Oh, weekends. Why do we love them so? Is it the mere fact that the typical work week is over and we’re free to do as we like? Or is it more than that? Maybe we’re just addicted to the chemical reactions caused by knowing that we’ll have a couple of days off soon. Days off that don’t have any rules or obligations (if you’re a desperate loner-type like me), thus giving us a greater sense of freedom.
In all honesty, I think my favorite thing about the weekends is being able to sleep as much as I want. Don’t underestimate how much I value and enjoy sleep. It starts with my super-comfy bed (hi, ladies), but it’s also one of the few things at which I’m truly great. If it makes me a hypocrite to write this every week, telling you all about the fun things to go do while I sit at home watching bad television or sleeping, then so be it. I guess that means that I was also being hypocritical that time I told you that I banged your mom, because I hadn’t. UNTIL JUST NOW! Ka-doosh.
First off: No, it’s not in OKC. Third, yes, it’s the best festival our humble, backwards little state has. I really enjoyed the Norman Music Festival, but it’s not on the scale of DFEST. I’d like to see the Black Crowes and Cake the rest of the zillion great bands, but I won’t. Because I’m not going. For those of you who haven’t had the accidental pleasure of seeing me in person, I’m a very pasty, tender shade of pale. Because of this super-sexy condition I tend to avoid the summer outdoor music festivals. I would fall down and die of sunburn to become a rock and roll statistic, and that’s one of the ways that’s on the list to NOT do. DFEST will totally be worth the drive if you decide to do it. But if you do, you should probably leave right now. There’s a ton of stuff going on, and you don’t want to miss it. Take some sunscreen. Take some water. Take some pills. It’ll be a gas, man. A hot, stinky, $7-bottled-water gas!
Well, I’ll be a fiddle’s tittie: It’s national cowboy day! I mean, National Day of the American Cowboy. That really rolls off the tongue. What the hell is wrong with “Cowboy Day”? It’s even what they used for their URL! It could be that it sounds like that thing they tried every third Thursday at that shitty office you used to work in at your last job. But you’re cool with everybody now, even though you work farther from home and make less money. I mean, sure; you could go back to school and get a damn degree so the dickholes at OCCC would even talk to you about a sweet ass adjunct gig, or you could just keep slowly killing yourself in your cubicle, day after day. Guess which one’s easier. Oh, um…go cowboys. I guess. I need a drink. brb.
I know it may reveal a lack of culture on my part, but I don’t really know anything about this play. In spite of that, I’ll go ahead and re-create it for you with what I can only assume will be outright lies. Here we go:
Joseph is a good-hearted kid from the streets. The mean streets. The kind of streets that anesthetize you in your sleep just to see you in helpless sexual submission. The kind of streets you’ve only read about. One day as Joseph was walking home from the school where he went sometimes, he heard the sound of a girl screaming, and it wasn’t far away. “Help! Help!”, she cried. As Joseph raced to her aid, he realized she was being attacked by what looked like a large, psychedelic quilt. To his amazement, it was a coat. A dreamcoat, to be proper.
As Joseph neared the scene, the jacket became aware of him and began to scurry off into the afternoon sun. Joseph ran as fast as he could and almost fell twice, but he tracked it down. With a thousand thoughts racing through his mind and finally, at once, coalescing into the truth of the situation, Joseph began to weep. His emotion palpable; his remorse instantaneous. For he realized that it was him. It was him all along, straddling this poor woman; Beating her to death while wearing his favorite technicolor dreamcoat. But it was no dream. It was Joseph’s nightmare. He was a killer. As he stood up to leave, knowing he would kill again, Joseph removed the coat, screaming, “You did this! It was all because of you!” But just then, a pack of stray dogs ran up and ate Joseph, leaving the coat to wrinkle on the ground. I think there were some songs too. The f**king end!
So, the good news is that minimum wage is rocketing up to an almost-livable $7.25/hr. The bad news is that somehow, people will find a way to complain. Oh, it’ll cost some businesses a little more, but guess what. It will also go just a little bit farther to get that kid at Carl’s Jr. to stop rubbing your chicken breast on his taint every time you drive-through. That’s worth a bit of an investment, isn’t it? Personally, I prefer the sandwich that way. I believe it’s called the “Southwest Chickentaint Spunkwich”, and it’s a revelation. Not for the culinary noob, however. Go money!
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