I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today. Yeah, I know, usually that’s followed by some confession or a break up or just, I don’t know, something. Doing a lot of thinking doesn’t need a preamble. Um, I also don’t have a speech prepared, I’m not breaking up with you prosebox and I don’t do confessions unless you’re wearing a three quarter length leather nun outfit or just a priest collar with spikes. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today but not directed or focused, I couldn’t find the off switch. I didn’t look really hard.
We do that all the time. I mean people, apologies if you aren’t one, a person, and kudos for the internet access pooch, who’s a good boy? I used to say that to my dogs a lot, the full phrase being “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? Yeah, I don’t know either, but I say we find that son of bitch and kick his ass, he’s making us look bad.” Every single one of my dogs cocked their heads listening for the word taco. To be a canine is to submit to eternal optimism.
Among the many random thoughts that really don’t need chronicling was that one of the things I really like about the woman I really love is that, although we’ve seen old couples holding hands she has never so much as uttered an aww about it. It’s one of the few things that ever scared me about growing old, having whippersnapper motherfuckers awwwing at my ass when I’m trying to cop a feel and accidentally grab a hand. There isn’t a cute saying for that like, say, growing old ain’t for sissies or, Christ help me, 75 years young today!
Along the same lines when I met her again after 35 years and we figured we kind of liked each other and maybe might want to go steady, she asked me to be the one to enforce her DNR. I somberly and soberly told her it would be my pleasure. She said she was serious. I said I was too. Later we came up with a complicated set of rules under which circumstances we could die, respectively, and what punishments would ensue if one died outside the rules. I was serious about the DNR.
Heh. I had this weird credit card snafu at this gas station. The whole thing was funny except most of what was funny is at the expense of the panicky manager telling me to remain calm. She was on the phone with the tech guys (the card reader froze after transaction but before signature). She was explaining to the tech guy that the screen was up on the POS. I snorted even though I know what it means in context(point of sale in case you’ve never worked a cash register. The other meaning is much more widely used. Piece of Shit in case you just now got to the planet.). Ever afraid I was going to freak out she asked me what was wrong (she covered the phone, heh, the hearing part not the speaking part). I said something like “Heh, you said POS” in my best beavis/butthead impression. She told me to remain calm.
She also explained how the charge would look on my card, because, you know, I look like I’ve never used a credit card before, and if I had any problems or questions I should call her. My card company sent me an email politely saying WTF? I went to the website. The only two option were to report fraud or dispute a claim. I figured it would be easier to call the credit card company. I mean there was no fraud and I only wanted to dispute the second charge which seemed easier to explain to a person. It was. I told the credit card company the absolute dullest, bare bones, prima facia version of the tale and the lady still laughed. She did promise to call the manager of the gas station on my behalf and then she laughed again.
Sort of made me think; if I could do the math quick enough, buying two separate orders that came to the exact same amount one after the other on the same card … Sure, you’re thinking just get the same thing twice. That’s boring. Not only didn’t the credit card company question my story, they sent an email because it looked like my story exactly.
I was bitching a few entries back about my doctor indirectly accussing me of being a petty stoner theif and I’ll stick with my version here too — if I’m going to pull a scam it’s going to be bigger. Petty my ass or as Tom Petty says, Haredawg my ass. Of course that might be a thing. A sex thing. They have names now, sex things do. When I was coming up we didn’t wear helmets or call our shots, like sex things, of course we called our shots in bar room eight ball, it’s just sloppy not to. Knee pads might have come in handy, but we didn’t use those either.
I might have been thinking worthwhile things too, I don’t recall. Oh, yeah, I distracted myself by suggesting you might be a dog. Well, you might. We’re always thinking shit, all the time. In fact if you tell someone you have insominia because you think too much when you lay down, 9 out of 10 people know exactly what you mean. The other is probably a dog, he’d know what you meant too if you spoke dog. I’m not suggesting you can’t tell the difference between people and dogs. I was sort of suggesting you could by sniffing their ass.
That’s two paragraphs in a row where ass is a significant subject. I must be done.
Loading comments...