There are two words I’m struggling to not use anymore: “broad” and “retard(ed)”. Other than the “broad side of a barn” or “retarding the timing of my old Ford”, these two words which I’ve used endlessly now don’t sound so useful anymore. In fact, they simply sound ridiculous and ignorant.
Whether I’m evolving as a man or kowtowing to the current politic, “retarded” is barely an adjective and using the word “broad” has seldom gotten me laid. By “seldom”, I mean “never” so my vernacular most definitely must change.
“Crimeny, that broad is retarded!”
It feels good to purge bad habits from your system.
This unruly universe continues to bring glory to those who seek no virtue, the uncommon union of a toiling workforce sometimes, as a whole, contradicts the very reason for its tireless labor. Simply, the concept of money equating happiness seems silly if you hate your job. Money is only as valuable as how you burn spend it.
If you’re generous with your wealth and time, then good things happen to you. If you’re of forthright character and act with well intent, then despite visible shortcomings, good things will happen to you. If you’re a selfish prick with avarice and contempt in your blood then either you eventually change for the better or you just fester in your own sickness. Likely those of strong fiber will determine which direction you go.
If you have a 7,000 square foot house but don’t regard those around you with equity, then that house is little more than a soulless prison and nothing more than a lonely tomb.
Miss my damn cat. This cat was was raised by two full grown dogs and had the cool mindset of a cat but the personality and need for humans like a dog. She had a stub tail so her name was Minus, she was a runt and found in an alley as a kitten but wound up having a great life for a random animal. She let you scratch her belly and she’d almost fetch. She’d bark with a meow and hold her own with the big neighborhood felines, she’d wallow in your lap and remind you that even if you hated cats, she was cooler than any other you’d ever known.
Oh the word! The unmistakable waste of fine paper, the blotching of ink to make some nonsensical sentence that may or may not echo the wisdom or wistful knowledge that oozes from these keys. Don’t talk, just write. Don’t listen, just write. The fruitful days we’ve waited for are soon upon us. When the girls begin to flow in flower dresses and the coolers in supermarkets call like cavernous sanctuaries from summer. I cannot wait any longer for the heat.
Is that the sound the Roadrunner makes?
A stretch of Interstate 84, also known as the Banfield, is a bland little 3 lane highway that weasels through my town except when it’s at a horrible standstill twice a day, strangled with commuters. At 2 in the morning, however, there aren’t many people out but those who are prove to be all kinds of fun types tooling around.
I’m zipping along on the motorbike, resting my chest on the tank because it’s vast and comfortable, when I spot a crotch rocket dude (aka squid) riding double with a girl on the back. They’re up in the next lane ahead so I goose it and proceed to pass right by him as his girlie looks over and I’m impressed he convinced anyone to ride on the back of one those things in the dead of winter.
This is at about 90, and on my particular Triumph when the speedometer reads 95 to 100, my head starts to bobble in the wind, the bike has no screen or plastic to tuck behind so it’s a pretty nasty headwind to deal with at that speed.
This crazy bastard then screams by me as if I were parked and I immediately start to laugh because I just can’t go any faster and this lunatic is pushing 145 easy, with a passenger.
People who ride motorcycles have a certain kind of brain damage. Not all of them, but a sure ton of them so please be on the lookout for an idiot on a bike in the middle of the night.
There are times when buildings are literally torn from the ground on which they stand to make way for things like medical facilities and education centers. Er, I meant shopping centers, parking lots and sports arenas.
Hey, we need a decent home for our (fill in Indian tribe name here or some sort of animal or obsolete occupation). I’m such a hypocrite, I love sports but not so much its industrial complex but believe me, buster, from here on out I’m watching every NFL game until I find more cheetos in my navel than in the bag.
Oooh, I really want to write what I want to write about but since it’s a public blog, I gotta be careful about what to say. It is emotionally and financially unsound to vent what’s burning on my tongue at this particular moment and the more I hold it the sweeter the venom becomes in my mouth.
(Did that last part sound funny?) It’s supposed to sound badass and tough, not y’know, ah, whatever.