Thursday, September 24, 2015

Suggestions For My Obituary

A couple of days ago, I took the day off from work because I felt...queasy. Now, noticed I didn't say "sick" because that would imply a lot of gross stuff that actually didn't happen. No, I was just queasy which I think may have been worse. Because I was queasy enough to think, "Oh God, I'm gonna hurl!" But then I never actually did. 

This was frustrating as hell because, as is the case with most people, I get no joy from hugging a toilet, particularly when you realize your head is going in the same space where your ass....or worse yet, someone else's ass...previously took a dump. But when the contents of one's stomach are having a riot, you just want them to get the hell out of the neighborhood. So it's very frustrating when those disruptive stomach contents don't want to leave.  

I realize as I move into paragraph three, I'm writing about acts of the human body I sure as fuck don't want to discuss with anyone or, for that matter, have discussed with me. It is a simple fact of human biology: all humans poop and, at some point, humans will have to throw up. I just don't want to know about it. I don't want to know its happening to you. Hell, I hate that I know it happens to me.   

Anyway, I spent 24 hours feeling like I had to throw up but not actually doing so. Not to say I didn't try. At first, I didn't want to. I was like the 10th Doctor just before he regenerated: "I don't want to go!" But there comes a point when the feeling is, "Oh to hell with it! Go already!" So I gave it the old college try. Although when it comes to throwing up, the old college try is usually preceded by 12 beers and a half bottle of vodka. 

But nothing happened. And I wanted it to. Damn it to hell, I wanted to engage in a good cleansing barf and get this the fuck over with already. 

Instead I just suffered with being queasy which has got to be the most weak kneed wussy thing any man has ever said. Nobody takes queasy seriously. Queasy can mean anything. You ate one chimichanga too many. You downed those whiskey shots too fast. You're worried that the hooker who just gave you a blow job may have been a dude. Then you really get queasy when you realize you don't care. Then that queasy feeling really punches you in the stomach when you're forced to see that your entire life is a lie built on a crumbling foundation of cheap Mexican food, cheap liquor and cheap sex with cross-dressing prostitutes.  

You know, stuff like that. 

But to have people take "queasy" seriously, it's got to be because of something really big: the flu, stomach virus, chemotherapy, standing next to Donald Trump.  

So I lost a day to feeling queasy and I don't know why. I did not feel like hell, just outside the borders of hell, just enough to avoid the pokey sticks but still catching a whiff of the brimstone ambiance. It's times like this when I feel that the worse outcome of however I'm feeling is that it WON'T kill me. 

Speaking of things killing me, how about some re-heated Tweets from over on my Twitter which can be found here: 

A few weeks ago,  was a hashtag trending on Twitter. So I present you with some of my contributions to this topic.  
  1. "Funeral arrangements listed below so you can offer your condolences and/or make sure the bastard's really dead."
  2. "Dave was a kind-hearted person who loved everyone. Except for the following list of assholes." (It's a long list.)
  3. "Dave had a wonderful singing voice as well as a girlish scream of terror when the camels trampled him to death."
  4. the recipe for a chicken cheese bake casserole in case news of my death makes people hungry
  5. "Dave was loved by many, an avid soccer...wait, I'm thinking of Dan, not Dave. Dan was a great guy. Uh, RIP, Dave."
  6. "Dave really liked pie, ironically."

Well, I think I've done enough damage around here today. I'll be back with another post tomorrow. In the meantime, remember to be good to one another and whatever doesn't kill you will try harder next time.  

I'm So Glad My Suffering Amuses You

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