Rage

I know, I have been lax. It is not my fault, but that of Niall and Mitch, who were joined together in holy matrimony on Saturday. Congrats! I chose to celebrate by making an ass of myself: both at the dinner table, where I randomly WINKED at people like and old man winning at backgammon or on a singles cruise- and on the dance floor, where I busted out not only jazz hands, but spirit fingers as well.

The good news? There is none. Well, there kind of is. I did not fall down, but I think I managed to knock somebody over. I am hoping it was Hitler. At least that way I can say to myself that he fucking deserved it. SIDEBAR: Niall and Mitch, what the HELL are you doing inviting HITLER to your wedding? Or did he crash it? He's bad like that, eh?

Due to circumstances beyond my cotrol, I spent Sunday with a crippling hangover and passed most of my time weaving drunkenly down the sidewalk, spitting and yelling at children.

Monday was a complete washout, which brings me happily to today and the FUCKING BOZO who got 'Mr. Tabourine Man' in my head this lunch hour.



It may or may not have been JAY LENO- cruising by in his fucking JALOPY, begging for scraps from doors with hobo-friendly codes chalked on their fence posts with clay from nearby riverbeds. Leno, you fucking disgust me.

Disgust you say?



Get off my back! I need to ease back into this, like an old man into a hot bath.... oooooh.

More tomorrow when I don't HATE myself so much.