Me & My Couch

Today was about me and my couch. That is me and my ass on this couch. It actually started way before the "day" part of the day when I hacked a nice dry fuck-you-cedar cough all night, and woke up at 4am not able to take it anymore. I felt badly for The Boy since I had literally been eh-eh-eh-ing the whole time we were in bed, so I went to the couch. It is really a futon, and is horribly uncomfortable, but I usually can manage a nice nap on it. If I sleep with my head elevated, I don't cough as much, so it seemed the best decision possible. Also, I felt the bedroom was too hot. There is something very wrong with me in that while I am asleep these days, I sweat like it is the middle of summer and no shade. During the day, I'm freezing and must wear layers and cuddle under a blanket. The living room was much cooler and full of cats! I slept on the couch until 8:30am, then went back to bed to snuggle The Boy. Then I commenced my full couch camp-out at 10am. The only times I got up were for the bathroom, drinks from the kitchen and once to go out and get a pizza. Some people may think that is a sad Christmas, but luckily for me, it was just a wonderful day off where I could be on the couch all day long completely guilt-free. I accomplished reading, eating, holding cats, and watching Beowulf (why did they bother with the animation?), Away We Go (oh god, give me more of that fat boy gleefully talking about smothering babies!) and Catch-22 (I believe it should be law that everyone reads this book at least once a year; and if you have too many books in queue, at least watch the movie).

Two more days of sloth! Whoot.

I Hear It Is Reuben Tuesday at Google

That's all I can tell you. Reuben Tuesday is very special day to a close friend of mine, but it is verboten for me to supply the other tasty victuals that were offered at lunch. It is beyond my control. There are weekly soup specials, but I cannot reveal what they are this week or any other week. Google is shrouded in a miasma of nerdy testosterone and a pulsing bright light of all the monitors displaying the hot, wild action of WoW. Hot. Wild. Action. WoW. Dear, dear Fink-Nottle.

Snort. I'm sure what ever they were eating over there at Google was a hell of a lot better than Papa John's "Cinnapie." Why are they advertising pornography instead of pizza. Though, I guess I could see where the two come together. Heh. Out there, on the great world wide web, is a website that caters to people who like looking at erect penises sticking through a hole in the middle of a pizza. True story. I've seen it. All I could think is wouldn't that cheese cause one hell of a grease burn on that cock? But maybe the goal is a permanent cockring of scar tissue. I don't know. The thing is, who would find that sexy? The same people who eat Cinnapie?

Yesterday Patrick Swayze died. I like to think that all that snuffing and sniffling Twit did today was grief over his passing. Or she was just crying in pain as my beams of hate singed her hair, crisped her flat ass like a poptart in a toaster, burning her insides until all her organs oozed steamy Twit juices.

Whew, that felt good. She's a braying donkey of pure jackassness. That is too a word. Shut up.

Today, a homeless man was fishing in the creek. He caught 11 fishes. They looked like perch, about 4" in length. Shimmering orange and yellow. He released them in to a shallow pool that did not feed back in to the creek. I found this really odd, and didn't quite know what to do about it. I felt it best not to ask.

My shrink is trying to convince me that I'm so intelligent that I have a valid, logical rationalization for everything I don't want to do. I say, well, go me! What's wrong with having a special talent of getting out of things I don't like, and making it look like I'm not doing any such thing?

Sorry Mr. Swayze, you put up a really good fight. I'm so glad you at least got to play a pedophile once before you left us.