Contractually Obligated

As a man of my word, I am contractually obligated to stay at my current job until August 27, and that sucks bumpy nards.

As a blogger of my word, I am contractually obligated to write about this fucking oil-spill. And that sucks bumpy nards, too, ladies and gents (though, let's face it, mostly ladies.)

I fought the fight valiantly for a while, you've got to admit. Sure, I made an oblique reference to it here and there, mostly for comedic effect-- and I'm sure all those oil-beaked birds appreciate my using their life-ending dilemma for a couple cheap laughs. (I can't believe you laughed at that-- what are you, a complete fuckjob or something?)

I think lots of bloggers my age (and younger) are under some kind of delusion that their "followers" (by the way, I have 184 at last count, and I think maybe nine people read my blog daily, so there's that) are sitting by the screen obsessively clicking "Refresh" until we've posted some new introspective musing or thought-provoking monologuette about this or that, and that our views are what this small sliver of the public are pining for.

You're just dying to know what I, Mr. Fucking Apron, think about the oil spill, right?

Well, here's what I think:

The oil spill reminds me of summer camp.

It reminds me of the ominous warning issued by lifeguards that, if you peed in the pool (yes, I went to theatre camp and, yes, there was a swimming pool-- mostly for show) a tell-tale, red ring would appear around your midsection and would label you as a filthy, unclean miscreant who violated rules of common decency who delights in befouling public waters. And you, the villain and arch-enemy of all that is clean and good and pure and chlorine-imbued in the world would be looked upon by your poolmates with such disgrace, such abhorrence, such palpable animosity that you would slowly rise from the filth-filled waters, shame-faced and forever marked as a virulent sinner, wander slowly into the changing room, and kill yourself by drowning yourself in the toilet bowl-- the very place into which you should have peed in the first place.

Because pee-pee doesn't belong in a swimming pool.

And oil doesn't belong in the ocean.

But here we are-- talking about oil and pee-pee on my blog. Surprised?

Here's another thing about the oil spill: I hate it. It makes me want to buy a ferret from Petco and throw it against a window as hard as I can. It makes me want to terrorize elderly ladies by kicking their walkers out from under them and replacing their Polident with linseed oil. I'm so angry I could scream.

But what good would that do?

What good is this post doing?

Hopefully, it's at least making you laugh a little, because that's about all I've got, kids.

Here's the thing about the oil spill-- mothafuckas be trippin'. They walk around in their crisply-ironed blue Oxford shirts and hardhats and they all make a shitload of money, which hurts my feelings. I would like to fuck up the ecosystem and make a shitload of money doing it. Hell, for a shitload of money, I'd nuke Old Faithful or pull down my pants and shit all over Mt. Rushmore-- right on T.R.'s teeth. I'd cover a huge branch with my shit and brush Teddy's teeth with my shit-covered branch if only someone gave me a lot of money to do it.

Because that's what this debacle is all about, really, isn't it? Money? God. Isn't money fucking amazing? You give it to people, this paper and shit, and they're all like, "Oh! Thank you for this paper! You may now have two dozen rolls of wallpaper or this hamburger or this 19th century enamel bowl." Money makes everyone fucking crazy. It makes you dump oil all over the goddamn place until the dolphins eat it. Do you realize that there are dolphins out there that are probably shitting oil?

Wow.

I wonder if a big, red ring will appear around them sonsofbitches. You know, an older camper once told me that whole red ring business was just a scare tactic that the pee-pee obsessed lifeguards used to keep us all in line. I wasn't gutsy enough to test the theory, but I wanted to.

Everybody wants to think BP is evil. I don't think they're evil. I just think they're fuckheads, kind of like everybody else, including me. It's getting sickeningly popular to hate on BP, and I generally do the opposite of whatever is sickeningly popular, so I'm going to resist that social-loafing urge to hate on BP.

I love you, BP. Now clean up your mess like good boys and girls.

Hmpf.

Do any girls work for BP? I think putting a female on the Today Show who works for BP would be a pretty smart PR move for the company. Preferably a female who's in her early thirties with a smooth neck and hair that billows down past her shoulders. Supple lips, eyes half-closed in that seductive and chic way. Pretty tough to hate on that, wouldn't it?

God-- I should have gone into P.R. What's wrong with me?

You know what I think maybe the worst thing is about this oil spill? We can't blame it on North Korea or Afghanistan or something. God-- that's fucking annoying.