so, what's your fucking deal, mr nice guy? you go begging for comments. you get a shit-ton of love from your
insane loyal readers. then you disappear again. seriously. what's your problem?
i know, i know. sorry. i have no excuse. actually that's not entirely true: i have excuses. i have two kids and a busy job. so blogging is sometimes sporadic.
cry me a fucking river, asshole. you think you're the only person who has a life around here? hey, look. that's not --
no seriously. give us some news. tell us something. make it funny, too.
um. ok. mrs nice guy and i celebrated our six year anniversary last week! that was exciting (i actually accidentally typed "sux year anniversary" but spellcheck caught it. hahah -- Freud much?!) six years of marital bliss and blisters. we've actually been a bona fide couple for -- well, it'll be ten years in november. a decade! ten years with one woman, who happens to be the smartest and prettiest (almost typed "pettiest" oops!) woman on earth. and merciful. who else could put up with me? do you have any idea what 10 years looks like? if we had a baby the year we got together, she'd almost be 10 now!
wow, your powers of illustration are staggering.
look, i'm tired. beat. this new baby is toying with my sanity a little. she's ridiculously cute and totally growing on me. but she still hasn't smiled and i fear that she's brainwashed my wife (of six years -- did i mention that?). i'm officially the least interesting person in the house now. and this kid doesn't even smile. well, she doesn't smile for me. she apparently smiles for my wife. when i'm not looking. me? she makes me sweat my balls off dancing around like a retarded monkey and all i get in return is a smirk.
anyway, your anniversary.
oh, yeah. it was rad. we got a babysitter and went out to dinner! first outing alone since the newbie was born. it was lovely. went to a little french restaurant we've been meaning to try.
that's it? last year you surprise her with a weekend away; this year you take her to dinner? not even a movie? is your seven year itch coming 365 days early or something?
actually, since we've almost been together for 10 years, mrs nice guy points out that my seven year itch was due about three years ago. i missed my window of opportunity, she says. i'm such a loser i can't even properly scratch my own itches.
oh, really funny. so you're cheap AND a failed scumbag?
cheap? what? look -- ok, we're on a bit of a budget at the moment. know why? we had to have our roof repaired. whole roof. it needed to come off and be replaced. when the guys came to start taking it off, they were stunned by what they found. apparently the previous roof had been made of newspaper, rubber bands, broken dreams, crushed fairy wings and Jimmy Hoffa. here is an actual quote from one of our roofers: "it's like an abortion the way they did that roof. i keep waiting for one of my guys to fall through ... hahahaha." yeah, hahaha. really fucking funny -- you know what happened about two hours after he said that? one of his guys fell through. we're damn lucky he didn't come crashing through our ceiling. less lucky: the final bill was nearly double the estimate -- and these guys were totally not jerking us around. so. sorry if i've had other things on my mind.
"tear the roof off the sucka, tear the roof off the mothersucka! tear the roof off the sucka! "
right. only imagine that song being less about giving up "the funk" and more about giving up "your life savings." worse: we also need a new cornice. and window sills. and a paint job.
yeah, no kidding. god i need some scotch. like, all the time.
so, you big baby. now at least you've gotten around to updating your blog. only it appears that you're having a dialogue with yourself.
tell me about it. hey it's not like i haven't been writing. want to read some of the stuff i've been doing for work lately? not especially. i figure i might as well start linking to it here. if you don't want to read it, you certainly don't have to. this was in the past week alone. so forgive me for not getting all publicly navel-gazey. bills to pay, etc.
you're a whore.
really? you think?
you're a whore and you're conducting a conversation with yourself on your pathetic daddy blog. a daddy blog, i'd like to add, on which you beg for comments and talk about your love of whisky, not liking your own baby and scratching your seven year itch.
what! no! i ... rather, it's just that ... i mean. ah, fuck it. you're right.
of course i'm right! now, pass me the bottle.
*sigh* here you go.
thanks. you're still talking to yourself, you know.
yeah, i know.