Thoughts on Moving and Planning for Douchebag Eventualities--A Discussion

For god's sake, man, get over and see Pauly if you haven't. Going Vietnam and running fuckin batshit with it, providing more proof for the pile that indeed, Everybody Must Get Stoned. Sehr gut.

And Google deleted me along with more than a few others, which is funny since this is a poker blog kind of like Tony Blair has profound and deeply felt Catholic beliefs. Nice. I care less than I thought I might. May have to get some new digs, Bobby style. Fuck'em.

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Well, it's pretty well a locked-in fact that we're headed back to the fucking* city. Just spent nearly five days there, found a nice place (which is a story of luck and fortuitous events that doesn't really need to be told right now), and will be spending the last few days trying to simultaneously do the further necessaries (did that sound kind of dirty? I think maybe it does...) and trying to experience every last precious drop of deep and total silence with appropriate gratefulness and appreciation, cuz that shit is going away, and that is a very sad thing indeed.

*that's not a frat boy "fuck yeah expression. Give it more of a Lewis Black framing.

So one more post before I go away from this place for another two weeks as a person too busy to deal with this Google bullshit. New digs is sounding better and better. Or perhaps I can rally the Internets to me and crash the Mighty Google Gates, wielding the power of The Collective like a hammer. I'm probably gonna be too busy for that shit too. A pox on this System.

The Wunderkid won't quit fussing and doesn't want to sleep. She feels the same as I do, I suspect. She knows what's coming and doesn't want to wake up in that place. The subject came up while I typed and she chewed on a cold washcloth (the Alcoholic Pygmy enjoys it. What can I say, they're a strange tribe.). Her left leg hammered up and down, as it had been for several days, as we continued our onging conversation having to do with The Inherently Smug Nature of Stuffed Bears and Why We Are Compelled To Abuse Them. When her heel came down on the edge of the Magic Fingers Chair particularly hard, I was forced to interrupt the current incarnation of her Bear thesis and ask, "Doesn't that hurt?"

"No. Should it?"

"Well", I said, "just the other day you headbutted my collarbone which would have made you cry but not for my masterful distraction skills**."

** (Note to self: Investigate whether these skills might successfully transfer over to the field of Pickpocketing with a sideline symposium analyzing the possibility that such a thing might not be the best idea in any case.)

"True dat." The heel kept banging away as she went Thrice Rocky Balboa all over a few Dangling Bears With Particularly Smug Looks.

"..and more importantly, why?" I asked.

"Douchebags. Training to kick douchebags."

"How you gonna get close enough to kick a Douchebag?"

"You're going to help me", she said. She wasn't joking.

"Why would I do that?"

"Well, if you kick them, you're in big trouble, right?"

"Yup."

"I'm a baby. What are they gonna do, call the cops? Shit no. They won't even be mad. I'll throw a couple smiles, act like I'm seized by the Holy Spirit and speak in tongues...hell, I may even throw up for an ender. It will all be written off as accident and/or cute."

"You're a fuckin' wicked shot, Rents."

"Indeed. Speaking of, we should totally watch that movie again while we still can."

"Seriously though, kiddo. We should probably refrain from that and try and find joy in the fact that we escaped such subterranean levels of douchebaggery. The quality of life for Douches can't be real good as a rule. Seems like it would be an existence ruled primarily by panicky indecision with steep psychological hills and valleys. Remember, these people can't even do simple things like Maintain The Speed Limit and Think About Their Destination. Instead they wonder about the various complex strategies of going all Kobayashi on the Chuck-o-Rama buffet with sufficient destructive force."

"Settle down, Dad."

"I'm just sayin'. We should take our solace and joy from that."

"I feel you, Dad. Shit ain't easy, but I'd say that's true enough."

"If you understand then why you still banging your heel like that? You're gong to have one leg totally ripped and the other is still gonna have your Michelin Man rolls. I can see it happening already."

"Just in case. Seriously, you never know when a sharpened heel, a strong leg, and a well-developed hammer kick just might come in handy."

"Sadly, you're probably right. Just don't tell your mother. She worries."

While she holds up her fist in a sign of solidarity and falls asleep I hear "You're a fuckin' evil shot, Rents."

Behold the Weaponized Heel