Did you see the title of the post up there?
If you didn’t, I would like to let you know that the title of this post is I Like You, I Really Do and no, that doesn’t refer to the collective “you” but it actually refers to the singular “you” — meaning that if you are reading this post right now and you are digesting the words contained herein, that you should know that it is you, not them who I really like.
I do. I really do.
If you were to line up the list of activities at your (future) funeral against the list of activities at my (future) funeral, it would be obvious to the rest of the world that your funeral will so suck more than mine.
This primarily has to do with you going the “safe route” once again, even after you’ve died. You and the flowers and the open casket and the soft lilting music and the somber, sad speeches. It’s like one big yawn in one big room in one big moment.
But my funeral? Kick ass.
I can’t hear you, drugstore standing homeless fundraiser guy.
I can see you, sure, standing there with your little bell in your fancy white suit with a little pail that people can throw change into for your “supposed” homeless shelter fundraising event. You stand there, in front of my drugstore, every single day of every single week of every single month — and although I may be able to see you, I am a pro at pretending that I definitely cannot hear you.
I mean, don’t the people at the fundraising home base ever call you up and say, “Dude, you’ve been out there every day for the last year. Why don’t you come back to the office and do some real fundraising work.”
drugstore cowboy | drug, stor ‘kou, boi | noun 1 a man, typically one who herds and tends products sold in a drugstore, esp. in western U.S. chain stores like Rite Aid and as represented in Sunday paper fold-outs and novels.
If only the drugstore cowboy was real.
Maybe then there’d be a real-world solution to finding products in hastily organized chain drugstores where things like toothpaste are stored next to powerbars and where the toy aisle represents a really bad garage sale. Maybe then there’d be a way to rope up those products you needed withing ten minutes versus the forty-three minutes it normally takes to find Q-tips. Maybe then, the rock’em sock’em lawlessness of the old West would come in handy, allowing hired hands to assist you in finding the three-ring binder that’s shelved in the personal diaretic aisle.
May 4, 1973: At the age of two, while my brain’s pathways are still forming I stun and amaze my extended family at an outdoor barbecue as I flip, season and marinate a selection of meats and poultry. The barbecue is a huge success and my two-year old brain learns the true meaning of the word “seasoned.”
February 22, 1975: At the age of four, I assist the current government administration in formulating a game plan in handling the horrific energy crisis — my suggestion of starting daylight saving time nearly two months early is met with widespread appeal and turns out to be the best idea of my relatively short-life span thus far.