Sandwich

So anyway, say you like ham sandwiches. So, you fix yourself a ham sandwich - thick sliced wheat bread (crust optional); add a bit of mayo...maybe a touch of mustard; about a half-dozen or so slices of brown sugar glazed ham; I'm not a tomato eater - but to each their own; some crisp, leafy lettuce...

...and some fresh-sliced provolone cheese...mmm, yummy.

Anyway, say your significant other also likes ham sandwiches. They gaze upon your sandwich almost lustfully, mouth nearly watering. So...you fix them a sandwich...exactly like yours. But wait...no, no, no, they don't want provolone! No...none of that mister, they want Swiss. But wait, your sandwich doesn't have Swiss...it has provolone - and provolone is so much better than Swiss (I mean come on really - Swiss, when you can have provolone?). You try to explain this - you even offer a small sample of provolone for comparison.

NO!!! NO PROVOLONE - I ONLY WANT SWISS, they demand. But...you liked the provolone, you counter - it's so much better, and are they really that different anyway? Keep it up and I won't have any cheese at all, they retort. So you cave, and give them the Swiss...knowing full well the provolone is better and that they'd like it too if they'd try it.

And so, you eat your ham sandwiches. Yours is better...you know it, they know it - but there's just no convincing some people. You both finish, maybe top it off with a nice glass of milk. But, to add insult to injury - and perhaps just out of spite - your significant other begins to argue that it wasn't even ham at all...

...it was turkey.

Wait...wha...HUH?!?!?! TURKEY?!?!?!

Where the hell did that come from? Clearly it was ham - and the provolone would have been much better!!!

NO! It was turkey they offer, and with Swiss to boot - and why Swiss? Cheddar or American would have been better!

GAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!

Coitus Interruptus

So anyway, I like to think I can tolerate somewhere between a good to a significant amount of bullshit. I work for a bank...the environment it absolutely teeming with it. But after a while, a decent, hard-working fellow (such as myself) really begins to question what manner of cosmic force he seems to have unbalanced that warrants the magnitude of bovine excrement that seems to keep piling up on his head.

Generally speaking, I'm okay with most of the shortcomings in my life thus far, but some things...well, some things are just unfair. Case in point I offer you: the post-coital migraine. In layman's terms, it basically means that, for what are still essentially unknown reasons, the euphoric rush of adrenaline to the brain combined with the strenuous motion required to bring about ejaculation (hehe - I said ejaculation) result in a BAD FUCKING HEADACHE FROM HELL. Anyone with a passing familiarity with my little blog here knows that I am, in a word...horny. My wife, gentle and fair soul that she is, accepts this and generally attempts to accommodate. When she can't, she accepts that I have "hobbies". So...what does one do when the universe seeks to rid him of his favorite thing(s) in life?

As fun as it sounds, I really don't see Homicidal Rampage as a viable solution. Our society, with all it's eccentricities and contradictions, still seems to frown on individuals taking it upon themselves to rid the world of a few random, albeit unnecessary people. I'm not God for certain, I'm not even particularly divine - but I like to think that I could potentially be a good judge of whom the world does and doesn't need anymore! If this month-long regimen of anti-inflammatory medication doesn't solve my little problem - some mother fucker is going to find out just how judicious I can be. And that's the current state of my status (redundancy intended) - a month of drugs. At the very least, even if it doesn't help my head, my knees should feel pretty damn good (yea - my knees don't hurt, now if I could only pop a load without feeling like I just sat through three hours with my head against Lemmy Kilmister's amp).

One thing I'm not, is patient...generally speaking. I'm patient with my son (he did give me poop as a present after all) - it's as though after he was born, my life became that of a character from a Final Fantasy game, I gained a level - thus giving me access to a new attribute. Too bad it's only good for being able to not kill him! Anyway, the point is frustration can be an ugly thing. It stews like, well...a stew. How does one find release when he can't...release? I'm open to suggestions. I've considered intoxicating my wife and convincing her that it'd be more fun if she did all the work. But I suppose that's a combination of mean, cruel, tasteless, offensive, and probably illegal somehow too! Not to mention, given our fragile state of domestic affairs, I'm not sure introducing addictive substances would be the smartest move on my chess board at the moment. As things currently stand, I'm at a loss - it's like some strange (and somewhat cruel) combination of my dog dying, my favorite TV show getting cancelled, and a heroin addiction.

Besides...who wants to just look at porn?!?! I mean, WHAT THE FUCK, right?! Where's the fun in that?!?! Oooh, look...titties! That's nice, well golly gee whiz...say, I wonder if Macy's is having a sale?

Kill me...

Kill me now, I beg you!!!

"God...come in God. This is Bad Karma...do you read?"

"Why oh why didn't I take the blue pill?!"

Please disperse, nothing to see here...
Move along, nothing to see here...
Nothing to see here, please disperse...
Nothing to see here...
Absolutely nothing to see here...

There's absolutely nothing to see here

Consider yourself warned - (NOT WORK FRIENDLY)






hey, you think I could find this shit at work?