Early Onset of Night

Oh dark mother, long has it been since I suckled upon your delicious teat.

So I have begun the process of becoming a Shriner. It’s the least I can do. Beginning at birth and continuing on through my 18th birthday, the Shriners paid for ever single bit of medical care I required—which was considerable. Like, well over a million dollars considerable.

I always donated change and stuff to them and also to the Ronald McDonald House organization, which provided free lodging to my family when I was busy getting surgeries.

Now that I am standing here, alive, in the very middle of my life, I have decided to become one.

They are definitely NOT disciples of Satan, but I thought this was an amusing picture. They do, however, wear funny hats.

According to their mission statement, the Shriners strive to provide the highest quality care to children with neuromusculoskeletal conditions, burn injuries and other special healthcare needs within a compassionate, family-centered and collaborative care environment. They also provide for the education of physicians and other healthcare professionals, as well as conduct research to discover new knowledge that improves the quality of care and quality of life of children and families. This mission is carried out without regard to race, color, creed, sex or sect, disability, national origin or ability of a patient or family to pay.

See? Not Satan disciple-like at all. In fact, it strikes me as a very Jesus-like thing to do. This guy in the picture probably thinks he’s a Christian. Pretty funny, huh?

There are monarch butterflies in my yard today. Like, dozens of them. I was sitting out there watching them and smoking a pipe, kind of like a grandpa. I didn’t have my shotgun across my lap, but I probably should have. I could’ve told those damn kids to get off my lawn, provided, of course, that some damn kids came along and got on it. Which, of course, none did.

The monarchs seem to be feasting on all the dandelions, so that means I’m not cutting them down ever. “It’s monarch butterfly food,” I’ll explain to my landlord if he happens to bitch at me.

So I was watching them and watching them, feeling good. Perhaps a stitch hungover. Drinking tea. It occurred to me to me to try and take a picture of one, so I got my camera, set it on macro, and ruined the next hour by crawling around in the grass on my hands and knees. I took between 180,000 and 240,000 pictures, each and every one absolute blurry shit. Twice I filled my memory card. I griped and swore, and then realized how stupid the whole project was. “Fuck this,” I said. “I’m going back to sitting in my chair and drinking tea. My life was far more enjoyable then.”

I snapped one more picture and then went and sat down. Lo and behold, it turned out half-decent.

Fuck yeah. This is Steve, I decided. Say hello.

My cat has officially stopped drinking water from her water dish.

It’s a little silver bowl and it sits in the kitchen next to her food bowl. This is a very standard set-up and is repeated in cat-having homes throughout the cosmos.

I explained this to her, but she is unmoving. She wants to drink from the blue coffee cup on the coffee table. Why? Because fuck you, that’s why. Actually, it’s because she is human.

All along, I was mistaken.

If I put water in her little silver bowl, but none in the blue coffee cup, she will die of thirst. The water in the little silver bowl will turn stagnant. Mosquitoes will sprout from it. Meanwhile, my cat, dying on the carpet, will see mirages of the blue coffee cup in the distance.

So the little silver bowl has been retired. I kicked the damn thing over at least once a day anyway.

I’ll let you know if she decides to start using a knife and fork.

Truthful Tuesday, Visual Edition

This is Sylvan Lake, where I grew up. Well, a few miles south of it. I climbed those rocks, basically all of them. I jumped from them into the water. I had sex in that parking lot with a girl who worked on the housekeeping staff of that large structure. Her name was Jennifer and she was from Mankato, Minnesota. She wore glasses and was very cute. About an inch to the right of the picture is a highway going south into town. I was pulled over by a Pine Pig (forrest ranger in SoDak vernacular) who smelled pot when I rolled down my window. This was because a second before he pulled me over, I was smoking a joint. He called in the county cops on his fancy radio contraption, and I was busted for POSSESSION OF MARIJUANA, LESS THAN AN OUNCE. It resulted in a $180 fine. That was almost 20 years ago and I still haven’t paid it. This lake is man-made. Its construction was ordered by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Thanks for the memories, Frank.

(Source: early-onset-of-night)

Tried some new tea. Organic bancha. Very yummy stuff.

I ran out of my usual hoity-toity, tea-snob tea that I buy directly from Japan and had to get some down at the food co-op.

Running out of tea is not an option for me. I would scream continuously. I am a hardcore tea junky and have not spent more than a day without it in almost ten years.

I knew about bancha, but, like the snob I am, rejected it. Bancha means course or rugged tea in Japanese. It is harvested later on, in summer or fall, thus it has bigger leaves. It even has some twigs in it. In Japan, I guess, it is common, everyday stuff.

It’s cheap as hell for imported Japanese tea, too. $16.85 for a pound down at the co-op. I got a few ounces to get me through, hoping it didn’t taste like dirt.

I was shocked at how good it was. Also, a little mad that I had been taking it up the poop chute for so long.

“I could’ve been drinking this the whole time! There could be a Corvette out in my driveway!”

Two enthusiastic thumbs up.

A very strange bar. This fellow is what you look at while you pee (if you’re a guy). The cord goes to a button, which, if you push it, your picture is supposed to be taken—as per the little note written on the paper towel dispenser. As far as I could tell it didn’t work. Every time I peed (which was a lot), I pushed the damn button.

Nothing.

I realize now as I sit here buzzed and typing that my wiener is probably on some hidden camera voyeur site. There’s a porn for everything, you know. Boob smashing? Yep. Exercise ball fetish? Got it. Droopy drunken dongs in gritty small town bar bathrooms? That’ll be me. Keep your eyes peeled for the Snoopy boxers.

Anyway, I became frustrated at the apparent lack of picture taking and took one of my own. Then I posted it on Tumblr because it’s 20 fucking 12 and that’s how we roll.

“I had no idea Thomas Jefferson was this tall.”

Last night, I went out and saw Jim Gaffigan perform. He was funny. I hadn’t heard any of his new material, so it was a bit of a risk. In fact, I didn’t even know if it was going to be new material. It could have been like the Ron White Incident of a few years ago. But Jim was funny, hilarious even.

My jaw still hurts from laughing.

The above is a photograph Jim took while he was at Mt. Rushmore yesterday before the show. The caption is funny because that’s George Washington. As you can see, it’s copyrighted by Jim, so don’t steal it like I did. Go to his Facebook page to see more photos of Jim and his family in my neck of the woods—which he made fun of brilliantly, I might add.

Speaking of image theft, at the show last night the announcer told us to shut off our electronic devices and to not take pictures or attempt to record the show. It was simple enough. Even I could follow such instructions with only a handful of clarifying questions. One person, however, right down in front, snapped a picture of Jim while he was on stage. The flash was enormous, very obnoxious, and the person was RIGHT THERE in front of Jim. Not wise. Security escorted them out to much laughter.

Forty bucks down the drain.

After the show, I and my companions were going to meet up with some other people to drink and have some fun. Well over half of Jim’s show, however, was about food, and when it let out we were starving. We ended up at Taco John’s and I ate a bunch of bean burritos. There was nothing I could do after that but go home to bed. I was groaning and moving like a pregnant woman in her 10th month. Partying down was out of the question.

Right now, it is shortly after three in the morning local time. I have been up the past hour experiencing vicious stomach cramps and frequent diarrhea. In between trips to the bathroom, I stopped here at the computer and wrote this. I wanted to clue you guys in and to let you know that we all get what we pay for.

(Source: early-onset-of-night)

Here I am in my backyard. Hello! Wait a minute…is that a UFO?

I wish.

Jesus H. Christ it’s beautiful out. I love not having a real job, though I am going to job service today so I can find something that’ll get me out of the house. Another option is joining a bowling league. I wish other people played croquet around here. Hey, you guys should come over and play croquet with me. I play English rules, not American. Fucking fun. I’ll even let you use my mallet.

*insert Beavis and Butthead laughter*

Cleaning out a drawer this morning, I found a pot seed. Who the hell knows when I last had pot in my possession. I spend all my time worshipping the shit out of God, so am too busy to be a stoner. I think last summer my brother in law gifted me a bud. That was probably the last time the Dark Lord had a grip on my pristine heart.

‘Scuse me while I polish my halo.

For the hell of it, I have decided to sprout it and grow it up tall. Then I will sell it and make a fortune. If you see a Ferrari out in my driveway, you’ll know why. Currently blasting Steve Earl’s “Copperhead Road” to get in the mood. Now where’s my potting soil?