[WARNING: Adult language, themes, and childish thoughts – a bad combination. Read at risk to your mental health.]
The big monkey pays a visit
Life disguised as King Kong took its giant monkey hand, paw, whatever it’s called because I’m too lazy to Google it, and picked me up by my ankles and dipped me headfirst into a gas-station toilet. Then it slapped me to the ground like a wet fish and called it a head cold.
I have a bad case of mascot head, big and stuffy. My chest is congested, too. It’s not looking good for staying out of jail. I should know better than to go to the mall in March without a space suit – and one for my daughter, too. The term for “Mall” in my language is “Casa de Virus.”
Read the instructions on the soup can and follow them
Soups don't burn people, people do
I read the instructions to cover the soup bowl and let it sit for a minute before removing it from the microwave. But I didn’t let it sit or stay covered – hence the accurate title of this blog post. Instead I pulled it out and peeled away the plastic covering.
The escaping steam burned my middle finger, bad. Bad enough to override my mental ability to turn pain into pleasure, which makes me sound like I’m calling 900-numbers nightly to speak to dominatrices. It’s not nightly, just once a week, but even this level of pain overrides my amazing ability to withstand pain, which was honed by dozens of hospital visits and the hospital workers who think smoking crack and showing up to work is a good idea.
And, if Lizippy’s brilliant theory of “Google-search-word pervs” is true, I should get some new readers with this post. Welcome, slaves. Now sit down and shut up and beg for your beating.
“Leather-whip to the ass” fans aside, I will be borrowing my wife’s Vicodin, another key search word, so I can once again flip off Walmart when I drive by it. My thanks for selling me $5 rubber-hard pillows that make my head bounce up and down when I’m sleeping. Or, is it my rubber neck? Hmm, I did look at the accident on the freeway the other day.
Making a correct decision doesn’t mean a warm fuzzy feeling in return.
Yes, I made the correct decision not to go to Jersey yesterday. Still, today I stayed away from the knife drawer and was thankful California has a waiting period for handguns. Not a good day. The work team is in NJ and I’m not. Once again CF isolates me from the clan . . . of the cavebear – (more disappointed Googlers). CF has a way of doing that – for my entire life. I’ve always felt apart from others, someone who doesn’t belong, a purple sheep.
So, between my cold getting worse and not being able to travel, I’ve done a fantastic job of feeling sorry for myself today. I want a gold star and a meaty rib from the Woolly Mammoth we killed together, as a work team. We worked together to kill it. Go, Team Cavebear.
Guys, why am I by myself? Hello? Anyone? This cough isn’t contagious, you stupid fucks. Come back here.
Scare the people who knock on your door – if they’re not kids selling cookies or chocolate bars
Someone came to my door today selling steaks. Steaks? Are you f’ing kidding me? Who thinks of something like that? I know who – the guy who passes out on the couch with his hand in the front of his jockeys after drinking the entire 12-pack of Schlitz. Yes, my dad.
A dim Christmas bulb blinks while he’s sleeping it off, and he dreams: “I can sell steaks. I can sell steaks door to door. I’m a fucking genius. No one sells steaks door to door. I’ll be rich just like the person who glued sleeves on a blanket.” No, you won’t, Dad, because they sewed the sleeves on. My apologies to those Googling “selling steaks door to door,” but not to my dad.
The next time someone comes to my door selling shiate I don’t need, I’m going to put on my McDonald’s bag, or better yet, wear a bandanna, western bank-robber style. I’ll say in my happiest of voices, “I have highly contagious TB,” and ask them to feel my forehead to see if I have a fever, just like my mommy did. I’ll ask them if they’d like a whip to the ass, too.
Then I’ll call Mistress Honey with the news that some salesman who looked like my father dropped a box of $2 llama steaks on my porch. She’ll be angry because I’ve been bad again. Yes, I have.
The Unknown Cystic 
Funny you should mention Llamas. I am thinking about a Llama project. I have some land that is old family land. Problem is, I am not allowed to build on it as it is agricultural land. There is a very old english law that states you can construct a small dwelling to tend your animals if they need constant attention. llama farming seems to fit the bill perfectly. You can dispose of the llama corpses once I have exploited them. I am veggie so its not possible for me to off them – but I can lend you a steak knife to do the deed. Think on, it could be a match made in heaven. I think you will need to travel to the UK by boat however – could be a long trip.
Matt of Tor-kee-shire,
It’s very cool you have that land. I’m jealous. Is that where some of your pictures come from? Someone needs to change the law so you can build GC II on it.
Clearly, you have mistaken me for the person who kills the llamas. I only eat the steaks. And, yes, I will have to travel by car, boat and train to reach you.
Appreciate the funny comment. Glad you don’t have a blog. All 12 of my readers would jump ship to yours, DieLlamaDie.com.
UC
UC, this post was terribly disturbing, in a hurts so good kind of way. Really disturbing, but REALLY well written- it kinda got to me. For the first time, I’m speechless…
…but not for long:
Keep feeling sorry for yourself- Mistress Honey will whip it right out of you.
Oh, and the most recent search term that stares at me with yellow eyes every time I log in to wp, that makes me want to run and hide: “she begs for anal”. This because I wrote a post describing my adorable puppy and her recent stay with the vet. Poor schmuck that searched for that and found himself knee deep in CF and poetry. And I know it was a “he”- it always is.
Lizi Lizi,
First, you clever one, thanks for sending the poor schmuck to my site. Clearly, payback for the words I posted in my comment on your blog. Well played indeed. I do remember the post and your frank discussion of her procedures, which if she ever learns to read will piss her off to no end. Your days of puppy kisses will be over.
I know one day you’ll leave my blog and I’ll miss you and your frank, wild comments. I can’t address the “disturbed” part of your comment because that would mean digging deep in places I don’t want to go, but am aware of, kind of. And, BTW, I don’t call 900 numbers. That was a joke. I just feel like it should be known. I’ll add that to today’s post. Though, in a way, I wish I did. I should probably talk to someone and maybe some of them have a degree in psychology and could help me. The whipping would be a bonus. There I go again down that disturbed path. There is no end to my madness.
You’re wonderful. That’s it. Tell S to get you a new pair of Jimmy Choo shoes.
UC
Both the post and the previous comment are on that fine line between disturbing and hilarious. And thus, I love you. McRib it up. You’re more of a lion than a caveman. Somebody else better catch and kill the shit for you!
p.s. my top search term leading randoms to my blog is always “cf and boobs.” so there.
B CG Dog,
Lion? Hmm, interesting. Then I could hunt my own food. Oops, male lion. I just sit around all day and sleep. At night I fight for my ladies. I can dig it. The food and love come to me. Kind of the way I live now, except when I have to hunt for my own food at the Casa de Virus, which I’m paying a big price for right now.
I type in that search term all the time for your site. It never disappoints and makes me smile, as do you.
UC
Sorry you didn’t get to go to NJ. And by the way, I don’t know what they say about NJ either. And extra sorry that yet again CF has made you feel like the purple sheep. I know Chris has expressed the same emotion many, many, many times to me over the years. As if the disease hasn’t stolen enough, it continues to steal your ability to just plain fit in. Sorry bro. I know that doesn’t mean much.
Sending good thoughts your way, as always, that you will stay home and out of the slammer.
hugs,
liz
CF wife
Liz,
It’s cool Chris understands the meaning of Purple Sheep. I am not alone. This disease may be invisible at times, but at other times it makes us stand out for all the wrong reasons.
Everything you say means a lot to me. I always appreciate your thoughts and good wishes.
My best wishes to you and Chris.
UC