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"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

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Sunday, March 13, 2011

You'll Thank Me (In Advance)

When this blog goes live (7:18am on Sunday), I'll already be eighteen minutes into the official start of my shift. Of course, because I'm insane, I'll have entered the psych hospital (good place for me) at 6:30am, to get a jump on the morning's paperwork.

When I work the weekends, I like to have my weekend blogs (which nobody reads, except for you. Loser.) attended to, scheduled, in the can, loaded up and ready to fire before the weekend rolls around so that, when I get home from work on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, I can spend time with my wife, like God intended us to do together when he, like, knew us before he formed us in the womb or whatever.

As I write this post, it's 8:24pm on Thursday night. Mrs. Apron's out tutoring, so it seemed like the perfect time to get through the weekend's posts. I don't think I have the energy to do Monday's tonight. I'll do that Sunday night. I mean... tonight. I mean-- you know what I mean. Shut up.

You know how this blog goes by now. It's unpredictable in its predictability. Sometimes there's a post about what a Dee-presso I am, the next day there might be something that makes the pee come out, just a little, then there could be something about a dead cop, or an earthquake, or a politician, or some sort of other current event or other. Obviously, it's tricky to be timely and write about current events that might be current on Sunday when it's Thursday, unless you're a soothsayer or something.

I'm not. I just have a big nose and funny looking elbows.

That said, I can make predictions about where this world of ours will be on Sunday, March 13.

I can say funny things about Libya and Justin Bieber and the future Mrs. United Kingdom. I can make all kinds of pop-culture references that make me sound wry and irreverant, well-informed yet casually aloof.

"Hey, you know that Governor Chris Christie? By Sunday, he will throw up a skinny version of himself who will hire back all those Camden cops and make some of New Jersey's roads not flat."



But I'm not going to do that because, as you can already tell: that's annoying.

I could also write some whining bastard post about how awful it is to have to work every other weekend, but then I think of my coworker who's been doing the same thing for eight years. I've been doing it for six months. And that motherfucker recently took three weeks off in a row, and he's got over two more saved up. So, you know, life's not so bad. Don't cry for me, Uruguay.

Then I was thinking about making up some kind of fictional scenario where people are faced with the dilemma of whether they ought to eat their counterparts or die. You know-- people love to read about that shit. The Donner Party. Alive. Just think about how much more compelling 127 Hours would have been if the dude had not only cut off his own arm, but ate it, too. I was thinking, like, you know... I don't know, there's this orgy going on in a hotel in Mexico City, and there's, like, four Asian businessmen, two Mexican prostitutes and a burro all rompin' around and shit and all of a sudden, there's an earthquake and the room caves in on everybody, and the businessmen and the prostitutes have to survive any way they can.

Obviously, the first choice is: eat the donkey.

BUT: the lynchpin of this whole thing is that the donkey... um... it's magic. YEAH! A fucking magic fucking donkey! His big ass buck-teeth are made of gold and whenever you lick them, uh, you get three wishes. So, right. So, the businessmen are all like, "Damn, we can't eat this fucking thing-- it's magic. So, they wish, obviously, for more Mexican prostitutes. So, more Mexican prostitutes show up. And then they wish for a big bucket of frozen Halibut, you know, so they can do fucked up things to the Mexican prostitutes with the Halibut. And then they're all like, "Oh, no! This Halibut smells like hell, especially when combined with Mexican prostitute schnazz, so they wish for the Halibut to disappear, which it does, but then they're still in the busted up motel room with even more Mexican prostitutes than before, and the magic donkey, having exhausted all of its wishes and its earthly purposes, turns into a Halibut. Non-magical, and unfrozen.

And it smells.

And that, friends, is what happens when I blog on a Thursday, for a Sunday.

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