Friday, February 18, 2005
So this is what it's like to have a real job and a real life. For the past two days, work has simply been NON-STOP. And I don't mean "non-stop" like I can only talk to my friend Jeremy on the phone about where we can buy more drugs for 20 minutes instead of 45 minutes every day, I mean "non-stop" like I can't do shit (literally - my half-hour mid-morning and mid-afternoon pooping sessions have turned into sad four or five minute affairs that leave me feeling less than fresh all day because I don't have the time to properly clean the vast expanse that is my ass). No long poops, no long lunches, no long distance personal phone calls, no internet time, and no posting. Damn.
And I know you all could care less - you wouldn't care if my balls were being attacked by hundreds of angry mutant mice as long as you got your daily masturbation/racist/fat jokes. But damn...I'm telling you, this whole "working" thing sucks.
[FYI: Usually when I write posts, I can bang them out in one sitting in about 20 minutes or so. I'm writing this particular one almost sentence by sentence as I get time during the day, so I apologize if it stinks. And if you think it stinks, then I think you stink. So try that one on for size, bitch.]
Not to mention I haven't even had time in the evenings to enjoy myself (read: download porn), as I've been packing for my London trip, something that takes someone as anal as me a very long time to do. I spent four days making and refining a list of items to bring and almost had a nervous breakdown two nights ago when I did a packing dry run and realized I didn't have enough white undershirts to bring to England. Actually, I had plenty of white undershirts, but most of the armpits of the undershirts were soiled and stained a silverish-pale blue color, so last night I needed to venture out to buy some more.
But please - I mustn't go on any further about such minutiae as buying undershirts, for fear I start to sound like a regular "blogger". We now rejoin your regularly scheduled programming already in progress...
I am about 95% sure that I'm going to die either on the flight to or from London or while I'm in London. I don't know why exactly, but I'm pretty sure it's going to happen. Admittedly, I am a hypochondriac and suffer from sudden bursts of anxiety, but I guess this is what happens when you let yourself go physically, haven't been touched non-accidentally by a woman this millennium, and list your three favorite hobbies as drinking beer, watching people have sex, and planning a race war.
The good news is that I have in my possession thirty pills of Xanax, so I will be VERY medicated on the plane. But I have and have always had this feeling that God, who I have been feuding on and off with since the 1960's, is really going to fuck me over in the end (at death). My roommates and I have a running joke about this. For example, say one day I wake up and I say to myself, "You know what? I can't do this anymore. I'm sick of killing myself with booze and pills and all this terrible food. From this day forward, I'm going to change." (I know, it's a stretch, but bear with me).
So I spend the next year being clean and sober, working out and eating right, and I lose weight and my health improves. For fear of dying, I stick with this for years and years - doing right by my body, but completely depriving myself of all the goodness and fun that beer, napping, and chicken fingers bring. Then, one day when I'm in my early 40's, I go to the doctor and he says, "Well, you're in great shape - your blood pressure and cholesterol is low, your heart looks great, but there's just one problem: you have an extremely aggressive form of cancer that's going to kill you in three weeks. So I suggest you forget the weight room and hit the Roy Rogers on your way home, because you have a lot of catching up to do."
I can see this type of thing happening on a plane: suddenly, we hit turbulence. Then, even more suddenly, the plane's going down. The oxygen masks drop down, everyone's going nuts, people are masturbating, etc. I think to myself, "Oh, fuck this" and take 26 pills of Xanax. Then, as suddenly as it started, the insane turbulence stops and the plane rights itself. The captain comes over the PA and apologizes, but assures us that everything will be alright from here on out. Meanwhile, I have a belly full of drugs and we're still four hours away from landing. And so I die of a drug overdose because I'm an asshole and God hates me. End scene.
With this in mind, it occurs to me that if I die this week, the best record of my existence will be this website: 600 pages of tasteless humor and curse words. Good god. Sure, there's a chance that after my death my career will take off, and other people will read this website and other people besides me and the hooker I pay to repeat it while I masturbate will call me a genius, but that's highly unlikely.
So in an effort to give you something more to remember me by other than the time I shit myself or some responses I wrote to a magazine's sex tips, I offer the following nuggets o' information about me, Jason Michael Joseph Patrick Aloysius Elizabeth Mulgrew:
- I love animals. Not mean or big ones, but little ones, like dogs. As long as the dog has been neutered.
- No matter what I said when I was drunk or on a nationally-syndicated radio show, I firmly believe that Jeffrey Dahmer (and all homosexual serial killers) was wrong. This is non-negotiable. He was an asshole. Not a complete asshole, but definitely more asshole than not. Maybe like 60% asshole/40% not asshole. Ok, 52/48.
- I love music. My dream was to one day build a school so that all retarded kids could come and fuck with some instruments to know the joy that music brings (to the extent that it's possible for a retard to really "know" anything).
- I love children. All my life, I have wanted a big family. And this is not because I wanted soldiers for the aforementioned race war or people to do shit around the house for me, but it's because I have so much love to give. Also, I don't believe in birth control and my aim is true.
- No matter what I said otherwise, drugs are bad for you. Very, very bad. Mostly because they're expensive. And that's bad.
- I love fantasy sports. More than I have ever let on, they are a major, major point of my life. And yes, I really that's I'm only digging the celibacy hole deeper, but I don't care anymore.
- For the record, I have never hit a woman with a cordless phone. I'll repeat: I have never hit a woman with a cordless phone. Don't believe everything you read, especially in filed court complaints or the "Crime Blotter" of the Philadelphia Daily News.
- I love taking really long showers. Nothing sexual, just a naked man, hot running water, and lots of hair all over the tub.
And, um...that's really about all you need to know. Celebrate these. And cherish them.
So I'm gone. Wish me luck and all that jazz. If I make it back, I will write again on Monday, February 28. Otherwise, I will see you all in hell.
Have a good week.