HOLY WALRUS TITTIES, BATMAN: IT'S MY MASONIC APRON'S 100th BLOGDAY!

It's a day I thought would never come.

I wistfully remember my old blog's 100th blogday. And 200th. And 300th. I snuffed that bastard out at 336 posts, and it still pains me. But what is anonymous blogging when it ceases to be anonymous?

Oh, right-- a threat to one's way-of-life.

Right.

After I killed the old blog, I got very depressed. Mrs. Apron got even more depressed, I think and, even though I created My Masonic Apron that very same day, even though I made a clear statement that I was not going to wave bye-byes to the blogging world, there was a definite fear that I would not return with the same resolve I had from June-March.

And, you know what? I probably haven't.

I am thrilled, though, to have a dedicated emsemble of readers who, apparently, don't care about that or just haven't noticed. Thanks, buddieboos!

These blogs are funny little things, aren't they? In the old days of philosophy and pointless masturbation, we used to wonder "Why am I here?" When bloggers get all philosophical and meta, we wonder, "Why are you here?" Seriously-- with so many other blogs out there in the universe, what brings you here? I mean, there aren't even any YouTube clips to watch. I should probably look into that. But I won't.

Anywhoo, in the tradition of my blogdays of yore, instead of needlessly pontificating and getting all smushy about life and blogging and the momentousness of the blogday event before us, I'll just do what I normally do on here: lift up my masonic apron for all's y'alls to get a good, strong whiff and a tasteless peek.

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"Surprise: You're The Asshole!"

I had to pop into Genaurdi's supermarket this morning, because I promised Mrs. Apron I would. If you can't keep your promise to your wife, especially such a banal and easily accomplished promise, than you're pretty much a totally useless fuckhead.

(Remind me of that, will you, the next time I forget that peeing in the shower is inappropriate for someone with two advanced degrees and the correct number of chromosomes.)

I went in there prior to heading in for work and I raced around like a madman, fearing I would be late for work, only to later arrive at work 1/2-an-hour early. I was in and out of the supermarket in 7 minutes, probably a record, and, if not, close. As I tromped through the prepared food section, I paused for approximately five-or-so-seconds to catch an Asian man involved in a heated debate with the obese, Asian woman behind the sushi counter.

"Just tell me," the customer implored, "Do you use long-grain rice or not? Also-- what is your process for making the tempura? I want to know what kind of oils you use. Okay? O-i-l." He sounded out the word for her very clearly and very loudly, just in case she happened to be retarded, deaf and/or made of wood-chips.

Wow, I thought as I passed by this very unusual exchange, you, sir, are a fucking asshole. What, exactly, do you hope to gain by berating the unfortunate, lumpy, pock-marked behemoth who has the misfortune to prepare sushi for arrogant bastards like you in exchange for $6.00/hr and a ten minute pee-pee/psychotic meltdown prevention break? What do you really want to know? "You make sushi like mamasan?" No, needledick. Of course she doesn't. Because she doesn't love you. Only mamasan love you. Long time. Now go buy a fucking sandwich like everybody else and leave this poor potatosack-shaped woman alone. Really, it's your fault for buying the food of your own culture at a supermarket. What do you expect? Do you think I would buy falafel from Shoprite? No. I mean, I don't eat that shit anyway. I hate chickpeas.

After buying my six groceries, I found that I had time to go run the groceries home to the refrigerator before work instead of leaving them in the car to spoil in the 70 degree sun, which was fortunate, because spoiling the groceries kind of defeats the points you score from remembering to go to the market and remembering not to step on the dog's face while he sleeps. On my way home, I was in back of a McCandless Home Heating gas truck (and if I had seen the truck number, I would have posted it here, you bastard) that was driving approximately seven miles-per-hour. He made a left turn, and I did the same behind him and, at the corner, he put on his hazard lights and stopped at the curb. Well, half of my car's ass was hanging in the middle of the intersection, as I was in mid-turn behind the fucker. So, I checked and then I drove around him. A van was coming down the street from the other way, but he was going extremely slow and I had ample time to pass the parked gas truck. As I passed him, he stuck his scruffy head out the window, pointed at the slowly-approaching van and screamed,

"WHAT DO YOU THINK I PULLED OVER FOR, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!"

If I had more time, bigger balls, a loaded Glock, or life insurance, I would have slammed on the brakes and shouted back,

"MAYBE TO MAKE A FUCKING GAS DELIVERY AT THE HOUSE ON THE CORNER, YOU SHIT-FACED, HALF-WITTED SISTER-FUCK!"

But I didn't have either of those four aforementioned items, so I just kept on driving. Yet another example of someone thinking they were doing the right thing by calling someone out on a wrong, only to commit a larger, more obscene wrong. You may have thought I was the asshole, but, surprise, you're the asshole!

Then, later on in the day, I saw a cadre of fat, slovenly, pimply adolescents horsing around at a playground and I thought, "Gee, it's 10:30am: you numbtitties should be in school. 'Cause nothing makes you look more like an asshole than being fifteen, playing around on a swingset in the middle of the morning, while 3 and 4 year olds with their parents can only look on, dejected and bemused, wondering if that's what they'll become.