Hanging On a Star

Been bogged down in the mumps, the ol' depressionary state, currently. The red line under "depressionary" is telling me that it's not a word and that I'm a retard. Damn, I can't do anything right. Lately, yeah, I think that title might just fit me. Retard. Maybe "Retard Extraordinaire". Ha. That could be more fitting.

I feel like I'm saying the wrongs things to quite a few people in my inner circle of friends and family. The ol' guilt thing is kickin' my ass all the way to the the moon, as of late. Time to time, I make my attempt to get off that moon of guilt, trying to hook my arm around a star and maybe, if I'm lucky, I will be able to walk down some of those stars. Maybe I'll make it back to Planet Earth soon and shake my own hand and call a truce on the guilt thing going on inside my head.

It's a battle of wills. And getting back to being comfortable with myself...

...would be dandy.

Anyway, the more I listen to this, the more I like it. The song is called The Fun Machine Took a Shit and Died

Don't listen to it if you don't want to listen to it. I don't wanna twist your arm. It's just, I think, some brand spankin' new music from Queens of The Stone Age. Supposedly, they're coming out with a new album, early in 2012. God, I hope it's early. The planet is supposedly blowing up on the 21st of December. If I find out the new album is going to be late- like after the 21st of December, 2012, well, it won't be a pretty picture.

I mean-

I'll be really steamed. I'll buy a strange bobble-head collection and take it with me to the nearest fine dining type of joint, put one of the bigger ones down my pants with just the bobble hanging out of my fly, register the looks on the faces of fellow patrons and ultimately poke my bobble into someone's martini.

A plan, conceived.

But I doubt it will happen. After all, bobble-heads freak me out. No, I won't buy a bobble-head. The name, itself, sounds perverted.

Of course, this scenario just popped into my mind:

I go up to Mrs. Claus. She's kinda old but kinda hot and wearing something red and fluffy. I guess it's a coat. And I say something suave.

"Hey! Wanna see my bobble-head, Mrs. Claus? It's got a red, Christmassy glow. Don't have any idea why. Must be the STD I got in ol' Meh-hee-go."

I often have sex fantasies about Mrs. Claus. Who doesn't?

Mexico. Hmmm....

Beats ol' GuiltLand, where I'm currently residing, nowadays. Or maybe not. Should I feel guilty about boning a mythical, beloved holiday character, by the way? No, I'm not talking about a certain high profile, female Republican candidate that's running for president.

Beloved. Heh.

I think I just watched a documentary type show on TV, detailing a true story that had a guy interviewing a group of middle aged golfer guys, involved in said story and reenactment of their individual experiences on their trip to Mexico. They end up getting robbed, almost killed and then almost getting robbed or worse again by some corrupt cops. I think it was some kind of "I survived my vacation" type show that's airs once a week on The Travel Channel. They said incidents like the ones those golfer guys had didn't happen that often.

Eh. Okay. Maybe not. I don't want to assume. Heck no.

The story before that or afterwards showed actual video of some dumbass getting his flesh torn apart by a lion. This guy, who had never dealt with lions before, happily volunteered to go into the cage with the lion. Then he begins to reach out to pet the lion, the first time, basically wearing only a hoody/sweatjacket type thing and some thin jogger's pants. Then Bippy Dippyshit gets a warning swipe, the first time, with a paw. The dude cried out, "OOOOOW". A little blood was spilled. But the dude continued. And continued. Seeing this idiot play with this lion, as if it were a kitten and then getting his leg meat tore into, like human filet mignon, before he was rescued, cheered me right up.

I know I haven't been around the blogging scene much. I've been doing too much false starting here. I've been getting sidetracked. But I think I'm going to attempt pull a blog-rabbit out of my ass again. Like I did in the Spring of this year, I think I'm going to challenge myself to another blogging duel. Yes. I shall bloggeth every day until the end of December. And I shall also endeavor to visit everyone's blogs like a man with a quest to reach the highest star. Isn't that inspiring? Doesn't it just fill your panties with a load of pungent glee?

Now when the end of December comes up, I will self destruct- or perhap I'll save my explosion until next year about this time. I wanna time it just right. Don't wanna stray from the pack too much. I really want to fit in with the crowd (just like always) and with all of the others that fateful day who will pop open like a smokey pinata. Because, as you might and maybe could tell... I'm an obedient conformist.

Mmm. I'm thinking of bacon flavored candy falling out of a big gash. Insert joke here.

If anyone wants my collection of Pepsi/Star Wars Episode One cans, before Doomsday, I may be willing to swing ya a lucrative deal that will flip you utterly out.

See you tomorrow or bust.

Contact me at pantloadfullofglee@hatemail.com about the cans. I'm feeling better already.