339 Days Until Dragon*Con 2012…
As usual on Mondays, I got up early, snuck out of bed, and rolled up to the JFZ.
I have a severe case of the road rage. Road rage is a disease that afflicts 1 in 1 drivers across the Americas. It’s running rampant, like facebook, it’s gotten out of control. The symptoms are not only detrimental to you, but could potentially be fatal to complete strangers around you. Like when you take out a pistol and blow that stupid motherscratcher’s head off who just cut you off in traffic with his giant truck with “Roll Tide” bullshit all over it. Roll deez nuts, dog.
You may think that you just did the world a favor, and you probably did, but unfortunately our society does not tolerate vigilante justice (read a Batman comic sometime for proof. one of the good ones.).
Being as I am a sufferer of this terrible disease, I get pissed in traffic. I’ve calmed down some over the years, meaning that my symptoms are not as pronounced as they once were. For instance, instead of hanging my head out of the window and yelling at people and keeping a weapon in the car at all times, I now just honk, with an occasional flipping of the Bird. “The Secret Sign” as my dad would say. Dad useta say that when people would flip him off in traffic, “Oh, the secret sign! He must be a member!” Naturally, abiding by secret society rules, meant my dad was now obliged to give the secret sign back to them. The rituals of this club also, apparently, sometimes included impromptu street races.
But! I do get my boxer briefs in a wad sometimes while in the traffic. I especially get them in a wad, a plum knot even, when I find traffic in places, or at times, when I least expect it. Like at 5am on my way to the JFZ.
I know traffic stories are boring and, usually, it’s hard for the audience to understand exactly what happened, thereby making you, the storyteller, just seem like an asshole. Therefore, I will keep this brief…
There was a lot of traffic out on my way to the gym this morning. There usually is not, so I got extra pissed off.
My 5am drive to the gym is usually a pretty good time. It’s dark, there’s no one out, and I listen to relaxing music and drink as much water as I can stomach. When that gets disturbed, I get disturbed. Which means that I lash out and swear a lot and yell at my fellow motorists things like, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING OUT??? GO HOME AND GO BACK TO BED!!!”
I half assume that everyone else who is out is drunk or high or in a gang. Who, in their right mind, would be up and driving around at 5am? If you’re not headed to the JFZ, you should be home in bed, dreaming of the one that got away. And that is the truth.
All this hubbub in the morningtime got me all worked up, so that by the time I got to the JFZ I was ready to strangle that daggum whirling bird. It also put a cloud in my mind that prevented me from thinking straight. Therefore, I left my new Martex Brand Hospitality Hand Towel in the car. Much to my dismay, this meant I had to use the JFZ’s paper towels to wipe myself, and the equipment, off with. I realize that this is exactly what I was doing not even a week ago, but Martex Brand Hospitality Hand Towels have spoiled me with their luxurious softness and gleaming white pure-as-the-sweat-off-a-unicorn’s-balls finish. I know unicorns are played out. Fuck it, that’s how pure these towels are.
My check better be in the mail, Martex, because your towels are average. And I blame them for making me spell “Hand” like “Hnad” three times in a row. Is this a terrorist conspiracy? Martex, be honest with me, are you a front for an elite covert terrorism operation known simply as “Hnad” (which I pronounce like “huh-nod”)? I’ve got my eyes on you, “Martex”. If that is really your name.
Right! So the JFZ felt my wrath this morning, even moreso than last Monday, and last Monday I was pumped up like Schwartzenanthiggerjigger on weeeeeed, man. Mondays are always a good day for me in the gym. On Sundays I’m ready to go back, after taking Saturday off, but I wait and let my fuzzy ballfruit get good and heavy with testosterone and unleash my midlife-crisis onto whatever unsuspecting whirly birds or Trilogy of Terrors happen to be close by. When looking at it from that perspective, I think it is a good thing to take the weekends off.
Ok, so I was going to include, in this post, some stuff about tabeletop wargames, but since the word counter is telling me that I’m at over 800 words right now, the tabletop gaming post must wait… or this post is liable to end up at like 5 googleplex words. Later today I may come back and post that stuff, but I may save it for tomorrow. I hafta go to the Store today. Celery and shit, ya know…
Meantime, here’s a picture of my fitness idol. My cat. His name is Fletch, or as the dude who bags my groceries at the Store (can you tell my ADHD mind has already moved on from 5am traffic jams on the way to the JFZ… to what is going to go down at the groceria today) calls him, “MISTER Fletch.”
Yes, he is named after the Chevy Chase character. His Make is “big black Halloween cat”, his Model is “Chantilly Tiffany”. Go ahead, do a little googly image search for “Chantilly Tiffany Cat” and you will end up with dozens, nay hundreds, of photos of Mr. Fletch.
He eats and sleeps and runs laps around our house, occasionally ambushing your feet… and he never gains an ounce of fat. Of course, if I lived on a diet of Purina Cat Chow and water, I’d be pretty thin too. Maybe I should get him a can of tuna fish at the store today… hmmm…