Short one tonightónot much booze to drink, and nothing important to say. The only reason Iím writing anything anyways is because I can. Once the week starts, Iíll be sucked up by the mundane problems of day-to-day work life, I wonít be able to stay up late and type nonsense for the general population of The Strangelands. Once the week starts, itís back to the grindstone, early to bed and early to rise, choose your cliché and follow it like a good little monkey, youíll get your chance to relax when the weekend rolls around once more.
The yawns are hitting me pretty solid tonight, the eyelids are tired, and itís not even that late. Just falling victim to the bad habits of the civilized, I guessómy eyes snapped open at seven-thirty this morning and I was out of bed before I realized that I had no good reason to be awake. It didnít seem to matter much, though, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldnít go back to sleep.
Yeah, man, I think we should all consider ourselves very lucky that Iím cutting it short tonightóI donít think any of us need to know about the weak writing fodder I have in my head right now. To give you a glimpse, though: I made potato salad today, I have a bag of fruit & cream Starbursts that taste like vomit, my princess bought me a fan so I wonít get too hot at night. Exciting stuff, right?
I was thinking hashbrowns for breakfast tomorrow, but since I know Iíll be eating potato salad all day long, Iím sort of wondering if that might not be overdoing it on the starch front. Maybe Iíll just eat a stick of margarine and call it good.
I got a new memory card for my digital cameraóI can now take two hundred and thirty-seven pictures, right in a row. I donít know if Iíve even lived through enough cool stuff to warrant two hundred and thirty-seven pictures, you know? At first I was all pumped up about it, because I got it real cheap, and thatís a lot of pictures. But Iíve had the card for two days now, and have yet to take a single picture. Maybe some sort of photo-journal is in order here. Iíll just put the camera by the bed, and start snapping pictures as soon as I wake up. Give them all little captions, so that everyone understands precisely what is going on: ďHereís me first waking upóscratching my crotch.Ē ďHereís me, I just got out of bed, Iím still scratching my crotch, I donít know whatís going on down there today.Ē ďHereís me taking a shower.Ē And thatís pretty much all there would be, because if youíve ever seen me, you know that seeing me naked and dripping with water is not a happy thought. The other two hundred, thirty-four pictures would just be of the wall, ďHereís the wall. I figure why waste my time taking pictures for this photo-journal, as anyone with any sense at all stopped looking after that horrid shower scene.Ē
Maybe I should scratch the photo-journal idea, huh?
I donít know if this is something I should worry about, but lately Iíve really been wanting to blow up bags of powdered sugar. Like just explode the hell out of a five pound bag of it, you know? I want to know what kind of a sound that would make, donít ask me why. What would happen if you took a huge bag of powdered sugar up on an overpass or something, on a really windy day, and just opened it up and dumped it out?
It wouldnít be cool if it all just fell out onto some poor bastard whoís just trying to get to work, but what if the wind caught it just right and blew it all away? Where would it go, do you think? What would it become? Would people gain a little extra weight, maybe, breathing in sugar? Someday Iím going to buy a thousand pounds of powdered sugar, all in one huge bag. Inside, Iím going to cram about twenty sticks of dynamite in there, but make it where the fuse is sticking out, somehow. Then Iíll light the fuse, and launch the entire thing up into the sky. BOOM! And the entire horizon is filled with a haze of sugar. I feel that would make the world a better place, I really do.
I bet the Catholic church would make me a Saint: St. Ray, the patron saint of happy fatties. Saints get tons of chicks, and theyíre invited to the coolest parties. Also, they get paid to go to churchóitís like a job that you only have to go to one day a week.
Yeah, thatís the life for me.
Maybe, thoughósince I canít afford that much powdered sugar, and since no one in their right mind is going to sell me any dynamiteóI could just get people to call me St. Ray. Thatís not a very cool name, though, is it? Okay, Iíll have people start calling me St. Ruthless. Oh, yeah, thatís got a definite ring to it.
ďTimothy Jordan thought it was going to be just another average day: Work, strip club, and home for some shameful acts of self-gratification. He didnít count on running intoÖST. RUTHLESS!Ē Thatís what the announcer would say, all in a deep voice and things.
And then thereís this guy wearing a suit and a tie, you can tell heís all stressed out from a hard work day because his hair is a little messed up, and his tie is a bit crooked. He walks into a strip club, and thereís St. Ruthless and Santa Claus, theyíre right up there on perv row, whistling and wolf-calling. But instead of strippers, a bunch of robots come out, and they all have huge guns. The guy in the suitóthatís Timothy Jordan, who thought it was just going to be another average dayódives to the floor and starts crying like a little girl with a skinned knee. Meanwhile, Santa Claus and St. Ruthless pull out these huge bags of powdered sugar stuffed with explosives. We throw them up on stage and they explode, destroying all the robots and leaving a happy sugar fun cloud floating around the otherwise depressing strip club.
And then me and Santa put on our sunglasses, all slow-motion and things, and we walk out of the club like the mad pimps that we are. I look down at Timothy Jordan as we walk by, and I go, ďSt. Ruthless thinks youíre a candyass.Ē
And Santa Claus goes, ďAnd so does Santa.Ē Because when youíre as rockiní as Santa and St. Ruthless, you refer to yourself in third person, or you donít refer at all.
All right, kiddies, thatís it for tonight. St. Ruthless is calling it a night. Gínight, liíl homiesÖ