It’s not a bad mood. People who have chronic bad moods are tiresome, and I don't wish to be one of those. So let's say it's an annoyed mood. Even so, I cannot take it out on anyone close to me; that would be wrong. But you? Hey, you volunteered. Bail now, I beseech you! Leave! I will not be responsible!
I have hash for brains, that’s the problem. Haven’t had one solid minute of uninterrupted thought all day. This and that and this and the other thing and the printer’s jammed and Toontown hung and ring! Playdate! And hello off we go and back to the house and ring! Wife wants me to pick up this and / or that, and hello, off we go – and so forth and so on. I did have one free moment alone, in which I realized I was running low on cigars; went online to order, and discovered they were OUT. They were OUT! Everybody loves those adorable little Panter Mignons, it seems. So I went to my backup vendor, a place in Florida – they had ‘em. Whew. Placed the order, got back to work – phone rings, it’s the nice lady at the other end of the Internet secure order form. They were out. OUT! New shipment due next week. I suppose I could branch out, try something else, but I’m one of those guys who’d rather not have a cigar if it’s not the right cigar. And the right cigar has to draw nice, punch hard, never bite – and oh, cost less than a dollar. That’s right: I am a cheap cigar smoker. I love waving around a Louisville Slugger that cost a double-sawbuck; now and then I will treat myself to something so dark and potent it makes Selma Hayek look like Kristen Dunst, but when it comes to the workaday stogie, I want my Panter.
And nothing else will do. Not a Phillie, not a White Owl, not a Dutch Master. None of those execrable drugstore cheroots the hoi polloi hollow out and stuff with chronic. Panter or nothing. So it’ll be nothing, I guess. (Sob.)
The little time I spent on the internet consisted of random clicking on various blogs, most of which were unreadable Serious Deeply Concerned and Troubled accounts of things that Ought to make the Murcanpeeple Angry, but don’t, because they’re all fat-bottomed idiots who run Bill O’Reilly transcripts through the shredder and roll the pieces into small, informative suppositories. Whatever. Thaaaat’s right. Everyone who doesn’t want impeachment is an idiot, just like everyone who didn’t think Bill Clinton personally dragged dead boys onto train tracks to cover up his coke ring was a Commie-Nazi who probably believes Vince Foster killed himself and Ron Brown wasn't shot down by Chinese spaceships. When I’m in this mood the entire Internet is annoying, and I should just go sit outside and throw grapes at the squirrels.
You know, I finally click on a Daily Kos link, and I find this. (First item. Profanity warning.) Well, that certain refutes the totality of the man’s work, no? The gall: a man who did not enlist in the Army has the bald rude temerity to write about a Las Vegas blogger convention. The next thing you know, people with no experience in oceanography will be writing classical music reviews. I do like the swearing, though. You hear so little cursing these days you forget how well it works. I never visit that site, but that one entry makes me suspect he’s really hardcore and brash and genuine and FEARLESS. As Homer once wrote: I am interested in his ideas, and would like to subscribe to his newsletter.
Mrghm. It doesn’t help that tomorrow has three deadlines, I haven’t written word one on any of them, I have to participate in an Ice Cream Social AND design the murthafargin’ flier (see? I can swear too! It's fun) for an upcoming event AND go to Kinko’s to run off nine trillion copies – that got handed to me at the last minute – and take care of Gnat from morning to bedtime. Which is probably why I’m testy right now. It would be one thing if I had real problems; those I could ignore. Pesky annoyances, however, require action.
I’m going to hold off on Bathing Beauties, since I didn’t get it done. Good reason, eh? Tomorrow is shaping up as a Bleatless Friday, I’m afraid – but stop by anyway; there will be a Diner. There is a Screedblog on the new Iraqi #1 Al-Qaeda fellow, here. Now go away! Get off my lawn!
You know, I feel better now. Thanks for listening, and stop by tomorrow for more abuse!
Update: one hour later. Mood is no better, but it's not any worse. It's stayed exactly the same. That, my friends, takes practice.