Working Blue in a Mazda Protege

A poem from an uninflated airbed

Shifting, replaced
Everything will change.
I toss in my sheet
to the snores of Tim(e)


Many things to report about (if I am able, my mind is as murky as South Philly diner coffee):

• Bachelor Throwdown - Of note, for my memory banks: some people think that a Pabst Blue Ribbon escorted by a shot glass of whiskey-ish liquid is a great conduit to funkytown; nothing less sexy than a girl turning 21 who really wants to get laid; Pabst Blue Ribbon sucks; paintballs whizzing by your head as you lay in cold muck is a good time until someone takes aim at your left ass cheek...scratch that, still fun; take a look at the bachelor-to-be featured in the photo to your right...see where his fingers are...what's up with that dude in the background? I don't know him or his career aspirations, but I definitely know that there would be mutual hatred, especially if we were on the same crew of a seafaring vessel. He would totally shirk his duties for rousing matches of shuffleboard with Dead-Eye Juan the toothless third mate; had a great time with everyone...good group of young up-and-comers. Best wishes to the groom.
• Racism - A quick note to the waitress who worked at the Iron Pig or whatever pub we ate at in Philly, but I'm sorry miss, I don't know what I did to offend you (though several theories offered up involved the Vietnam War and Pokemon), but it is not excusable for my finished plate to sit on the table while everyone else has a cleared spot, especially since I finished first, and it should never take 3 order attempts to attain a glass of Yuengling. The white brethren that broke bread with me did not have similar issues with the hired help. A pox on you, and pikachu...wench.
• Gambling - I'm sorry, but I feel like a cad for winning 11 dollars at the poker tables vs. 300 at slots.
  
• Quitting - I'm approaching a decade of defiling my lungs...so, starting today, I'm quitting. Sorry, Phillip Morris, I think I'm gonna have to pass up, and not away, on your product. Why, you may ask?

1. I'm tired of smelling like the way Nick Nolte looked in his delicious mugshot.
2. Four dollars for 20 sticks: 9.75 at Atlantic City. I'll be able to afford the future artificial lungs if I start saving now.
3. I hear everything tastes and smells better when you have a functioning respiratory system.
4. I want to run through a field of daisies without gagging on a tar wad.
5. I want to be able to run...as well as climb stairs, walk up a hill, come down a mountain, play basketball, swim, etc without passing out.
6. I don't want to be so dependent on carbon monoxide to help me deal with my oral fixation. Lollipops will suffice, and they taste so heavenly!
7. No more upholstery burns.
8. Legitimate disregard for requests from bummers on the street (buy your own packs, you good for nothing, so-and-so's, I curse your names).
9. The ability to enjoy trans-continental flights without ranting about the damned lungs of fellow passengers (though how hard could it really be to have a filtration system in a compartment somewhere on the plane? Just a small cubicle with a freaking fan for the smoking impaired! Come on, United, nicotine withdrawal isn't the way to fly the friendly skies.).
10. All those precious minutes that I won't be puffing away...meaning I get to possible enjoy all the wonderful minutiae of the elderly years. Hooray incontinence.
11. Won't have to wash so frequently (look out, semi-monthly showers)
12. I'll hate smoke, thus reducing appearances at bars and other smoking establishments, meaning my liver will have a chance to recover from PBR and whiskey "value meals."
    
13. The ability to judge smokers as "weak" and "disgusting," which will allow me to feel good about myself, cause I'm so darned awesome.
14. I'll feel healthy for the first time in about a decade.

• Weight-Loss - Alright, I'm on a real diet, which is going to make me doubly irritable. The foodie in me laments with pearly tears for all the flavor that I'm going to be absent from the palate. However, enough is enough. Tonight, the scale (making a triumphant return to guilt me into serious action) tipped out at 210, which is the most I have ever weighed. That means, in the last year, I've gained 20 pounds. So, until I can bend over again without a pain in the gut, enough with lousy food and immobility. I will be healthy again, darn it, unless I face-plant while jogging, then I'll just be a handsome, overweight corpse. Think fondly of me, America.

Well, that's that, mattress man. I've got to rest for them. They are our future.

In Christopher Walken's name...