Marc
No Ed.
I've been the biggest shitbag all day, all week, kind of. I've been wearing the same shirt since Monday night, when I put it on to go to bed, which is so completely out of character for me as I usually sleep shirtless. Ladies, I know you must be storing away those mental images in your own personal areas, I'm sure. Trust me. It's not something quite so lover-ly to behold. But, this shirt, I tell you, just doesn't seem to want to come off. My roommate, Erin, found it stuffed in the back of her dresser a few days ago, stuck between two droors. It was a remnant from the people that lived here before us, I suppose. She was just looking for that damned cat. But, considering the fact that it's not quite her size (XL) and just about perfect for me, I inherited an awesome new "Manual Rams" shirt, with a bright orange picture of a fierce looking ram on the front. Sounds gold to me. When do I have to take it off? Maybe tomorrow morning before my midday nap. Maybe not.
I was extremely disappointed to see that, for the second week in a row, the show Ed was pre-empted by some ridiculous kind of filler material. Last week it was a Toby Keith special, or something again. This week it was the Rockefeller Center Christmas Special. Fuck that. I want to know what happened to Ed, dammit. That's me, I swear. I will be that guy, riding that damned crazy horse to break up someone's marriage someday in a white tuxedo. Ever since I was a kid I've had fantasies about being locked in a bowling alley with the girl of my dreams, though if her name's Carol, I'll admit that I'm going to be slightly disappointed. My great-grandfather's name was Carol. He died when I was eight, I believe, just a few weeks after my little brother was born. I think he was 94 or 93 or 95. I'm not quite sure. All I know for certain is that he lived in an apartment on the third floor of a building in Chicago proper that didn't have an elevator, and he had a nurse that was way younger than he was, and there were rumors that, well, maybe Great-Grand-Pop might have been quite the ladie's man for his age.
Oh, and he made awesome ham and cheese sandwiches.
Just like I make a mean turkey, cheese, and mustard sandwich. I have this thing where, if I'm making it, I have to make one piece of bread have an "X" on it, and the other an "O" with the mustard. I don't know why. It's just my thing, I guess. Over the summer, I made a penis on my little brother's sandwich. I laughed for a while, especially considering the fact that I was showing it to everyone at the table except for my parents. Every time I go home now, I feel more and more immature, like I'm struggling to hold on to something that's disappearing. This manifests itself by me doing stupid things like farting when I know I shouldn't, playing stupid ass tricks on my siblings, and so forth. I enjoy it. I think they do, too.
I don't want to grow up. Never. Instead, I think I'll stay locked in one of my many apartments, and play video games, and watch stupid cartoons and eat ice cream all day and night. Yes. That must be the way to not grow up. Kudos to me.
No Ed.
I've been the biggest shitbag all day, all week, kind of. I've been wearing the same shirt since Monday night, when I put it on to go to bed, which is so completely out of character for me as I usually sleep shirtless. Ladies, I know you must be storing away those mental images in your own personal areas, I'm sure. Trust me. It's not something quite so lover-ly to behold. But, this shirt, I tell you, just doesn't seem to want to come off. My roommate, Erin, found it stuffed in the back of her dresser a few days ago, stuck between two droors. It was a remnant from the people that lived here before us, I suppose. She was just looking for that damned cat. But, considering the fact that it's not quite her size (XL) and just about perfect for me, I inherited an awesome new "Manual Rams" shirt, with a bright orange picture of a fierce looking ram on the front. Sounds gold to me. When do I have to take it off? Maybe tomorrow morning before my midday nap. Maybe not.
I was extremely disappointed to see that, for the second week in a row, the show Ed was pre-empted by some ridiculous kind of filler material. Last week it was a Toby Keith special, or something again. This week it was the Rockefeller Center Christmas Special. Fuck that. I want to know what happened to Ed, dammit. That's me, I swear. I will be that guy, riding that damned crazy horse to break up someone's marriage someday in a white tuxedo. Ever since I was a kid I've had fantasies about being locked in a bowling alley with the girl of my dreams, though if her name's Carol, I'll admit that I'm going to be slightly disappointed. My great-grandfather's name was Carol. He died when I was eight, I believe, just a few weeks after my little brother was born. I think he was 94 or 93 or 95. I'm not quite sure. All I know for certain is that he lived in an apartment on the third floor of a building in Chicago proper that didn't have an elevator, and he had a nurse that was way younger than he was, and there were rumors that, well, maybe Great-Grand-Pop might have been quite the ladie's man for his age.
Oh, and he made awesome ham and cheese sandwiches.
Just like I make a mean turkey, cheese, and mustard sandwich. I have this thing where, if I'm making it, I have to make one piece of bread have an "X" on it, and the other an "O" with the mustard. I don't know why. It's just my thing, I guess. Over the summer, I made a penis on my little brother's sandwich. I laughed for a while, especially considering the fact that I was showing it to everyone at the table except for my parents. Every time I go home now, I feel more and more immature, like I'm struggling to hold on to something that's disappearing. This manifests itself by me doing stupid things like farting when I know I shouldn't, playing stupid ass tricks on my siblings, and so forth. I enjoy it. I think they do, too.
I don't want to grow up. Never. Instead, I think I'll stay locked in one of my many apartments, and play video games, and watch stupid cartoons and eat ice cream all day and night. Yes. That must be the way to not grow up. Kudos to me.
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