Wheatgrass and 151

The other day I told my friend J-Bo that a shot of wheat grass was a good hangover cure. Then we got to talkin' about wheat grass and it's health properties. He was saying that at first, he didn't like it, then he was like, "Hell man, I'll do shots of 151 all night long and that shit tastes vile. But I do it because it makes me feel good. I just apply the same principle to wheat grass, and it's not bad at all, in fact, it's kinda good."

More people should apply the 151/wheat grass principle to their daily lives. You all know sex feels good, but so does love. We know naps feel good, but a little elbow grease makes for a clean house, and clean houses also feel good. TV can be cool, but books also rule.

I suppose it's about balance and moderation. It's fine to indulge yourself from time to time, but one should also make the effort to clean up afterwards. It makes life easier, and it's really no different. Just gotta change your point of view.

Now, who wants to come over and vacuum my house? Yeah! It'll be fun, and you'll feel good about being so nice and unselfish. Oh, and don't worry, if someones already vacuuming for me when you come over, you can do my dishes. Or laundry. Oh, and feel free to dust the ceiling fan in the computer room too. In fact, go ahead and fix that fan. Some shit hit it, and now it doesn't work.

a vague recollection of a harder time

Struck a match and lit a smoke
in the barroom shithouse,
erased my name
from the bathroom wall.
I wobbled out and plugged
a few dollars into the juke box.
Played whatever decent
country songs were available.
The bartender thought I was sweet
and she poured me an extra scotch.
The bottle popper in her back pocket
pointed devilishly at the tramp stamp
on her lower back
and I hummed along with Shotgun Willie.
A fat gangster covered in tattoos
had also taken a shine to me.
He was a little dumb, but that was ok by me.
There'd be no fistfights that gloomy evening.

I haven't spent many nights like that,
but sometimes the world forces you into a corner
and between rounds of being pummeled
into a meat pancake,
the sardonic trainer gives you whiskey
instead of water
until you finally see
the folly of your ways.

After Barnacle Bill identifies himself as the one knocking on the fair young maiden's door, she tells him she'll come down and let him in. This is how Barnacle Bill responds:

Well hurry before I bust in the door
I'll rare and tear and rant and roar.
I'll spin ya yarns and tell ya lies
I'll drink your wine and eat your pies
I'll kiss your cheeks and black your eyes...
(He's Barnacle Bill the sailor).

Well, it seems to me that Barney and I would have been good pals. Not that I support blacking the eyes of anyone, especially a woman, but hell, at least he's up front about that. Now, if I were that maiden, I'd probably not open the door after I heard Bill's proclamation intended physical abuse, but that's just me.

I have some friends that are similar to Barnacle Bill, actually. Not that they beat up women, but they're just a little rough around the edges. The difference is that of all the people I know personally who bust in doors, spin yarns, drink wine, eat pies, and blacken eyes, not a single one ever admit to it. Certainly not right outta the gate like that. And, if something crazy does happen on account of their gallivantin' and carousin', they usually have some excuse. I think they oughtta chest up a bit. Take some responsibility and let everyone know they might get hammered and punch things. Let everyone know what they're up against. If all those cards on on the table right away, who could blame Barnacle Bill if he knocks someone out?

Personally, I fall more in line with Willie and Waylon (the Outlaws) in "Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys". There they say:

Cowboys like smokey old pool rooms and clear mountain mornin's,
little warm puppies and children and girls of the night.
Them that don't know 'im won't like 'im
and them that do sometimes won't know how ta take 'im.
He ain't wrong he's just differ'nt, but his pride won't let 'im
do things to make you think he's right.

See? Those guys won't let nobody dictate what they can and can't enjoy. Neither do they feel obligated to 'splain it. That's why I don't feel conflicted about liking whiskey and cigareetes (in relative moderation) and still feeling like a good dad. It's why it doesn't seem weird for me to love museums and academia as much as I like farts, football and boobs. I'm done feelin' guilty about who I am. I have good moods and bad. I love life too much not to explore it... good and bad. Besides that, I'm done letting society determine what is "good" or "bad". I think I'm capable of making that decision on my own, thanks.

"If ya don't understand 'im and he don't die young, he'll prolly just ride away."

Ugh. I'm really hung over this morning, Heavy D. Help me.

The bar is a strange and magical place. I feel like I can keep on drinkin, and nothing will happen to me. I never realize how drunk I am until I get home... then it's all gloom and doom. Last night, I was dizzy, but hanging in there just fine until I walked in my front door, then all that Pabst and whiskey sucker punched me in the stomach. Don't worry though, we walked there and back home. Sober driving is an issue I can (and do) really get behind. I mean, let's face it, if you drink and drive, you really are an asshole, and if (God willing) you get home safely, someone should hit you in the face while you're sleeping. Jack Daniels is an ass hole too. He pretends to be cool... like he's all fun and light hearted and shit, but he is not your friend, or mine. Let's not hang out with him anymore.

Even if I'm not hung over like this, I still feel like an ass after a night of hangin' out with Jack. He always turns me into a buffoon. Why then, do I insist of maintaining his friendship? Honestly, I don't even know. Last night, he was like, "I think you should tell that English girl about your fake hatred for her countrymen. She'll think that's funny." Nope. She didn't. Jack was wrong again. She spent the rest of the evening insisting to me that she was only half British. And despite my many attempts to explain the joke, it didn't sink in. Jesus those damn Limeys are a thick headed bunch of stuck up douche bags.

That's just a little humor for ya. Get it...? Because I was just complaining about the English not getting my joke about hating the English. THen I made a derogatory comment about the English, as if I really do hate them. See... it's funny because I'm contradicting myself. Y'know, like how sometimes it's funny to say the opposite of what you really mean? And sometimes, it's funny to purposely ruin a joke.

(hurl)

Anyone got an alka-seltzer?