This morning I was reading a news item about a Golden Corral restaurant getting busted for storing meat next to a dumpster. Really disappointing, as I used to hold chain buffet dining establishments in such high regard, especially those named after a place to store cattle. The thought that there could be dumpster germs on the soggy, greasy “food” that’s been sitting under heat lamps for hours, sneezed on and fondled by countless grubby fingers… well, that’s simply inexcusable. Honestly, if I were being forced to eat at Golden Corral or any of the similar, interchangeable feeding troughs that make America #1, and I didn’t have a cyanide capsule conveniently tucked away inside a false molar, I’d pray that some dumpster flies buried their hatchlings inside my meatloaf, because at least then I’d be getting something vaguely resembling nutrition.
Hey, remember that movie where Johnny Depp wears a bunch of makeup and acts quirky? No no, the other one. No, the other other one. God, I love that movie! Johnny Depp has his own island, but I have no idea why, because unless it’s located inside Tim Burton’s asshole, he never seems to be on it. It’s a real shame that new movie where he wears a bunch of makeup and acts quirky didn’t do so well at the box office. This could end up dealing a devastating blow to Johnny’s career, as he now might only be able to demand eighteen or nineteen million dollars per picture instead of the usual twenty. I hope the movie studios have finally learned their lesson and don’t try to release the next Johnny Depp quirky makeup movie against a cartoon about talking yellow baby dicks.
The people who occupy the same general area as myself at my place of employement (in a more respectable line of work, one might refer to them as “colleagues”) decreed long ago that the only acceptable topic of discussion in the office would be sports. Usually basketball, and usually the Los Angeles Lakers, but any subject that involves sweaty, muscular guys moving some sort of ball or similar object back and forth for several hours will do. On rare occasions, a non-ball-related sport will somehow find its way into the incredibly heterosexual conversation, such as MMA fighting or ice skating. The other day, however, I returned from a bathroom visit (partially to relieve myself and partially for the peace and quiet) to find five or six of my coworkers huddled in a circle, talking about cockfighting. Not as in “morality and ethics of” but “active interest and participation in.” Specifically, the elder statesman/I.T. guy regaling the others with stories of the various cocks he’s invested in over the years. Good to know they’ve expanded their horizons beyond just balls. I can only imagine that if child sex slavery ever becomes a sanctioned sport, they’ll be having regular arguments over which country has the cutest little boys (no homo).
My week away from work has served as a depressing reminder of how much more shit I can get done when I’m not chained to a desk for eight hours a day. I’m normally up and about by 5 a.m., although on the weekends I might occasionally sleep in until 6 if I’ve been partying particularly hard the night before. Benjamin Franklin might have been on to something with that “early to bed, early to rise” shit. I do feel somewhat healthier (but nothing a hearty Golden Corral breakfast couldn’t fix), and while the wealthy and wise parts haven’t kicked in yet, I’m sure that’ll be any day now. It’s always funny to see people’s reactions when I tell them about my bed/rising habits. It’s invariably the same response I assume I’d get if I said I had the decomposing bodies of the local high school cheerleading squad stuffed in barrels in my basement (which is ridiculous as I live in a second-floor apartment). By the time most people under 70 are just rolling out of bed, I’ve already sucked down two pots of coffee, drawn three pictures and made breakfast. On the other hand, when the aforementioned cool people are out at the bar doing Jäger bombs or tequila bombs or PBR bombs or whatever bombs are in these days, I’m in bed like a total loser, having weird dreams about jetskiing with Syd Barrett. Then again, those people are mostly annoying assholes, so I’m struggling to actually see a downside here. Fortunately (for me, maybe not so much for you), writing on my “blog” provides a little bit of creative release during the hours when I’d normally be staring at my computer screen with my eyes glazed over and drool trickling out from the corner of my dumbly agape face-hole while the Office Sports Nut waxes poetic re: his eternal, unrequited desire for Kobe Bryant. So, there’s that.
A quick status update regarding my pathetic stairs injury: Now, when I sneeze, it feels less like getting shivved in the side by a rival gang member in a prison yard and more like getting kicked in the side by a weak donkey. Thanks again to everyone for the cards and the flowers. You guys are the best!