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Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 17, 2008 || 11:13 pm

I am in love with wonderful things, mostly.

Okay, today I recalled that I’d forgotten how very much I like the band Pavement.

Today I pulled into the drive, leaned my head a little to the left, and saw the clothesline. Well, clotheslines, four of them to be exact, electric blue. They are strung taut between two white iron Ts and today as I gazed proudly at them, there were sheets calmly flapping there: “Hiiii! Good to see you!” I strung the lines last week, finally, after all these months years of being here. I did it elaborately, with an engineer’s clumsy precision….there were u-bolts and other needlessly complex shit involved as the sun beat down on my rebellious-haired head and I might have even pinched some skin with the needlenose pliers I was using because SOMEone had relieved me of the second set of plain ole, slipjoint plier pliers. But my cursing was only from the minute bit of pain and not from frustration at the offending, plier-moving party. And we have used the shit out of those clotheslines since, which is the best part.

Last Saturday found me in north Florida buying exquisite pottery from strange little women. I hadn’t planned that on Friday. Not really Saturday morning, either. At one point I was gnawing on a turkey sandwich, and then there I was on a swift little jaunt. Let me just tell you something: The whole of the great and awmightay Southerin region of yon United States has nothing on north Florida in the way of hillbillies, rednecks and just plain strange, squirrelly folk.

Please exclude (most) Navy bases from that estimation. Another animal entirely.

What do the previous two paragraphs have to do with my love of wonderful things? WELL, I can tell you that I am pretty stoked about a life that finds me in unexpected places doing unexpected things with people I’d not predict filling the ’sidekick’ roles. I remembered that today.

Today I got to say, “This has the potential to be slightly bogus.” With a straight face and everything.

Some of the side effects to my one-week-per-month medication are great, in that they are a bit tricksy and can be planted just as solidly in the ‘PROS’ column as the ‘CONS’ one. Who knew this Temporary Chemical Imbalance Thing could be so complex? Today I was mellow and proactive, who has ever heard of such!(and also ?)

At dinner we said this:

ME: I never would have figured it.

DINNER COMPANION ONE: Me either, but I guess it makes sense.

DINNER COMPANION ONE: Hey, what do you think his apartment smells like?

ME: *laughter*

DINNER COMPANION TWO: *startled, nervous look*

DINNER COMPANION ONE: Like the inside of a band-aid box and pork rinds, all mixed up.

ME: Nono: Like Uno Sex+ and green crayon!

DINNER COMPANION TWO: I need you guys to shut the fuck up now. I am trying to eat this food here.

DINNER COMPANION ONE: Like stale fuzzy navel drinks and vinyl shower curtains!

DINNER COMPANION TWO: I’m also aiming for what I’ve already put down my gullet to continue southward rather than eject itself violently.

DINNER COMPANION TWO: YOU ASSHOLES.

Today I was tempted –like no other time before or since– to pull my gum (in a long, slowwww string) from between my front teeth, wrapping it all beehived around my index finger. So I did just that. And blew some gigunda bubbles, none of which stuck to my face. Go me!

Just a few minutes ago, Chip Midnight and I did a Facebook volley on why Crocs Are To Be Avoided (my stance) and Crocs Are Good, Clean Family Fun (Chip, who is obviously insane). Please witness:

CHIP LOBS ONE OVER MY BOW

“All the Midnights, and I mean ALL the Midnights, are proud Croc wearers, myself included (brown, thank you very much).”

I SEND ONE STRAIGHT TOWARD CHIP’S HULL

“It’s okay, I tried to warn the world about crocheted ponchos, too….sadly, you can perhaps recall that they took root again a couple of years back despite my pleas to the contrary.

“And now, damnit, there are a mess of pictures from all those hillbilly parties that my friends (and nameless others) attended, clad in sparkle-yarn poncho and jeans and maybe those fucked-up Wallaby (sp, for god’s sake, sp??) ankle boots. You know the ones, suede-y and with four-inch-long shoelaces? Gross.

“Yeah. And they’re drinking shit beer. I don’t care what anyone says, sir, THAT MILLER LITE IS SHIT BEER. Unless, of course, you are broke(n) and it is free.

“You can _totally_ delete this comment if you need to. Both language and grammar are horrendous. I was traumatized (but only slightly, nothing serious) earlier in the day by some personal revelation. More onnat later.

“But them there Crocs? Even though I love your family’s sweet litte feets0rs, I say, ‘Nay, son, I canna get behind that decision.’ “

CHIP QUITS SHITTING AROUND AND BUSTS OUT THE BIG GUNS

He posted a picture of his (hideous and excessively brown) Crocs, along with those of his wife (the Made-of-Awesome Kate) and his three small daughters, who all seem to own two pair apiece. They must be souping those kids up with Benadryl, for I know that Abby and Olivia are far to rrrrrock to ever volunteer their future hot song-writing chick feets be installed in some Crocs. Piper is still a baby and therefore excluded from any decisions beyond having spaghetti or grilled cheese for lunch. She is gifted, though, and I expect that accountability will settle in at any time.

Chip, I don’t care if you have monstrously amazing taste in music, your footwear choices must be re-examined.

I somehow managed to let the season premiere of the ohsodelicious Weeds slip past me, and I rectified that situation tonight by using my embarassingly large cable package’s OnDemand feature to watch it. I was terrifically gratified by lines like, “But here we sit, two milks and a cappucino, being rousted by The Man” and “Hey, I get laid all the time and I shit like a Swiss train. You should be so lucky.” Of course you want to run to your television and make it start spitting out Weeds right this very now, beginning with the very first episode.

So that you may do that (or either toddle on down to the video store to rent seasons one and two on deeveedee), I’ll go on and wrap this up now by telling you that my son wrote a song for me. He spent a chunk of time today recording it and two others, and I dropped it into the computer’s player before I opened up this window to let you people know I’m still breathing. I am breathing deeply, so deeply and the oxygen is doing its trick.

+ that is, ejaculate brought about by self-pleasuring in an alone-type state

1 worked it out »

  1. MotherFury 6.18.2008

    *sniff* Smells like gas in here. heh.

     

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