VERY LITTLE OF INTEREST
Man, I really am doing a terrible job posting things on this blog lately. And I can’t even say it’s because it’s summertime and it’s nice out and I’m spending more time outside basking in the sunshine and smiling at ponds. It hasn’t been very nice outside, and even if it was I wouldn’t spend much time there. People tend to talk to you outside. It’s horrifying.
Currently my wife is on the bed watching “House” and I am trying to think of stuff to do. I can’t seem to want to care much about this House guy. Why don’t they just call it “The Dink Whose Leg Doesn’t Work Too Good”? At all times either something gross is happening or House is hurting someone’s feelings. I can’t handle it. Here, I’m going to write you a House episode:
SICK PERSON: House, help, I’m sick.
HOUSE: Okay, I’ll tell you why you’re sick but I’m going to talk way too fast for you to keep up and when I’m done I’m going to call you stupid or make verbal mention of a physical flaw that you’re obviously sensitive about.
SICK PERSON: Okay, that sounds good. I think I’ll sit here and silently take the abuse.
HOUSE: People like watching me on TV because they don’t really like anyone and they wish they could go around all day telling people they’re ugly and stupid.
SICK PERSON: Despite your in no way satisfactory bedside manner, I respect your opinions and postulate that you are a good man at heart.
HOUSE: By way of response I’m going to say something even meaner than what I said before, but with less wit behind it, then I plan on briskly limping away and thinking about how I desperately want to make meaningful contact with people, yet cannot while imprisoned in a world of such sadness and depravity.
SICK PERSON: I’ll be played by someone else next week.
That’s some pretty slick scriptwriting, considering I’ve seen perhaps 1/4 of an episode. Hey, I don’t know, it’s probably a fine show, and I used to like Hugh Laurie back when he was British. It just seems like they took Dr. Cox, added a little Becker to make him less funny, kneecapped him with a baseball bat, and gave him a show. Again, I’m basing this on almost no exposure to the show, so by all means disregard everything I’m saying.
Let’s see, what are some things that I have done? I’ve eaten a lot of hard candy. I excitedly bought a bag of “Hostess Mix” at Hannaford. Every now and then I like to eat a whole bunch of candy that an old woman would give you as a disappointing treat. There are a number of different kinds of hard candy in the Hostess Mix. The first one is the butterscotch one. They’re fine, but neither I nor anyone else in the world enjoys them enough to warrant the sheer amount of them included in Hannaford’s Hostess Mix. The next most-represented candy in the Hostess Mix is arguably the red cinnamon one, which is like a flattened hot ball and hurts to eat for a couple seconds. So it’s pretty much like biting your tongue in candy format. Next is the Starlite Mint, which is nice in that it freshens my dead-body-scented breath and makes me think of Christmas besides. After that is a green spearmint version of the Starlite Mint, which is a very refreshing alternative and it would have been nice if the ding-dongs who collated these things had bothered to include more than three of them in the bag I bought. Then there’s another red one which tastes like those old Luden’s cough drops that I used to eat for snacks, and a lemon one, and a lime one, and a grape one. That’s all of them. I crunch them approximately 4 seconds after putting them in my mouth. It hurts my teeth every single time. Occasionally while eating the candies I put the wrappers in a small pile on a nearby surface, then roll them into a ball and chew on them. I’m not sure why I do this, as I don’t really enjoy it. This is a problem I have. Every now and then my wife and I will be lying around reading or something, and I’ll feel my wife’s tender gaze, and I at that point pretty much know that she has noticed that I seem to be chewing on something, yet have brought no food into the bedroom. I then have to sheepishly reveal that, yes, I am eating the blue rubber circle thing that I dug out of the Mountain Dew bottle cap. Now and then I’ll encounter a little piece of plastic something, and it will occur to me that I simply must put it into my mouth. It’s like I don’t even think about it. I hate to think I’ll be walking around at work one of these days wondering why everyone’s staring at me only to find that I’ve spent the past half hour thrusting my keyboard into my mouth in a contended zombielike daze. I remember one time I was riding in a car, and, lacking anything more akin to a lozenge, popped a tiny wadded up gas debit card receipt into my mouth. I only ever did it the once. I learn no lesson faster than the one that tastes like licking a wall. I spat it out the window, which I realize is littering but at the time seemed better than spitting it onto the floor of the car, or at the face of my wife. Anyway, don’t chew receipts. File them securely in a personal accordion file for later perusal.
I cut my fingernails recently, that’s a thing that I did. Cutting my fingernails is a thing that I have never liked about life. I used to cry when my mom would cut my fingernails in youth. Some other things I cried at in youth: beards, a drawing I made of a monster, my dad suggesting that we read the Christmas story before we opened presents, a kid whistling really loud with a blade of grass, a commercial for a Dracula-based board game called “I Vant to Bite Your Finger”, another commercial for a game called “Beware the Spider”, whenever there was technical difficulties on TV (the guy saying “Please stand by” scared me in particular for some reason, and the fact that no one was explaining what was going wrong REALLY terrified me; was Frankenstein involved?), Al Hirschfeld celebrity caricatures, the Paul Bunyan statue in Bangor (I hate no structure in this world more), whenever I received something for Christmas or my birthday that wasn’t a toy (seriously, my relatives might as well have shit in Santa’s skull, wrapped it up in Nazi propaganda and given it to me, tied with a ribbon of a beloved pet’s intestines, as bestow upon me the gift of a garment of any type, whether they knitted it themselves or not), the book “The Monster at the End of this Book”, a friend’s graphic description of the melting faces scene at the end of “Raiders of the Lost Ark” (yet curiously, not the scene itself, which was nowhere near as bad as Chris had made it out to be), a cousin’s graphic description of simply the idea of a person with all their skin ripped off (though in my defense it was way too late at night to be talking about such things), the show “The Incredible Hulk”, my brother breaking wind on my Chinese food (I could be remembering this wrong, but I’m fairly certain it was my birthday), a row of Kermit the Frog dolls puppets with huge gaping mouths at Zayre’s, and the one time someone made me eat squash. I miss crying daily, it always helped. Now I have to wait for moments in movies or TV when formerly estranged family members reunite, or when a normally stoic father subtly expresses genuine pride in his troubled but good-hearted son.
Anyway, my wife has to use the laptop for some damn thing, so I’ll talk to you clowns later.