Thursday, October 29, 2009

I Am Not Bon Jovi...


The Dream Machine chirps like a retarded bird. It annoys the living shit out of me. I want to beat the snot from its 25-year-old circuitry. I want to Jean-Claude Van Damme its Faux wood paneling and make it cry mercy but I refrain. Thanks for simply doing your job old friend. I appreciate you.


AAAAHHHH! Holy Mother of Mary! I must have fallen back asleep. Damn you, dark mornings. You trap me in your cold abyss and leave me for dead. I curse you. Time to make the Donuts. I should grow a mustache and gain 80lbs. It seems to be my destiny.


I press the same God Damn buttons everyday. The sheer monotony is enough to drive a man insane. Light Switch – Flick, Remote Control – Click, Computer – Press, Treadmill – Beep. I fill my Hannah Montana water bottle with warm, slightly rusty, tap water. I tie my running shoes that have never kissed the pavement. I suddenly become aware of the fact that I am wearing nothing but my socks, sneakers and my underwear. Fuck it.


I am sprinting on the treadmill at a pace of a 10:56 mile. I run like a three legged, fat Gazelle. In another world, I would be a mythical creature. I sweat like a Frosted Donut on a hot summer day. I don my dark rimmed glasses. I am hairy and I wear a Navy Blue Head Band to keep the salt from stinging my eyes. I look a mess. If the dude from Loverboy had boned Sally Jesse Raphael and the condom broke, I would be their demon seed.


Run. I think I am having a stroke and my testicles hurt. Only 27 minutes to go. I will work through this like a Bob Ross painting. I taste blood in the back of my throat. I remember the warmth of my Nana’s house. I remember eating Oatmeal cookies and watching The Rockford Files in her army green, leather swivel chair. Help me Nana. Give me strength. What would James Garner do?


I am sweating. I watch the Sham Wow guy peddle his garbage with the sound on mute. His day of reckoning will come. Maybe he will share a bunk in Hell with Billy Mays. I check my blog for comments. Nope. My last entry must have sucked. I don’t deserve them. One quick visit to Definitely Landing Strip. Dammit! I always guess wrong. How would I know anyway?


I turn on the shower and the exhaust fan. I lock the door. I sit on the toilet bowl for 15 minutes and I read everything ranging from the back of a Shampoo Bottle to Prescription Ball Cream. I am smarter because of it. I should be on Bathroom Jeopardy.


I am in the shower. I am still sweating from my run. I am beginning to think that I will continue sweating for all eternity. Maybe if I make the shower a bit colder, that will help? Nope. Maybe if I cut off my head that might help? I could use my wife’s Gillette Venus Razor. My face is red like a tomato. Perhaps it is male menopause…


I am arguing with my youngest daughter about why it is inappropriate for her to bring a giant superball to daycare and my oldest daughter is yelling at me because I suggested she wear sneakers with her tights. She calls me the dumbest father ever. I have to concur with her assessment but not out loud. I am still sweating.


I am in the car with my daughters, driving them to school. Ashley Tisdale is playing on the radio. My kids urge me to make it louder. I tell them no. They protest and ask why? I tell them it is because Ashley Tisdale SUCKS! My oldest daughter tells me that I SUCK. Again, I must concur but not out loud. I dab my sweaty forehead with a paper towel. I am beginning to lose my fucking mind.


It is cold outside and I realize that I have failed to outfit my children with jackets. Neither of them has brushed their hair. They look like orphan, zombie children. I feel guilty for a moment and then realize that I too have no jacket and messy hair. My wife will be angry with me but I will distract her with Ice Cream and Gilmore Girls.


I am late for my train. I am running to the station with bag in hand and stuffing my face with a Dark Chocolate Strawberry Zone Bar. I am drooling on myself and find it very difficult to breathe. I am self conscious about the way I am running. It must look very awkward, even disturbing, like an Ostrich with Turrets. I am sweating again. What is wrong with me?


I make my train by the margin of a pubic hair. I am a sweaty, out of breath, chocolate face. People walk past me and shake their heads. I don’t give a shit. I can feel my heart beating in the balls of my feet and my testicles hurt again. I take out my Ipod and make a bet with myself.

I will shuffle all 20,000 songs on my Ipod. If the first song is a good one then it will be a fine day. If it sucks, then my day will continue to be a disaster. These little games keep my pea brain occupied. Here goes…

ASIA – Heat of the Moment.

Too close to call.

It’s only 8:15AM and I’m already Out-Numbered.

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