When all of your hopes and dreams
lay crushed and rotting
under an old mattress somewhere
When I'm Dead
Oh, the joyless torture of everyday life. I long for the extreme static and noise to end. I need the wretched waste of time commuting to work to stop. The absolute finality that death will bring is my only peace.
I actually hate cars. If some geek physicist would invent the damn transporter, I would gladly never have one again. This hatred must stem from the absolutely horrible cars The Old Man bought when I was growing up. Everyone, a God fearing American piece of shit. The abject disdain and contempt that the American auto industry had for the public was appalling. They would throw their two tons of already rusting steel, vinyl and plastic together with no care that the thing would break down within a couple weeks.
Take in point these beauties that The Old Man had at various points:
1. The Pontiac Parisienne, very European.
The Old Man had this car in a wonderful orange color, which was great because it hid the rust well. This tank would stall going up hills and lose 1/4 of its gas in trying to do so. The steering was so bad, even turning the wheel all of the way around you'd still be going straight.
2. The Buick Elektra. Ooh sounds futuristic doesn't it?
Originally, I was going to write about dealing with the IRS this week, but the tears running down my face, arms, and hands will short out my keyboard. Therefore, this week's topic will be how to annoy your ex in three easy steps.
1) Get a low-paying part-time job. With such meager restitution your part-time job cannot merit paying a baby sitter. Guess what? The ex must watch the kids when you work. Now don't get too cocky. You will end up being bludgeoned by the harpy somehow. But like Superman taking a kryptonite enema, the ex will feel some sort of discomfort. So raise a half-smile and drop that kid off at the witch's castle. 2) Tell your 11 year old daughter that you agree to buy a her complete Goth wardrobe for the upcoming school year. Yes! I can die a happy man, well not really. My offspring has inherited my unique outlook on life. And by unique, I mean napalming every person on the planet. My daughter wants to become a vampire and change her name to Raven.…
Hmmm. There's something familiar about her. I can't quite put my finger on it. Could it be the giant head with that mop of hair? The short 4'11" body? That nasty turn on you at the drop of a hat personality? I don't know maybe it's nothing.