And now for something completely different

Just a non-heroic post to keep things from being too terribly boring. I am slightly drunk, so all those spell checkers that gleefully pore over my posts with their dictionaries, and a red ink pen should have a fucking field day. I am drunk enough to blow past the spell check button, like Randy Moss blows past corner backs on Sundays. Piss on spell check, and piss on people who care more about spelling than content. Oh wait? Did I just type that? I suppose I did, and since I am too tipsy to be bothered with the backspace/delete button it will just have to stay typed. Did I mention that I am drunk? I am drunk, and the knives are out. Careful consideration, and rational judgment are not at home today. Alcohol, clumsiness, and a mood to carve people up like Xmas turkeys have taken over the computer keys. Of course, there is always the chance that I will pass out before I managed to push the "publish post" button, and all of this glorious, drunken rambling will be lost to posterity. That assumes that I would wake up hung over, and sheepishly delete the post tomorrow. Either way let's cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war shall we? Before I became so happily intoxicated today, I spent a large portion of my day doing yard work. I HATE yard work, I HATE my yard. I did not want a yard, and I curse the day I obtained my yard, and the person who convinced me to get a yard I curse as well. All well and good to promise to do the yard work back then, but now that you're gone what? The fucking yard is still here, still out of control, growing like it has a plan to take over the fucking world. All the chopping, cutting, weed whacking, digging, tree lopping, and cutting in the world seems pointless. I feel like I am bailing the ocean out with a spoon. A slotted spoon. This yard, this green grass, this entire bloody house is your revenge. It is an exquisite revenge. I have toyed with the idea of "naming" this house _______'s (insert your name here) Revenge. Like Buckingham Palace, and the Kremlin, I feel that my "castle" should carry a name as well, and I can think of no other more appropriate one than your revenge. Thus one knife thrust complete, and now should I trundle off to bed? I don't think so, after all I can still see well enough to type, and can form semi-coherent thoughts. The other part of my day should have been spent "volunteering" at a work function. Well, I am just not a "joiner." I don't play well with others, and should not be expected to bring cake to the Christmas party this year. Of course my non-joining will be held against me in the corridors of power. Another little black mark has joined the others next to my name. Tis a pity really. Since there are days when I am absolute fan fucking tastic at my job, and can be that way without joining a fucking things. My job is lovely on most days. Of course I say that because I am quite mad you know. My job would drive a nun to curse, a priest to sodomy (oh wait, never mind), and most sane people to the funny farm in about an hour. Not me lads. I am made of sterner stuff, I have moral fiber, and a sense of the absurd. I like this writing drunk stuff, I should try it more often. I wonder if Krudy met his deadlines by scribbling his articles on the back of a bar napkin while getting hammered. Too bad for him that he didn't have the good old spell check button. The more enjoyable part of my day was spent watching my football team, Arsenal, thump Wigan 4-0. Good news right? Maybe that was the cause for celebration that led me to being this bombed. Sadly that is not the case, the sad part of Arsenal's cracking win is that fact that it was so much an important part of my day. When did a fucking football game/result become more important than attempting to better myself in someway? Or maybe I should have been attempting to better the world in some way rather than sitting on my fat arse yelling at a bunch of nancys to score already. Score? Score what? A goal that at the end of the day means nothing, and adds nothing to the world, other than it might have made some desperate punter somewhere clutching his betting ticket tightly in one hand, with a hot dog, or beer in the other, a few quid. The problem with all that high faluting thinking about better myself is that really and truly I have no idea how to do that, and it might be the sad truth is that I don't want to try. Trying might just require effort, and effort might just be more than I can bear at the moment. That would be a sad commentary on my life if it is true. Does how my jackass QB perform in my fantasy football league matter more now days than trying to self-educate myself, and learn something I did not know yesterday? It might just be that it does, and that makes my skin crawl with self-loathing. When, and where did I fall of the path of enlightenment into the gutter of everydayness? And more importantly, how do I climb out of this cesspool? Two more knife thrust, two more victims. How many more need to fall before I become either satisfied that I have done enough damage, or too incoherent to continue? Perhaps one last slash then off to dreamland. To you artful dodger, I have no doubt you will succeed in whatever your life's ambition actually is. You've made a lovely start, and I am sure that if you keep applying yourself, success will come your way, but just before you wave (elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist) like a newly crowned prom queen to your adoring public, think about all that dodging. The shit you dodge still connects you know. If not with you, with other people. People who may or may not deserve it, and some of them are getting tired of getting smacked. Remember thou art mortal, and what goes around, comes around. Finally, be careful of what you wish for, once you make it to the top of the slippery pole, you might finally realize that the only way to go now is down. Bon chance! There we go four grievous wounds in under an hour, this is a bloodbath worthy of a grind house film. Thankfully though the eyelids grow heavy, the fingers grow clumsy, and the mind begins to finally feel the effects of all that vodka. Till tomorrow dear readers, when a new hero will be unveiled, and I might not be just a raging asshole. Here's hoping.