It's 10:58pm Friday night. Blogger just ate my post. I'd be angry, but the post sucked. Honestly, it really sucked. You should thank Blogger. I should thank Blogger. Blogger... wait, wasn't I calling them Blooger? Blooger, thank you for eating my wet smelly wino-ass of a post.
What was it about? The usual. Man vs himself in his daily struggle to out-stupid the rest of the world. Himself vs Man, where his brain violently seizes control and causes Man to swallow his own tongue in order to prevent him from saying something incredibly bad.
Let me set the scene. It's November the 26th and the United States is celebrating Thanksgiving. Due to this national holiday the rest of the world is screwed out of the usual Thursday night line up of prime time. More importantly, Captain Dumbass is without the weekly high-jinx of Seattle Grace Hospital (Grey's Anatomy) and the time traveling kookiness of the 125 Precinct (Life on Mars). How can I go a week without Denny and Izzy? And speaking of Denny, he's dead, why can't he get rid of the stubble? Yes, sure, it's sexy and all, but that stuff is like a course grit sand paper, would he really be seeing any action without being sent to the bathroom with a razor first? I sure as hell wouldn't. But then, it's all just Izzy's brain tumour talking, right? Or Meredith is still in a coma and has dreamt the last two seasons. Or it's all just the dream of an autistic child. Wait, wrong show. I may have inadvertently stole the coma bit from Blissfully Caffeinated. You call it plagiarism, I call it flattery.
Where was I? Right. So Supreme Leader comes home from work sick and totally messes up my usual routine of letting the Wii babysit the kids while I park my ass in front of the computer all day. I am promptly sent off to buy groceries and rent a couple of movies. Fast forward six hours and SL is struggling to open the DVD box and can't do it. Twelve year old at the rental place forgot to take off the security tags so it won't open. I take it back and they giggle and remove the tags. I suggest that it might be nice if they give me an extra day since by now I've spent enough gas to have bought the freakin movies. While they're taking care of this my attention is drawn (moth to the flame) to the GIGANTICORE flat screen TV the store has put in above the sales desk. I'm about to comment on how I'd give a testicle to have that TV when my brain interrupts to advise that while the male clerk might find it amusing and totally agree, the two female clerks at the desk might not. Agreeing, I'm about to exchange "testicle" with "fingers" when my brain actually took control of my vocal cords and made me shut up. One of the girls, whom I've seen in there a million times, has something wrong with her hands and only has partial fingers.
Dear Brain, thank you for taking in this important detail and saving me from having to chew off my own tongue.
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