I read poetry instead of boxscores.
M.O.C: Do you even know how to read a boxscore?
I.P: I imagine I would fancy sports played by the marginalized immigrants of washed-up European superpowers.
M.O.C: Why?
I.P: Because Eruopeans are full of class.
M.O.C: Name one thing that has come out of any European country in the last 30 years?
I.P: That’s easy, Harold Pinter.
M.O.C: You should kill yourself.
I.P: Only if it becomes the rage after a futball victories.

And there you go. If you don’t like baseball you're either a dumbfuck or lamefuck. If however you do know and appreciate a heater in the batter’s kitchen on a hitter’s count with ducks on the pond, you’re more than welcome to come over the my apartment anytime and drink some of the super fancy bourbon I bought to celebrate.

On Bartlett and Punto and Mauer and Radke. Fuck you Morneau and Cuddyer, I still hate you.