I don't post much these days. And I probably won't. I ain't got no kids. That's what everybody's about these days. I ain't got nothin' to say on that front. Which means, I ain't got much to say at all.
I did get a phone call today. After three months of interviewing for a job I wanted the hell out of... they finally gave it to me. Associate Director of BLANKBLANK Honkycracker. What the hell is that? Holy shit, someone gave me some props and rescued me from schmoeville, and damn. This means I'm gonna be able to be a real person here. Maybe even buy a place in a year or two. Possibly even entertain the idea of getting married. Maybe. Possibly. If I feel like it. Which I don't. So don't even ask.
I did go back to the Honky Family Compound on Sunday, after having a 6th interview for the freakin' job on Friday for 2 and a half freaking hours. My family's New York Giants were huge-ass underdogs against the undefeated New England Pats in the Super Bowl... and fuck it. The last 2 Red Sox championships I didn't watch with my family at all. Since I could go down on a Sunday and watch a championship game with my dad, why the fuck not? Things haven't been all-right down there. My dad's colon-removed stomach had been acting up again, and he's all sick and shit. Their dog, Floyd, was diagnosed with cancer and doesn't have all that much time. Fuck it. It's championship time with those people. And I ain't missing another one.
And what do you know? The fucking Giants did it. They did it. And I swear my dad farted all that sickness out when Eli shook off 8 doods and David Tyree competed the pass with one had and one helmet while Rodney Harrison sodomized him. (Tyree, not my dad)
I wish I recorded the PFFFFFFLLLLLLLLTTTTTT when Plaxico caught the pass in the end zone. But I swear the gas lifted my dad right up off the couch, across the room, and into a high five from me.
There were 5 Labatt Blues in the fridge, two of which I popped for that occasion. My dad flew into one. The other one I already had lifted to my face.
Both phones went off the hook. My cell, their home phone. None of us answered anything. My dad, who couldn't move, was thrusting back-down on the couch like he was trying to throw Oprah off him. I was jumping and clapping. Floyd headbutted both of us, getting some decent air for a ten year old dog who lust had half his back leg biopsied.
When the last days come
we shall see visions
more vivid than sunsets, brighter than stars
we will recognize each other
and see ourselves for the first time
the way we really are
Everyone called. We didn't answer. And that's why I'm not one of you anymore. Everyone's getting married. Everyone's having babies. Me... no one's gonna love me like a championship game, and I kinda don't want 'em to. No one gets that. But that's okay. I'm okay with that.
I went home and my dad got off the couch. The dog headbutted us. I am going to be okay. The way I really am.
