Bugs, Man! BUGS!
I think I have some issues.
Last night, I dreamed that I was in my bedroom. But it wasn’t my bedroom. But it was, you know? And I was moving a big dresser around, the kind with a mirror at the back, when I disturbed a nest. Out from behind this dresser come a shitload of insects. There were wasps, and there were hornets, and they were all walking along the ground. Not a single one was flying.
And as I slowly backed up into the corner, they formed ranks on the bedroom floor. All the wasps were on one side of the bedroom, shiny and black. And all the hornets were on the other side of the bedroom, flashing stripes of gold at me.
I remember distinctly seeing sunlight reflected off of a stinger here, and a wing there as they began to march, in unison, across the floor.
Brother, you have not lived until you’ve heard the sound of a thousand wasp and hornet feet hitting the ground simultaneously. It’ll make your blood run cold I’m here to tell you.
Then, suddenly, I had a beekeeper’s smoker in my hand, and I began to advance on the marching horde. As I swung the smoke back and forth across the battlefield/bedroom, they began to retreat. I finally drove every last one of them back behind the dresser, and I heard them angrily buzzing, doing their bee-dance of defiance, plotting their revenge.
That’s when I left the room, closing the door after me. I decided that I would never go into that bedroom again, nor would I ever feel bad for the “giant brain bug” when I watched Star Ship Troopers.
And that’s when I woke up.
Analysis: Like all my dreams, this dream shows that I need to get laid.
Friday, July 16, 2004
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
Soon
With the Honeymoon fast approaching, I'm beginning to feel a hankering for the open sea. Almost every night now, I dream about sitting on the balcony, looking out over the Gulf, drinking a Margarita, or, if I drink out of my left hand, a gin and tonic.
Then I wake up in Ohio. And it is raining, because, well, that's what it does here.
And I have to go to work, where I am filling in for 3 people who are all gone at the same time. And I don't have any time to do anything but run from desk to desk, putting out fires and screaming at computers with incoherent threats that sound like a strange mix of the Eskimo word for a "crisp fresh snow that fell overnight but will be a nasty black slush after the Iditarod today" and the Gaelic word for "ouch I just caught my dick in my zipper."
With that in mind, please excuse me for copping out on today's post and leaving you with the lyrics to a song that sums up what I wish I were doing.
Biloxi
Jimmy Buffett
Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are dancin' in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off towards New Orleans
Sun shines on Biloxi
Air is filled with vapors from the sea
Boy will dig a pool beside the ocean
He sees creatures from his dream underwater
And the sun will set from off towards New Orleans
Stars can see Biloxi
Stars can find their faces in the sea
We are walking down beside the ocean
We are splashing naked in the water
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans
Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are swimming in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off toward New Orleans
With the Honeymoon fast approaching, I'm beginning to feel a hankering for the open sea. Almost every night now, I dream about sitting on the balcony, looking out over the Gulf, drinking a Margarita, or, if I drink out of my left hand, a gin and tonic.
Then I wake up in Ohio. And it is raining, because, well, that's what it does here.
And I have to go to work, where I am filling in for 3 people who are all gone at the same time. And I don't have any time to do anything but run from desk to desk, putting out fires and screaming at computers with incoherent threats that sound like a strange mix of the Eskimo word for a "crisp fresh snow that fell overnight but will be a nasty black slush after the Iditarod today" and the Gaelic word for "ouch I just caught my dick in my zipper."
With that in mind, please excuse me for copping out on today's post and leaving you with the lyrics to a song that sums up what I wish I were doing.
Biloxi
Jimmy Buffett
Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are dancin' in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off towards New Orleans
Sun shines on Biloxi
Air is filled with vapors from the sea
Boy will dig a pool beside the ocean
He sees creatures from his dream underwater
And the sun will set from off towards New Orleans
Stars can see Biloxi
Stars can find their faces in the sea
We are walking down beside the ocean
We are splashing naked in the water
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans
And the sky is red from off towards New Orleans
Down around Biloxi
Pretty girls are swimming in the sea
They all look like sisters in the ocean
The boy will fill his pail with salty water
And the storms will blow from off toward New Orleans
Thursday, July 08, 2004
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Date Night
Red and I have an interesting relationship. “Interesting,” I say because of the unavoidable fact that I am nothing but an egregious asshole, parading as corpulent man-flesh. To overcome my lesser qualities, which include such nefarious items as “never being there,” “drinking everything in the house including all the aftershave,” and “being a cold, cold robot of a man with a stone for a heart and a featureless, emotionless mask for a face,” Red has taken to devising new and interesting, relationship building, activities.
Some of these activities are:
1. Getting Married. Like that ever works.
2. Spending More Time at Home. Which just means I don’t have to worry about driving.
3. Having Sex in Positions that don’t necessarily allow us both to watch the latest episode of Law & Order.
4. Talking about Stuff.
5. Date Night.
Most of those are self explanatory. But “what,” you ask, “is date night?”
I’ll tell you.
Date night is one night a week when I quit working, put down my fifth cocktail (and I don’t mean after I’ve had four. I mean the cocktails I drink straight out of the bottle), and spend some QT with my cutie. (God I’m funny).
We’ve been having “date night” for a couple of months now, and I think that it is going incredibly well. I have carefully planned and executed each and every date to create the maximum amount of quality time, all the while being a romantic devil, and a good husband-to-be. I am, after all, the drinking man’s Don Juan. For your enjoyment, and maybe to help you put a little spice in your own love life, here is the rundown of date nights so far.
Week 1: Had to get off to a good start. I cancelled.
Week 2: Called at the last minute to change the day because I had important customers in town. Cancelled the next day.
Week 3: Couldn’t come up with a good excuse. Faked my own death.
Week 4: First actual date night. I misunderstood the concept, and spent the evening boning her best friend.
Week 5: Finally got it. Candlelight, champagne, a chick-flick, and a home-made, tableside Caesar salad. Nothing says love like fire, booze, lesbo-porn, and ground up anchovies and raw egg over lettuce.
Week 6: Last night, I got home about 5:30, and I took Red out to a local microbrew. We split a pitcher of dark beer, and ate some rather good meals. The evening was going well, and we were having fun. We were really enjoying each other’s company, and I was convinced that maybe we’d get to play a quick game of “hide the sausage” before Letterman came on.
Then the Ukrainians showed up.
How am I going to top this next week?
Red and I have an interesting relationship. “Interesting,” I say because of the unavoidable fact that I am nothing but an egregious asshole, parading as corpulent man-flesh. To overcome my lesser qualities, which include such nefarious items as “never being there,” “drinking everything in the house including all the aftershave,” and “being a cold, cold robot of a man with a stone for a heart and a featureless, emotionless mask for a face,” Red has taken to devising new and interesting, relationship building, activities.
Some of these activities are:
1. Getting Married. Like that ever works.
2. Spending More Time at Home. Which just means I don’t have to worry about driving.
3. Having Sex in Positions that don’t necessarily allow us both to watch the latest episode of Law & Order.
4. Talking about Stuff.
5. Date Night.
Most of those are self explanatory. But “what,” you ask, “is date night?”
I’ll tell you.
Date night is one night a week when I quit working, put down my fifth cocktail (and I don’t mean after I’ve had four. I mean the cocktails I drink straight out of the bottle), and spend some QT with my cutie. (God I’m funny).
We’ve been having “date night” for a couple of months now, and I think that it is going incredibly well. I have carefully planned and executed each and every date to create the maximum amount of quality time, all the while being a romantic devil, and a good husband-to-be. I am, after all, the drinking man’s Don Juan. For your enjoyment, and maybe to help you put a little spice in your own love life, here is the rundown of date nights so far.
Week 1: Had to get off to a good start. I cancelled.
Week 2: Called at the last minute to change the day because I had important customers in town. Cancelled the next day.
Week 3: Couldn’t come up with a good excuse. Faked my own death.
Week 4: First actual date night. I misunderstood the concept, and spent the evening boning her best friend.
Week 5: Finally got it. Candlelight, champagne, a chick-flick, and a home-made, tableside Caesar salad. Nothing says love like fire, booze, lesbo-porn, and ground up anchovies and raw egg over lettuce.
Week 6: Last night, I got home about 5:30, and I took Red out to a local microbrew. We split a pitcher of dark beer, and ate some rather good meals. The evening was going well, and we were having fun. We were really enjoying each other’s company, and I was convinced that maybe we’d get to play a quick game of “hide the sausage” before Letterman came on.
Then the Ukrainians showed up.
How am I going to top this next week?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)