Here We Go Again

I mentioned in my last post how I was starting a new morning regimen.

Up early to walk the dog (but now I have changed it to every morning regardless of doggy walking duties (or dooties (see what I did there! See how much more cleverer I am when I get up at 5?)), write, read, do something constructive (no video games, no BBC news until 7.30 at the earliest, no loud music or belly dancing- unless the new Shakira/Beyonce video comes on then all bets are off), and generally start my day with a smile and a positive attitude.

And ya know what? It’s kinda working. I feel pretty good when I get to work but it’s offset by the uncontrollable urge to kill when 4.30 rolls around and I still have an hour until quitting time. (I don’t know why this is. It just happens.)

‘Finally,’ I cogitated to myself (because it’s so hard to get other people to hear my thoughts. Why can’t I cogitate to other people? It’s so lonely here in my head! ), ‘things seems to be turning around and getting better!’

But then Friday hit and my cohort  in copy writing crime got a big time deal down in Dublin and quit the agency which leaves me all by my lonesome doing the work of 2 which is what lead to my near metal collapse in the first place. It was enough to suck the tears back into my soul.

Something must be done!

Anyway, that’s where things stand at the moment. I’ve got my fighting face on and I’m armed with many more bad analogies (see ‘suck the tears back into my soul’), and I’ve got a good nine hours or so before I start getting feisty.

Bring it on bia-yach!


I Can’t Think of a Title Today

I’ve been up since 5.30 this morning.

Actually, that’s not quite true. I didn’t really sleep much at all last night but 5.30 was when I finally gave up, crawled out of bed and took Sparky the Amazing Crack Weazle out for his morning constitutional.

This is all part of the New Plan.

When we first got the dog my wife was more than happy (well, ‘more than happy‘ might be a bit of a stretch) to take Sparky out in the mornings because we both felt it would be safer for her to walk alone early on when the local kids are still sleeping off their crystal meth. I, being the scrawny male counterpart to this marriage, volunteered to do night-times right before bed.

And because I’m so manly, I’m not afraid to portray myself as a psycho so people will leave me alone. (I once asked a friend of mine who liked to take long walks at two in the morning if he wasn’t afraid of the ‘Scary People’. He just said, ‘I pretend that I’m one of the ‘Scary People’. Made sense then and it makes sense now.)

I’m not so scary in the traditional ‘I’m-gonna-knife-you-and-sleep-in-your-carcass’ sense, I’m more the weird guy in milking boots, pajama bottoms (Jim-Jams!) and robe who skulks around the neighborhood shaking his fists at birds and talking to lamp posts (the kids refer to me fondly as ‘Mr. Wellyboots’).

So far this system worked pretty well but Ruth was definitely having to take him out more often than myself (she also takes him out after work) therefore I volunteered to start taking him out mornings as well.

‘It’ll be great!’ I said. ‘I’ll take him out at six, then I’ll shower, make my lunch and I’ll still have an hour before I need to leave for work. I can work on my blog and start writing that book I’ve been thinking about. This is like so totally bitchen! W00t!!1111’

That was last week. You can guess what happened:

1. Woke up.

2. Took dog out for shortest possible amount of time.

3. Back to bed.

4. Feel even worse than if I hadn’t slept at all.

But today’s a new week and here I am typing away at 6.45 in the morning.

It’s a start and it’s kinda nice. I get to take peaceful walks and listen to the songbirds as the sun rises over the whichever building/mountain/tree/leprechaun commune the sun rises over, and I get the flat all to myself when I get back. And today just to really make it homey little Sparky is lying on the chair next to me sleeping soundly.

The little fucker.

Cha-CHING!!! (My Way of Avoiding Any Talk of Virginia Tech)

I’ve been making the money “cha-ching” sound in my head all day cuz the “almighty ‘ollar” sunk to new lows today.

This is good news for me because we’re planning a quick 2 week trip back to the States this summer.

But this is bad news for you Americans standing around with “Greenbacks” in your “pockets” (I’m talking about the exchange rate- not the fact that I’ll be terrorizing my old stomping grounds (that’s right. I used the “T” word. If nobody else wants to read my blog I figure I might as well sow the seeds of suspicion for the F.B.I. (Hi guys! “Terrorism!!!” “Weapons of mass destruction!” “Paris Hilton’s tits!!!”)).

For Americans to visit the U.K. it will now cost you – in terms even Dubya can understand- $4 for a Big Mac and $7.10 (roughly) for a gallon of gas. Hahahahahaha! You poor bastards! You can’t afford anything over here. You’ve been pwned!1111!

(Wait! $7.10 for a gallon of gas??? Jesus Christ!!! Fuck you America and your bitching about $3.00 per gallon! Yes, that’s right. Fuck right off.)

Anyway, the upside to this is that the economy in the U.K. is doing pretty darn good at the moment. So well, in fact, that it turns out that the wife and I bought in a highly desirable area (translation: higher percentage of intact beer bottles thrown on lawns vs. smashed vodka bottles on sidewalks).

According the my extensive research involving noticing that the flat below us is now on sale for 140,000 pounds and remembering (vaguely) that we only paid 100k for ours less than six months ago (and we have an extra room AND a garden (which the lady downstairs doesn’t have) it seems we may have already made an imaginary profit of (and this is only an estimation) at least 50k (I’m rounding up because I’m greedy). (That’s pounds sterling (I can’t find the fucking “pound” sign on this American computer)). This means we could potentially have $100K (see how easy that was? (I’m talking about the dollar sign…oh never mind)).

This is even better news.

I figure all we have to do is wait another couple of months, sell this flat, exchange our profit for dollarinos, buy a palace on the cheap in New York because of the crashing American market, rent it to Donald Trump and retire in style.

I’ll let you know how my plan works out.

Goin’ Frog Huntin’

I’m chipping away at a huge slab of writer’s muck and crud here.

Not really sure when I last had writer’s block this severe but, boy howdy, am I stumped. I seem to have lost my ability to type, think or spell- it’s quite the sensation and I can’t pinpoint the moment it descended (well, I suppose the date of my last post would give me an idea but I’m feeling too guilty to check (why do I feel guilty? It’s damn blog. It’s not like I get paid to do this)) but I decided to do something to shake it.

That’s right.

It’s travel time!

Inspired by the Easter weekend back to back to back to back broadcasts of National Lampoon’s Vacation and European Vacation the wife and I decided to feed the Spring Fever and book a trip to (ugh…I can’t believe I’m typing this) Paris.

I’m having some mixed feelings about this summers first destination (we’re gonna try to go back to the States for a couple of weeks in August- but we’ll have to see). I’ve been to Paris before and I hated every single 480 minutes of the 8 hours I was stranded there.

The people were rude, transvestites with real woman diddies and manly five o’clock shadows spit on my shoes, I was sent off on the wrong train when I was hunting down the Eiffel Tower and I got conned by a street performer. I won’t even begin to describe the trauma I suffered when I tried to take a crap in the train station toilet.

Anyway, tickets are bought the four star hotel ‘in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower’ is booked and I’m actually excited.

I must be crazy.

The Most Hated Family in America


Cut to the chase. Here’s the link to the BBC article.

All schooled up and ready to talk? Good.

These people are the most disturbed, hateful, fucked in the head, sons of bitches (well, most are daughters) you will ever meet. These are the people that get exposure over here in Great Britain and make foreigners think that all American’s are Kuh-Razy!!!

Unfortunately, these Phelps aren’t that extreme. Not really.

That’s what I, personally, find sad. I watched the documentary and I sympathized with them in a way.

I knew where they were coming from because of my upbringing.

I could smooth with their move.

I could jive with their vibe.

That’s why I no longer belong to any organized religion. They all fuck with your head and tell you things that don’t make sense and when you challenge them they say, “Well, it’s a question of faith, isn’t it?”

No. It’s not a question of faith.

It’s a question of facts. They don’t have any. They can’t prove a thing.

So bite me, Phelps family. And enjoy your time in Heaven cuz, according to you, you’re going to be the only ones there.

Won’t that be fun!

Jesus Christ…