The Sudafed Diaries--A Moment In The Life Of A Shattered Wise Ass

Between the sagging weather and the stout scent of cleansers used in my office (doesn't anyone dig the smell of dust anymore?) over the past weekend and waiting for my ass on Monday, it's sent me spiraling into Sinus Hell. Whereas your basic Hell Hell is a glowing red locale with sulfur hanging in the breeze like flies on a Mexican outhouse. Sinus Hell is kind of a snot green kind of affair filled with hacking, coughing, sniffling, and sneezing.

This brings me to my point and yes, we're arriving at the point much faster than the usual meandering and bullshitting that I tend to shove onto your optical orbs.

What is the point of the sneeze? Wouldn't life be a lot better if the sneeze had never been invented? I think I could glide my way from point A to point B without shooting the combination of snot and spit out of my head at a high rate of speed. I'm pretty sure I could get through life without doing that and be somewhat okay with it. I'd be willing to give it a shot since tonight I have been classified as a chain sneezer. There's no market for chain sneezing. No Olympic event. Nothing. It's a hollow accomplishment.

And I'm fairly good about saying "Bless you" when someone sneezes in the workplace, but when I sneeze, does anyone return the favor? Oh hell no. Perhaps it's the big payback for waiting for the secretary to sneeze in triplicate then I say my obligatory "AH YES!" instead of offering a 3-pack of blessings. Regardless, I think it's rather insensitive of them and yes, I hold a grudge.

Sneezes are like mosquitoes, American Idol, and cheese. My life would be much better if none of them existed, but they insist on waiting around the corner and pouncing on my unsuspecting ass at the most inopportune moments just to be a sonofabitch about it. It's no secret that I am pretty much at war with nature (as well as American Idol and cheese) and after lingering a little bit in the great (?) outdoors, I had a shitpot of mosquito bites and found myself scratching like I'd gotten a case of the all-over crabs. I was ready to douse myself in gasoline and set myself on fire to stop the itching, but a low-rent bitch like myself isn't worth the price-tag of gasoline on today's market. I hover somewhere near the rubbing alcohol level on my best days, if not below that plateau.

If the earlier itching and scratching wasn't enough, it's been a steady stream of sneezing this not-so-fine evening. I do believe that I've reached my quota for the year and I'm well into the projected totals for March of '08. I knew that I was SOL when I found my trusty backpack to be devoid (I like Devo) of sinus dope and had to resort to going to the place that I resort to going when fast, and easy food is in order--yes, the trusty convenience store on highway 231 that is becoming my one-stop shop for fast and easy shit is in order and no, it's no resort. The only thing I've found this particular Shell station is not good for is gasoline (which is rather ironic) since it typically makes my engine light rear its ugly head. Hamburgers? Most of the time, check. Red Hots (as well as Cherry Heads and Grape Heads)? Small box variety, check. Brown Sugar & Cinnamon Pop Tarts? You damn right. Diet A&W Root Beer to wash it all down? Oh hell yes.

So when my backpack supply of sinus dope dried up and time was an issue, I had to haul carcass to the Shell station for the combination barbecue pork sandwich (yes, I'm a nutritional and intestinal daredevil) and individual packet of pseudo Sudafed. The sandwich would never be confused with Corky's pulled pork platter, which just sounds dirty and I can rarely order that without a small chuckle. Although it's not quite on par with the Subway Speedo incident of days gone by. I can't say that the sandwich was anything to write home about and the meds didn't exactly fix my woes, but what the hell. You got something to read out of the experience. You can't say that I don't suffer for my art.

I must be the Salvador Dali of suffering bastards.


(Quote of the work week--"Considering the amount of Sudafed and Diet Mountain Dew that I've consumed, I've got half of a meth lab jetting through my veins at this very moment.")

UPDATED: Friday He'll Be Nine

Here be the cake for this year.





This year the cake design was finished earlier than last year, and the year before. The presents were purchased earlier. This all in preparation to celebrate the birthday for the coolest 4th grader around!!

We play, we laugh, and we argue about whether or not to collect shiny stuff in video games. We even make comic books together. (ok, so far we're just on our second one, but still we be makin' 'em.)

He's doing awesome in school and this past Saturday he made the semi-finals in a McGuffey Reader competition in school, bringing home both a certificate and a ribbon.

So, Happy Birthday Bloggy Jr.!!

I couldn't love you more, or be more proud. I am the luckiest Daddy!!

Cross-Referenced Goodness.

Don't be afraid of the CLICKa.

I got yer plank right here.

It's the international (and possibly intergalactic) Talk Like A Pirate Day, so talk it up, scurvy dogs and wenches.

If you're trying to unlock a particular treasure chest and seeking ill-gotten booty, may your plundering down under be done with love and a keen eye to detail.

Geographical Herpes.

During the work day yesterday, I had to call a local gentleman that taught for my workplace in the past. He's moved up the corporate ladder a tad since I worked with him, but in spite of the big wig status, he's always been pleasant to a piss-ant like me. I'm not sure what it says about either of us, but it likely says something.

I used the number that he left via voice mail at the Disgraceland hotline and got his secretary, who forwarded my call. Instead of a human voice or even voice mail, I got an eternal loop of the city's slogan, "Owensboro has it!" At first, it wasn't entirely gay, but simply annoying. I would think that if the dude is so very busy (as he likely was), how about sending it to a voice mail system so that I could go about my own very busy day? No, no. We can't have that.

I sat there waiting on hold for 2+ minutes, because my message was borderline important, and listened to that damn "Owensboro has it!" bullshit over and over. Just when I thought he was going to pick up and take my call, the gay-ass jingle started over again.

Eventually, I gave up and hung up the phone, walked into our main office and proclaimed "I've been told over and over that Owensboro has it. Whatever Owensboro has, I hope it can be easily treated. More importantly, I hope that I don't get it" and walked out the door. Office folks looked around like "What the hell was that about?" and one student worker snorted out a laugh. I rounded the corner and I'll be damned if I didn't see a freakin' "Owensboro has it!" poster stuck to the outer office window.

I still don't know what Owensboro has, but I know that I don't need it whatever it is. It's probably herpes.

(Apparently Owensboro actually had progress back in 1817. During that year, some dude on a flatboat paddled his ass on past the town after he counted only one horse and said "Fuck that shit.")

It's True, Ask Bone Machine

Over the years a few people have learned that once in a great while I will insert an image of something that I find funny at the time into a CD case. I don't do it often, because frankly, I find a lot of shit funny.

But around the period I get a new CD, or find myself listening to a certain CD a lot, if it coincides with a "funny image moment"...in it goes.

I used to work with this gentleman years and years ago. He worked very hard at being serious, and I worked very hard at stopping that behavior. Most of the time it worked.

So here we are today with a saaaaa-luuute to Pearl Jam and "Jay". Jay has no clue that I have a copy of his high school photo, much less have it tucked away in a PJ CD jewell case.

Carry on, Jay!

An educated trash can.

Some wiseass had the audacity and artistic vision to slap a "Higher Education Begins Here" sticker on a local trash can. I will proclaim my own innocence but will admit to laughing my ass off when I saw it. While it isn't styrofoam art, it's certainly worthy of documentation.

From my own experience, higher education pretty much begins in the trash can and never really relocates.

notebook fodder

I want to jump out of my skin and scale walls with no safety net below. Like a superhero without a utility belt, I like to keep it real. I stare blankly into space with no regard for common social values. As the mist descends upon me, I leer into the past, because looking into the future is futile now that Miss Cleo is gone (Surely she saw it coming). It's as if I'm seeking definition in the visions and finding nothing but the dark. I live within the barriers of darkness and can only imagine what I know.



Sleep? I hang from the ceiling like a bat.



Summer afternoons used to hold so much promise. The horizons were low with an open sky available for the taking. As adulthood takes a foothold on your life, that vast sky becomes clouded. Everything becomes so pre-programmed and we get the crumbs. I miss feeling like the world was mine and what it feels like to wake up with an empty dance card just waiting to be filled. Although it didn't seem that way at the time, it was a great time to be alive. Maybe not the best times of life, but that is a goodness that one never gets back. Sometimes, I want that time back in the worst way. Other times, I just accept things as they are and don't even bother imagining it any other way. The time that is now always seems inferior and today is certainly no different.