When we moved into our current house, we had a mouse problem. We were catching two or three a day with those glue traps, which are just fucking awful. Usually, when we found them, they had already died, but on a few occasions, they were still breathing, moving, struggling to escape.
The first one I found like that was just looking up at me, so terrified. "Hey, buddy..." he said. "Can I get some help? I'm havin' a rough time, here."
"I'm sorry, Mortimer" I said. "I'm really sorry." I don't know if his name was Mortimer or not, but this is the name I give to all animals that are dead -- or who seem to have a high potential for death. Any 'possum I meet is immediately dubbed a "Mortimer" since they seem to have an unrivaled talent for dying. And, I suppose, when you think about it, we're all just Mortimers in the end.
"Buddy," he said. "I could really use a cigarette. Or a shot of whiskey. Come on, man...don't hold out on me..."
I didn't say anything. I mean, what could I say?
I took him out to the garage and, if you don't want to know what happened next, you should probably stop reading now. I, the reluctant executioner, took the trap and slid it into the thin, cardboard package that it had been purchased in. I placed that package in a plastic bag, which I laid on the floor. Then I took a foot-long section of 2X4 and placed it over the package in the bag and, stepping on it, I crushed out whatever life he still had in him.
There was this tiny squeak of "fuck you!" as I brought my considerable weight to bear on that piece of lumber. I bounced just a little to make sure that the condemned had truly joined his eternal rest. Silence followed. I was alone.
"Fuck this," I said. "Fuck." I whispered another quiet apology to Mortimer, followed by an angry, godless prayer to an uncaring universe. Then I went inside and told my wife we needed to get a cat.
The first one I found like that was just looking up at me, so terrified. "Hey, buddy..." he said. "Can I get some help? I'm havin' a rough time, here."
"I'm sorry, Mortimer" I said. "I'm really sorry." I don't know if his name was Mortimer or not, but this is the name I give to all animals that are dead -- or who seem to have a high potential for death. Any 'possum I meet is immediately dubbed a "Mortimer" since they seem to have an unrivaled talent for dying. And, I suppose, when you think about it, we're all just Mortimers in the end.
"Buddy," he said. "I could really use a cigarette. Or a shot of whiskey. Come on, man...don't hold out on me..."
I didn't say anything. I mean, what could I say?
I took him out to the garage and, if you don't want to know what happened next, you should probably stop reading now. I, the reluctant executioner, took the trap and slid it into the thin, cardboard package that it had been purchased in. I placed that package in a plastic bag, which I laid on the floor. Then I took a foot-long section of 2X4 and placed it over the package in the bag and, stepping on it, I crushed out whatever life he still had in him.
There was this tiny squeak of "fuck you!" as I brought my considerable weight to bear on that piece of lumber. I bounced just a little to make sure that the condemned had truly joined his eternal rest. Silence followed. I was alone.
"Fuck this," I said. "Fuck." I whispered another quiet apology to Mortimer, followed by an angry, godless prayer to an uncaring universe. Then I went inside and told my wife we needed to get a cat.
It has been suggested, in a somewhat taunting manner, that the way to make "friends" is not, in fact, to lament the lack of friends but, instead, to "blog" about something "interesting."
This is a possibility, I'll admit.
However, I have also noticed that those with many friends are often found to use emoticons in their blogs and messages. Being of a scientific mind, I refuse to believe that there is no connection between the use of emoticons and the number of "friends" one manages to acquire.
Therefore, and henceforth, I shall be using emoticons in all of my blog posts. If my hypothesis is correct, and I have no reason to believe that it isn't, I shall soon have many new friend requests filling up my "in" box.
(That means "kiss a pig." I mean it in a friendly way.)
This is a possibility, I'll admit.
However, I have also noticed that those with many friends are often found to use emoticons in their blogs and messages. Being of a scientific mind, I refuse to believe that there is no connection between the use of emoticons and the number of "friends" one manages to acquire.
Therefore, and henceforth, I shall be using emoticons in all of my blog posts. If my hypothesis is correct, and I have no reason to believe that it isn't, I shall soon have many new friend requests filling up my "in" box.
(That means "kiss a pig." I mean it in a friendly way.)
Seven months have passed since I last gave an update on my popularity. I still have 8 "friends." But, none of these "friends" have ever offered to lend me money or help me move a refrigerator. I'm beginning to doubt the sincerity of their friendship. Not that they aren't lovely people. Some of them even have naked pictures of themselves for general perusal. And, yet, one cannot help but feel a sense of... emptiness.
Well, it's been over two months since a sudden uptick in my number of friends led me to believe that I was entering a new golden age of fame and fortune. So far, both fame and fortune have failed to materialize. On the upside, I haven't lost any friends, so at least I'm still not back to being the least popular. However, the difference between where I am now and being the least popular is just seven friends. And not even, like, real friends, either. Just some people who friend-requested me.
It is a high and fragile precipice upon which I stand.
It is a high and fragile precipice upon which I stand.
Well, my meteoric rise in popularity seems to have stalled out. I'm still one person shy of the magical "top eight." I'm considering signing up for a second subscription, under an assumed name, so that I can friend myself. However, I'd still need one more friend so I could have someone to discriminate against.
Yesterday, I mentioned that I was the least popular. Soon after that, I had three new friend requests. Having accepted all three, I now have six -- which means I doubled my popularity in only one day! I almost have enough friends to fill up my top eight!
This is cause for celebration.
This is cause for celebration.
Every once in a while -- a couple times a year or so -- rich people, it seems, get a little worried that the rest of us have forgotten about them. This leads them to do things that basically scream, "hey! Remember us? We're still here! And we're still dicks!"
Which leads me to the fact that some huckster has come out with a $1,000 pizza. It's got fresh lobster, six kinds of caviar, wasabi, creme fraiche, and some other shit that doesn't belong on a pizza. Some of the coverage of this super-important development in gastronomic dickheadedness also mentions that, if you're still hungry after devouring your overpriced vomit-pie, you can head down the street to get a $1,000 ice-cream sundae, which is covered in "23K edible gold leaf."
Nino Selimaj, owner of Nino's Bellissima, claims his pizza is the most expensive in the world, but you know what? He's wrong. Because barely a month ago, some jerk from Scotland made a similar pizza for some jerk from Italy -- who had purchased it as a Valentine's gift for his lady-love -- for £2,150 ($4,174). (At least this second pizza, which, in addition to gold, lobster, and caviar was also topped with "sunblush tomato sauce, Scottish smoked salmon, and medallions of venison," was part of a charity auction.)
Okay, first off, what's with the edible gold? It apparently has no taste, so as far as I can tell, the only reason to put it on food is so some rich fuck can chow down while thinking, "later tonight, I am literally gonna shit gold!" Which, don't get me wrong, is probably a totally awesome experience, but is it worth $1,000?
But if you're dropping $1,000 on a pizza or an ice-cream sundae, it isn't really about the food, is it? It's about paying a thousand bucks for something that should cost less than twenty so that people will see it and know that you are Captain Bigtime -- and then everyone will want to be your friend and models will want to sleep with you. But, see, it won't work that way, because anyone with any sense at all will think you're a moron and, when it comes to trying to get models to sleep with you, you'd be better off investing your money in cocaine. (If you take a model out for pizza, she's only going to have three bites, no matter how expensive it is -- and then you'll end up giving the leftovers to a homeless guy -- but, damn baby! She will snort the shit out of some cocaine!)
Listen, if I ever have enough money lying around to spend $1,000 on a pizza, I'm not going to eat it. I'm going to fuck it. And then I'll make a t-shirt that says, "I fucked the world's most expensive pizza."
When people see me walking down the street, they will say, "there goes a dude who knows how to throw his money away."
Which leads me to the fact that some huckster has come out with a $1,000 pizza. It's got fresh lobster, six kinds of caviar, wasabi, creme fraiche, and some other shit that doesn't belong on a pizza. Some of the coverage of this super-important development in gastronomic dickheadedness also mentions that, if you're still hungry after devouring your overpriced vomit-pie, you can head down the street to get a $1,000 ice-cream sundae, which is covered in "23K edible gold leaf."
Nino Selimaj, owner of Nino's Bellissima, claims his pizza is the most expensive in the world, but you know what? He's wrong. Because barely a month ago, some jerk from Scotland made a similar pizza for some jerk from Italy -- who had purchased it as a Valentine's gift for his lady-love -- for £2,150 ($4,174). (At least this second pizza, which, in addition to gold, lobster, and caviar was also topped with "sunblush tomato sauce, Scottish smoked salmon, and medallions of venison," was part of a charity auction.)
Okay, first off, what's with the edible gold? It apparently has no taste, so as far as I can tell, the only reason to put it on food is so some rich fuck can chow down while thinking, "later tonight, I am literally gonna shit gold!" Which, don't get me wrong, is probably a totally awesome experience, but is it worth $1,000?
But if you're dropping $1,000 on a pizza or an ice-cream sundae, it isn't really about the food, is it? It's about paying a thousand bucks for something that should cost less than twenty so that people will see it and know that you are Captain Bigtime -- and then everyone will want to be your friend and models will want to sleep with you. But, see, it won't work that way, because anyone with any sense at all will think you're a moron and, when it comes to trying to get models to sleep with you, you'd be better off investing your money in cocaine. (If you take a model out for pizza, she's only going to have three bites, no matter how expensive it is -- and then you'll end up giving the leftovers to a homeless guy -- but, damn baby! She will snort the shit out of some cocaine!)
Listen, if I ever have enough money lying around to spend $1,000 on a pizza, I'm not going to eat it. I'm going to fuck it. And then I'll make a t-shirt that says, "I fucked the world's most expensive pizza."
When people see me walking down the street, they will say, "there goes a dude who knows how to throw his money away."
