skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Monday, 24 May
He'd kneel in his pew and say, "It's just work, all that matters is work."
I've been thinking lately about work. Mostly about how I don't fucking feel like doing at it any more.
Let's look at this empirically. And by "empirically" I of course mean "ridiculously." I mean, seriously, look at all the words that rhyme with "work." Jerk. Murk. Shirk. Lurk. Clerk. Quirk. Smirk. Do any of these words conjure up positive images for you? Don't even get me started on "glurk," which is not a real word, but I choose to think of as something gutterally spoken aloud when prematurely ejaculating. "GLURK! Oh, no, I've ruined your snap-front blouse!" (My hypotheticals tend to be oddly specific.)
"Work" also rhymes with "perk," which might seem to wreck my premise, but as someone who works in the same building as actual statisticians, I will simply throw it out of the dataset as a weird outlier. Similarly, it too rhymes with "Kirk"--the name of the best man at my wedding--but Kirk is being held at The Hague on charges regarding genocide. It also rhymes with "Turk," and not to malign the good people of Turkey, but it's well known by schoolchildren everywhere that the country was named after a spectacularly dumb bird that frequently drowns in the rain.
So, work. Having comprehensively demonstrated above, it blows dead dogs. Therefore, I suggest we stop doing it. I can cite examples of how this can work. Europeans, for example, do not work. Even the hairiest-pitted ogres stand around all 32-hour week doing nothing but getting head, and then they get nineteen weeks of vacation where thy get head all the time at the beach. (See figure 12.*) By contrast, the Japanese work like they are all under the lash, and what do they get out of the bargain? Tentacle porn and noodles. See what work gets you? No blowjobs but lots of natto. Does this sound like a good deal?
Join with me and chant mindlessly! NO MORE WORK! NO MORE WORK! LET'S BURN KIRK!
Ugh, man, carry on without me; I'm wiped out. Gotta get up early tomorrow for . . . yeah.
*Figure 12 does not actually exist.
Monday, 10 May
Last week was our seventh anniversary, and in order to properly celebrate the dismal slog that has been our marriage, the wife and I decided to travel to Yakima, where we spent the entire joyless time playing golf, and when exhausted by our efforts, watched golf on television.
Not really. I mean, not about Yakima; we did go there, voluntarily. We went there because Yakima is surrounded by approximately nine million wineries, and it was our intent to pillage them all. Seriously, fuck golf. Golf courses should be stormed by right-thinking people who happen to own assault rifles. Anyway, we didn't do that either, as we are a shiftless couple who probably wouldn't be bothered to climb out of bed without the allure of free (or cheap) wine tastings.
The ride over to Yakima was . . . well, it sucked. Driving over the pass, I was subjected to twenty-yard visibility in the driving rain; I white-knuckled it for miles as insane assholes in SUVs screamed by me doing at least 80, throwing up rooster-tails of road spray at me. I hope they all drove up the ass of some fucking semi and died screaming in their fiery cockmobiles. I thought once I cleared the pass I was in the clear, but no: soon after our descent, I was greeted by risible signs advertising "very strong crosswinds," but they turned out to be no joke. Certain sections of the freeway--particularly where there was no hill cover, which was everywhere--meant that I struggled to keep the car from becoming airborne. It was like being buffeted by Hell's own flatulence. However, my superb automotive skills and our Plymouth's natural surefootedness prevented us from becoming a meteorite.
Eventually, we reached our hotel--a suite, actually, with, like a kitchen and stuff--generically named something like the Bonestone or Feathernerf or Eyebrow Suites or whatever. I don't really care, as long as the sheets aren't encrusted with an unreasonable amount of filth, and the Eyebrow Suites did not disappoint: I've seen much worse filth. I immediately turned on ESPN, which has been scientifically proven to allow the average traveler to ignore ambient filth, as the average ESPN commentator has been shown to be far more repellent than an encrustation of dried semen.
We went out to dinner the first night. We selected---I selected--a Mexican restaurant. Wineries attract a significant amount of migrant labor, so I reasoned, hey, they won't tolerate shitty Mexican food! Right?
The wallpaper loudly argued with the surrounding artwork; the former featured weird frilly grandma touches; the latter included at least one haunting painting of a clown. I imagined John Wayne Gacy tucking into some woeful mole before enthusiastically slaughtering a few teenagers. The wife mercifully ordered some reasonably edible burritos, but I made the colossal blunder of trying out the place's Cubist interpretation of chile Colorado.
It was like no chile Colorado I have ever seen. Nor tasted. Nor spat out in utter revulsion. To begin with, to put it not very delicately, it looked like a loose bowel movement on a plate. Have you ever seen a chile Colorado that had absolutely no relation to the color red? I have. It haunts my dreams. In the new remake of "Nightmare on Elm Street," this is what Freddy serves to his victims. Buried in its depths, mysteriously, were quartered tomatoes, left whole, as if to mock their previously healthy red life. It was like a recipe served up by William Burke. On the other hand, nobody that Burke killed, to my knowledge, was coated with slimy onions and served with refried beans topped with gumpaste cheddar. I could be wrong.
Happily, this inedible meal was the only one to be had on our trip. As an example, our next night at the Eyebrow, we went to the Fuddruckerish establishment happily located right in our parking lot, "Bob's Burgers & Brews." Lacking only half a convertible (and Hans Moleman) sticking out of a wall, Bob's did not falsely advertise. They had burgers (massive, discus-sized burgers) and brews (bladder-straining 24-ounce brews). Fortunately, they also had a 21-and-over lounge which insulated us one afternoon from a howling, blood-drenched pack of little leaguers who clawed each other savagely in the waiting area. Compared to the feculent chile Colorado previously described, it was relative heaven. BOB! Truly, your bathmat-sized burgers are indeed digestible, assuming you are not a corpse! And if you are in fact dead, then please know, revenant, that your loyal employees continue to reliably fill your shakers with seasoned salt after your demise.
And then we went on to visit thousands (read: half a dozen) wineries, all of whom are apparently contractually obligated to own gigantic, intimidating dogs. I have no problem with this, as evidenced by the two cases of wine currently being drunk at a breakneck pace by our humble household. DOGS! Go bite those assholes who drive like maniacs over the pass! BOB! Rouse yourself from your grave and go give that Mexican restaurant shit for serving inedible chile Colorado! WINE! Ah . . . sit there placidly and wait for us to decapitate you and drink your essence.
All is well.