Half-assed

Ugh. I'm in no mood to do this today. But I made a promise to myself that I would, so here goes.

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Crickets are all that come to mind.

Surely there's something inside me that wants to come out besides mucous and excrement. All I've done this past week is poop, blow my nose, cough, and sleep. And honestly, that's all I want to do today. (Not that I'm looking forward to spending more than my average time pooping. I'd like my intestines to return to their regularly scheduled duties. Yes, I said doodies.) The end of my nose can easily be mistaken for under-cooked hamburger, and the heat from my eyes is one degree away from shooting a laser into my diseased pile of slimy Kleenex. I'm tempted to include a link to Honey Boo Boo's Thanksgiving feast so I'll not be the only person you find disgusting. 

I don't feel good, and I'm never going to be the kind of person who fakes it. This sickness-riddled rambling is all I have to give today. Next Monday, when this system has moved out of my body, I promise something less half-assed.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a tissue. My cough drop just flew out of my mouth when I sneezed and snot is exiting my face like there's been a nose fire.

I can't wait to be a full ass again.

Open Letter: Rush Limbaugh

Dear Fat Piece of Shit,

Let's not pretend I'm going to be civil. Being civil with a guy like you is like tying myself to your car and running alongside in good faith you'll not get on the highway.

It takes a big man to mimic children who are afraid to die from gun violence. Thankfully, your weight class qualifies you. Yeah, I'm taking cheap shots, but calling you Fat Piece of Shit feels so appropriate that every time I call you Fat Piece of Shit, I feel the world's economy get stronger.

Saying shocking shit that 1) makes no logical sense, and 2) you know will rile the feathers of liberals, gets you higher ratings. That's your shtick; I get it. You say something to taunt the other side and when the other side rebuts, your listeners have more reason to tune in because you're the fucking martyr. Poor Fat Piece of Shit, put upon by those lefty fucking idiots.

Well this lefty fucking idiot has an idea. I know you're hesitant to hear it, but I promise it's worth reading on. You'll like it.

You should go on a tour of elementary schools and perform your I'm-a-scared-whiny-child-who-doesn't-want-to-get-shot impression for the children and parents. Put your face where your mouth is and teach these fucking pansy-ass kids something about nutting the fuck up. Walk in with spurs on your Reeboks, a silver belt buckle large enough to hold back your stomach, and say, "Listen up, you lot of fucking softies. The President can't help you. No one can help you but you. So nut up and grow a pair, you pathetic second graders!" Maybe shoot a couple of rounds from a semi-automatic over the children's heads to help desensitize them to the look and sound of guns. Something like that. You can broadcast live from the school so your listeners can bask in the thundering applause you'll get in response to your children-are-fucking-crybabies-who-complain-to-the-President approach.

When the parents, moved to tears, come to you afterwards to shake your hand and thank you for turning their little Sarah, little Sarah who's been a little bitch for all six of her years, into a little Jason Bourne, you can get back on your bus, headed for the next city, and know you're making a difference. A fat piece of shit difference.

Good luck on tour,

Whack-A-Muse

Off to Another Colorful Year

Thanks to chilling temperatures, my wife and I are going on day three without water. While I'm grateful to have electricity, I'm over the empty faucets. And they'll likely remain empty until Wednesday.

Apparently, 2013 wants to see me cry.

I can't wash my hair without my wife's help. Bathing feels old-timey as I crouch in the bathtub and scrub my essentials with a washcloth. I dip a cup into a pot of hot water, fresh off the stove, to rinse. My wife, with her own pot of water, takes my place when I'm finished. It's a sophisticated system.

The dishes, shoved in a cloth bag, came to work with me so they can be washed. Co-workers are kind not to ask what the cookie sheet is for.

I'm not drinking as much water. Food is eaten sparingly. Bathroom "situations" have become...interesting.

What is it about the New Year that likes to hand my ass to me? Remember 2011? Yes, pissing in the bathtub is fun, but the novelty soon wears off, as does the hilarity. I don't need, "We're out of pee water," to replace "I love you," or "What's for dinner," as the most popular saying in 2013 to add color to my life. Really. I don't.

So, 2013, if this is how you want to play it, I've got news for you. It's hard to beat someone who's shameless. I'll keep peeing in the tub. I'll stick to my side of the cookie sheet when my wife and I use it as a plate. I'll even continue driving the dishes around. But you, you're time will run out. Just do me a solid before you go: Don't tell 2014 what I've said.

The Art of Living

Nothing--not Anne Heche's 20/20 interview with Barbara Walters; not being stuck in an elevator with a fat man while I'm holding a sandwich; not even Michele Bachmann living in the White House--scares me more than dying.

You're probably thinking, 'No shit. That's an easy call.' And you'd be right. Dying is terrifying for most of us. But for me, it's not the idea of no longer existing or the idea of facing the unknown that scares me the most: It's what I'll miss.

What if To Kill A Mockingbird or The Night Circus or Geek Love had been written after 2173 and I never cracked their stiff spines only to soften them in a matter of days? What if Anne Hathaway had been born after I died and she didn't get to break my heart in such a gloriously unexpected way in Les Miserable? Don't even get me started on Jessica Chastain, Tina Fey, and Portlandia.

While there are plenty of people who think God has a fabulous library, a state-of-the-art home theater system where he gets the biggest blockbusters before Netflix, and holds a new gallery opening on the second Tuesday of every month in his floating sky-house, I don't prescribe to such comforts. When I'm gone, that's that. And with me, everything I've massively, lovingly appreciated will melt away with the burning of my lifeless body.

I'll not miss the bullshit of people, but goddamn, I'm going to miss the art of living.