Sorry things have been quiet; it turns out that nobody can quite decide if the charge should be Misdemeanor Criminal Mischief or Federal Felonious Conspiracy to Incite Criminal Mayhem when you bring a laser pointer to a cat-lovers convention.
It wasn’t my fault. I had my final big dentist appointment the other day, and the bastard apparently decided that since my jaw was so rotten, he’d make sure to minimize the chance of sepsis and extensive bleeding by blending me up a special concoction of novocaine and epinephrine. He mixed up a cocktail of one drug that stops you from feeling pain, and another that triggers the human fight-or-flight reflex… and then he shot it into my face. That fucker must really hate cats.
After the recovery, I was told by a workplace supervisor that I “wasn’t contributing to the bottom line” because I was “using company resources” to write jokes about “Tom Cruise failing to see the irony of screaming for God while jerking off into a copy of Dianetics” while I should be “doing something productive”, preferably “somewhere else”, because I wasn’t “actually employed there.” So I had to leave my favorite writing / stealing-wifi-to-anonymously-download-animal-and-helmeted-retard-pornography place, because apparently they even want visitors to wear pants. Like it’s my fault I like to freeball when I write. What can I say? I’m old school; that’s how I roll. Or dangle. Whatever.
On top of it all, the frantic search for a new Home Office for The American Jerk was in full tilt this past weekend, meaning I was busy hauling my drunken carcass around the greater Boston landscape to be shown places that taught me that when rental agents say “convenient location,” it’s a contraction for, “to be stabbed repeatedly in the nuts if you have the temerity to open your five deadbolts to protest the misdemeanor spray-painting vandalism of your mom,” and that “all amenities” has something to do with the stench of cat urine, diapers and failure.
However, this very afternoon, a lease was signed with a rental agent who was able to grasp that my contraction for “convenient location” ended with “staggering distance from seven bars, a liquor store, a porno store, a gun store, and a college girls’ dormitory.” So I promise, now that I’m settled, I will be writing more this week, and in the coming weeks.
And even if I don’t? I’ve got you covered. I have been in contact with, Paul, co-founder of The American Jerk, and original contributor John Saleeby, who have both shown an interest in being a (at least occasional) part of this shitty rag again. You will see some of their stuff in the next couple days.
So if you’ve been complaining that thing have been slow here for the past week? Fuck you. I put the band back together.
We’re on a mission from God. Or maybe L. Ron. Or at least I think we are; I might have misunderstood the book. A couple of the pages were stuck together.
[tags]dentistry, cats, house hunting, apartment rental, Tom Cruise, dark humor, satire[/tags]
