Gross Dereliction of Duty

I know that it’s been almost two weeks since I’ve published anything on this shitty little rag, but I have good excuses: first, we just came off of Memorial Day weekend, which I celebrated the way I do every year: by drinking enough whiskey to ensure I had no memory of any of it. Except for hearing Taps coming off of the cemetery down the street, which restored my memory of why I never joined the fucking military.

Second, I have secured a new home office for The American Jerk, which means I have spent a ridiculous amount of time preparing for the move. I have secured the services of swarthy people to haul my belongings around, but I have had to spend far more time than I am comfortable with reviewing the insurance options I need to hedge against the risk that these people will be lifting my DLP HDTV immediately after smoking PCP-laced THC. Apparently it’s going to cost me an extra two hundred clams to cover myself against the chance that I could find a strapping young gentleman ramming my computer against his crotch, protesting that the open floppy drive slit meant “that stuck-up Pentium bitch was asking for it.” I’m frantically searching the Web for a virus scanner that can detect Hep C.

Everything I own is now in boxes, and I’m spending entirely too much time at the empty new place, worrying over petty maintenance issues that will work themselves out the minute I look at the apartment once it’s furnished with scotch. I spent fifteen minutes tonight staring at the discolored patch of the ceiling directly over the shower head, wondering how I, with no household repair skills whatsoever, could paint it without staining the tub. Then I remembered that Jeffrey Dahmer managed to saw fourteen people apart in a tub without losing his security deposit.

One week from today, I will be all moved in, and I will try to do some posts between now and then. I do apologize for the silence, but I’ve had good intentions; I have a half-finished rumination on why, if Clint Eastwood was a hero for punching Hilary Swank’s crippled ticket in Million Dollar Baby, we should treat Gretchen and Roy Jackson as anything but opportunistic cocksuckers for trying to keep Barbaro alive. They say it’s for stud duties, but I don’t buy it. Barbaro’s life isn’t worth more than Hilary Swank’s just because of the size of his hog; I’ve seen Boys Don’t Cry, and it’s a wash. Trust me: If Barbaro were Boston Irish, they’d have put him down on the track. Ask me again why I don’t race.

Tomorrow, I’ve got new stuff for you from John Saleeby, but for tonight, I have to watch the premiere of Last Comic Standing. As someone who has worked as a stand-up comic, I can say with some authority that this show will instill in me the rage that I need to get through the moving process. Let’s just say that during season one, I watched the winner practice crowd work while standing alone in a room, which caused me to tear a beer can apart in my hands. I now have a deep scar on my right index finger that I call Dat Phan, and if the new season’s half as infuriating as the first, I’m will probably soon have another deep wound.

Which I will use as a pity prompter on my new landlord, so he’ll paint the Goddamned bathroom ceiling.

[tags]moving, Memorial Day, Barbaro, Belmont Stakes, Last Comic Standing, Dat Phan, Hilary Swank, dark humor, editorial[/tags]