I’m about to go to bed. Have a nice, warm glow around the edges. Mama won’t be happy to know it, but Victoria and I enjoyed an evening on the couch, sipping Jack Daniels, of all things. Life is always more beautiful when you hang out with Brother Jack. Of course, Mama thinks if I drink at all I’m on the slippery slope toward alcoholism. My father had a problem with alcohol. But I know the difference. I know when too much is enough. But I also know that drinking a little alcohol on occasion hurts no one, whatever the Baptists might say. So if my mother reads this and worries because I’ve been drinking whiskey, I’d like to remind her of the six pack of Icehouse beer that sat in her fridge for a year or so. Having a few drinks doesn’t make someone an alcoholic anymore than looking at pretty girls makes one a pervert.
Okay, that made no sense. If anything, it made me think about the cover to the Jethro Tull Aqualung album, and sent certain lyrics rattling through my head.
Sitting on a park bench
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose
greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Ah. It’s wonderful to have a vivid imagination. I won’t regale you with the meaning of that. Make up your own mind.
Mostly I’m waiting for the next round of skirmishes on a Facebook application called World Domination: Total War. Those godless bastards keep attacking me, and I need about $500,000 to buy another XM1203 Artillery cannon to boost my capacity. No, it’s not something I play religiously, but I tend to have a compulsive streak, so I have to sallie forth and give battle to those who dare oppose me.
Okay. So I’m going to bed. Might as well call it a night before the warm fuzzies wear off. All in all I had a nice day, working on Crewe and 3,000 Miles, scheming and plotting for the eventually ascendency of Wic into the stratosphere of global domination. Or at least some place on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. If none of this makes any sense, you can blame the influence of the mad genius Mister Doctor Reverend Daddy Professor Robert Seven, who, on the early morning of this turkey holocaust day, reminds us “don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eggs”. Wids of Worsdom.
