I HATE talking about the weather. HATE. IT. It's the one thing we all have in common and the one thing that we can't do a damned thing about, and it's the first thing people turn to when they don't have anything at all to say. Trust me, I'm ok with silence. But, as I'm getting older, I find myself turning to it too. I know, right? I caught myself yesterday.
Speaking of which, it's Africa Hot here today. Already. I mean, I know people live in hot places all over the U.S., but this midatlantic region is "temperate." Where's all this global warming in the winter time when my heating bill goes haywire? Gore, you idiot. I wouldn't mind the heat so bad if I were, say, in Florida or Mexico or on an island somewhere laid up on the beach with a frosty beverage in one hand and a tanned bikini-clad girl in the other. But, as it is, I'm sitting at work with what could possibly be the largest collection of ugly women under one roof outside of a Circus Freak Convention. And, that fact coupled with the heat = me losing my mind.
In other non-noteworthy news, the Big Move 2007 is scheduled for tomorrow. I remember things such as friendship and fun and taking days off to help buddies move. I'm going to be doing the bulk of it by myself tomorrow until someone can see fit to come over after work and help with big things. Assholes. I'm SO not buying you beer now. I would've before. That's just a given. A prerequisite, really. Especially when it's hot. Getting older sucks. That or my friends do. Or both....or maybe I just call in to work indiscriminately whereas they feel some sort of loyalty to their jobs....eh, tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to. Either way, I'm gonna be settled in that place tomorrow night, most likely after making a midnight run to the store to buy an air conditioner and then trying to install it in the window without dropping it to the ground below, causing me to have to rebox it and take it back and tell them that it was broken when I opened it and nevermind about the grass in the fins and just give me another one because what kind of racket are you trying to run here?! Um, not that something like that has ever happened....
There's free beer involved if any of you would like to carry boxes tomorrow!!! I know it's tempting.....
edit: I hate to give this piece of shit any mention or thought in anything I do or say or at any given point throughout the day, but this is the best Bonds story you'll read and one that won't appear in "sports" journals.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
5 comments:
If there is one redeeming factor in this debacle it's that the ball was caught by a METS FAN.
Personally, I was hoping all the pitchers in MLB would agree to intentionally walk (or bean) him at every at bat. Now THAT would make baseball history.
Good luck with the move. [snicker]
because they didn't walk or hit him, I'm convinced that it's all about money and tv ratings, and that's just plain depressing.
Friends that won't help you move aren't friends. I mean yeah, there's grunt work involved. But it's like a license to make the movee buy you as much beer as you can drink before throwing up in the toilet of their new pad. Or on their boxes of packed stuff. At least that's what I've heard that's what can happen. I wouldn't know from experience or anything.
And Bonds and his giant freak show head won't be keeping it long. Thank goodness. At least A-Rod probably hasn't done steroids. Think of how happy all the gays will be to have one of their own to hold the record.
I bet Jeter is there to propose at home plate too.
Hire movers. Seriously. That's what I did. Yeah, it cost money but now I'm not obligated to lug boxes around whenever my friends move. And that's definitely worth the $$$$.
As for Bonds, ugh. How depressing.
Post a Comment