Shits aplenty! You say you didn’t expect tonight’s conversation to begin with vulgarity, never mind pluralized vulgarity, nor did you think I’d break our four-day silence? Well, you presupposed incorrectly, because not only are we having a discussion right now, we are also going to forge a resolution this very evening.
Ideally I would resolve to dialogue with you five days a week, Mondays through Fridays, in a glorious transposition of the grind to the blogging world. The probability of this, if I may borrow the parlance of our pirate forefathers, is har har. A much more attainable goal, at least in the short term, is the decreased usage of expletives.
Our conversations have increasingly become pit stops for four-lettered words, an Ellis Island of filthy vowels and consonants. Now, I don’t pretend we discuss for children or Sunday school bake sales, but there is a strain of verbal morality tugging at the heartstrings. I have no doubt it will shrivel and die, such is the nature of vestigial structures, and I’m referring here to my heart. For now, though, it must be heeded–the resolution begins tonight. It will end, as you can well imagine, when I rediscover my decommissioned cache of fuckbombs.
Burn of the month:
“Let me know when you’re done conjugating ‘ain’t.'”
I thought it was stolen from some screenplay, but Google’s silence just goes tssssss.
Stir-craziness is best cured, in my accredited physician’s opinion, by liberal amounts of crazed stirring. Certainly this solution can’t be applied to all ailments, although I suppose you could relieve something like alcoholism with lots and lots of alcohol. Do you see now why no medical school, let alone general chemistry class, could contain such revolution?
If you were stir-crazy tonight and asked for my prescription, I would recommend you go for a run. If you were stir-crazy in Chicago, however, the night before four solid days of snow, your jog could very well intersect with hypothermia at that glorious point known as “frozen dead in a dirt hole somewhere.” Let me know if you have trouble imagining the coordinate. I know this guy who knows this cartographer who’s pretty good.
The answer, then, is to drive, at least until it gets warmer. Tonight was the first time I took the Saab for an evening ride, and let me tell you: it was a qualified pleasure. European cars, if the 9-3 is at all representative, just handle differently. They operate as quietly as Japanese models, but they claim a unique fellowship with the pavement. There’s real contact. You feel flush with the ground, without the aid of anything remotely rhyming with “a spoiler.” I’m enamored. Can you tell?