THIS is the type of thing that makes me crack up.
You’re either with me or against me.
Archive for August 9th, 2005
I am in no way trying to pull a blogger happy hour switch-a-roo or anything like that on Fool and Epiphany in Baltimore. Everyone should go to their happy hour.
However, if you find yourself with nothing to do this Friday, I won a free happy hour from the Lodge Bar at Power Plant. I know. I know. It’s Power Plant. But, there is no cover and the drinks are cheap if you tell them my fo’ reals name, this Friday night after 5pm. And really, all we’re trying to do is get as much booze in us for as little money as possible right?
I’m just saying. Now everyone mark your calendars for the 22nd or 23rd.
For the past few weeks I’ve had the WORST songs stuck in my head and they won’t come out. Not even when I put two sharpened pencils up my nose and slam my head on my desk. Though I have been tasting an unusual amount of graphite recently. But that’s neither here nor there. What is here and there are the terrible songs. I can’t get away from them!
The first one is the America We Stand As One song that I won’t bother to link to because it’s old news, and because I wouldn’t want to inflict this pain on anyone else. If you haven’t seen it, or if you’ve forgotten about it (or more likely purged it from your consciousness, substituting any mention of it with a period of blackouts (which would be a smart thing to substitute it with)) I’ll give you a brief description.
First, take a frying pan and fill it with oil and then turn the stove up as high as it will go.
Wait 5 minutes.
Now, think of a guy with a horrible 80’s mullet who kind of resembles Alice Cooper without any make-up on. Now dump the hot oil from the pan onto your genitals while smashing your face with the hot frying pan. Don’t forget to keep picturing the anal-polyp with the mullet! There you go. Now you know what that song is all about, and what it does to me mentally.
The other songs that I’ve been trying to remove from my head with Lil’ Lecter’s Home Lobotomy Kit are all church songs that were written in the 60’s and 70’s. As if regular church songs aren’t bad enough, I’m plagued with all the touchy-feely, hippie-skippy, Jesus is my buddy bullshit songs sung by faux folk bands that were trying to reclaim the loins of their peers from the unholy temptations of long hair.
Somebody apparently decided to stop singing about Hell, pain, and the unending assbangery by demons, and decided instead to sing about how Jesus is a tree, and God is the branches, or the roots, or some other crazy shit, and now we should all be dendrophiles.
I can feel my brain slowly melting. No matter what I listen too, these songs wait by the edges of my consciousness, and then strike while I’m in the middle of The Corrections, or The Half-Blood Prince. I make myself want to vomit.
When it’s grey outside, but you still want to rock out* on the way to work, Elvis Costello is always a good choice.
Last night I dreamed that I was in Baltimore for some or another type of event where Cal Ripken was going to publicly berate Rafael Palmeiro for using steroids. I wandered away from the venue and was walking south and uphill, (which is strange because Baltimore is on a hill that gets steeper as you go north) when I walked past a guy in a motorcycle helmet who said, “Man, can you help me back my bike out?”
I said, “Sure. Why not?”
So he started to cross the street and I was walking next to him. As we got closer to the other side he moved into the alley. I assumed that he was probably tight between two cars when he started leaning up against my left side. Assuming he needed a little more room I took a step to the right as I was walking, and in an instant he had thrown me to the ground.
He pulled a knife out, pointed it at my stomach and told me to give him all my stuff. I started bawling like a baby** and quickly pulled off my backpack and gave it to the guy. I also mentioned that there probably wasn’t anything in there as I had been robbed the night before.
This really pissed him off and he kept threatening to stab me and I kept bawling and pleading for him not to hurt me. He stood over me with the knife, and then he suddenly knelt down beside me, rolled me on to my left side, and I saw his arm swing down. I waited for the pain of the knife tearing into my back, but he instead slid his knife between the ground and my leg.
“Next time you’d better have some fuckin’ money,” he said as he pulled the knife away and ran into the darkened alley.
I woke up, terrified, and then calmed down once I realized that I was in my bedroom. ACWF was asleep beside me. I went to go to the bathroom and was greeted by Sherlock in the hallway. I guess I had woken him up when I opened the bedroom door. When I came out of the bathroom Sherlock bounded down the hallway and back onto his spot on the guest bed. I petted him for a while, and it calmed me down a little bit, but I was still pretty shook up.
I got back in bed a few minutes later, and ACWF was still sound asleep. As I crawled under the covers she stirred and asked me what was wrong. I told her I’d had a bad dream. She sleepily commiserated, and then returned to her slumber. I laid for a few minutes and wondered if it was possible to have PTSD from a dream, but I figured that in most cases the fear would subside when people realized they were only dreaming and in no real trouble. I fell asleep a minutes after that.
*With your cock out
**Which is weird because whenever I dream about violent stuff like this, I’m always invincible. I’m always the one inflicting damage on people who try to do me wrong.
