I feel young. Wild. Free.
Look at me, suckahs! I’m flipping off the establishment!
Life
🎵 It’s the least … wonderful tiiime … of the yeeearrr 🎵
Well, the holidays are over, boys and girls, and you know what that means: Time for me to slide into my cryogenic sleep chamber and get all kinds of unconscious for the next few months!
I’m back … and I’m ready to handle it up!
While recently looking at my blog’s incoming-traffic data, I discovered that someone had arrived here through a translation link … which, when clicked on, led me to the Spanish version of my website shown above.
Ever since then, I’ve been wearing a mariachi costume, downing tequila shots and spontaneously shouting “¡Arriba!” at all hours of the day and night. So, you know, same as always. The big difference, however, is that I now am insisting that everyone refer to me as Papà Arañazos. Por favor.
Gracias.
We interrupt this embarrassingly prolonged silence to bring you an actual blog post
“Hello? … Yeah, this is him. … I have a what? … A blog? Oh, shit, that’s right.”
Ahem.
Hey, you guys! How’s it going? Me? No, I didn’t die; I’ve just been trying desperately to make the minimum monthly payments on my Mt. Everest-sized pile of debt … and since my mad website-building skillz currently pay more than my mad blogging skillz, I’ve been focusing as of late on the former endeavor … which explains why I currently am in Boston attending An Event Apart, a conference for people who build websites.
The best part about attending the conference? My employer is paying for it. The second best part about attending the conference? I got to hit last night’s Red Sox game with my Dad.
Why, yes, children, of course we can get a dog … and by “yes” I mean “fuck no.”
Dear My Children:
I’m sorry, but you’re not going to wear me down on this one. Sometimes Daddy has to be a dick. This is one of those times.
Zombie Dinner Party … with your chef, Dr. Hannibal Lector
“Ugh. Brains,” I whispered to my wife after the chef announced that the third course would include sweetbreads.
“What?”
“Sweetbreads,” I whispered, “are brains.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding rather amused, though far from relieved. “I thought they were balls.”
Hey, they might as well have been balls, because guess what brains and balls both have in common? Neither one goes in my mouth.
Mother Nature is a heartless wench who will turn your own children against you
When I was a little boy, and thunder rumbled in the distance, my mother would react as though the approaching storm was an Afghani mortar attack instead of a minor weather event. Because of this, I spent much of my childhood reacting to thunderstorms in a similarly panicked fashion.
When my mother was a little girl, and thunder rumbled in the distance, her parents presumably reacted calmly … until that one time when the electricity went out during a storm, and they sent her to get from her upstairs bedroom something to play with, and she opened the door at the bottom of the staircase, and looked up to see that the second floor was engulfed in flames … because lightning had struck the house.
So she gets a pass.
That trip to Mexico I keep meaning to tell you about, which almost didn’t happen because of my unrivaled ability to be a complete and utter moron
About two hours into our flight from Philadelphia to Cancun, I discovered that I had committed The Biggest Fuck-Up of All Time … like, to the extent that I knew it would be best for my marriage if I just went ahead and threw myself out of the aircraft. Which was a shame, really … because everything had been going so well.