Uncle Sam
Overall Recommendation
Recommendation?
Holy shit sammich, this is stinker sinker. Everything about this is nonsense and gibber. Two monkeys with a typewriter and a crackpipe could have done better for a script. Any child- not any child actor, but I mean ANY CHILD alive would probably be as good, if not better an actor than the one they picked. Plot devices? No! We just keep adding characters that shit on Patriotic America and then Jody challenges them and we know they’re gonna die. Then we add in some incest and corrupt cops and suddenly Jody is on Team Super-Ninja and ready to lie to the undead while leaping thrice from the same explosion that was created mainly with sparklers and the small roman candles that you can buy just about anywhere in Canada. I just made that last part up. Not true. But the God’s Honest is this is really one to skip. This never should have been green-lit, this never should have heard “Go”, this never should have been allowed to draw even it’s first breath. Like the zombie. The breathing zombie. Makes total sense, now that we haven’t eaten any brains at all either. This is a preachy look into a niche mentality from 30 years ago when priorities were really different and people cared about way different shit. Put this movie out today, you have a cult hit on your hands. Still would be absolute nonsense though. Waste of time.
Plot Autopsy
Plot Autopsy
- Life ain’t easy for a boy named Jody
- Life ain’t easy when you’re an eager-beaver little fascist
- Jody continues spewing America-first “KICK SOME BUTT!” bullshit.
- Jody jerks off to a Rambo comic.
- A corpse reanimates, and after donning an Uncle Sam costume, wanders around the town killing the town.
- Jody and Jeb and the Blind Mystic Narrator shoot cannons at the zombie until they run out of the cheap-ass fireworks they hoped would look like special effects. These… weren’t special. They were just kinda effects. You know…
Zombie Description
Zombie Description
Well, they’re the breathing kind of zombie. So… yeah. Wrap your head around that one. Talking, too. Prone to crafting, and making their own clothing. They like disguises, and try really hard at witty one-liners. And, well, I should stop saying They, when there’s only really one. For all purposes, this is a Halloween styled slasher movie with a really pathetic evil figure, not a zombie movie.
Where the money went
Where the money went
Who the fuck makes a chase scene with a guy on stilts? Seriously! Although, after the final scene after the credits and you get to see him fall, you think “A-ha! THAT’S why!” and although it’s probably not the truth, the only other thing they spent money on was the special effects for the zombie and some of the deaths.
Best Weapon
Best Weapon
Right out of the gate, I have to give some weapons props to Gravel Throat. He isn’t a very good soldier, being fat and dead and all, but I know if he were to yell at me I would pee myself. It’s an unpleasant fact I have to live with. That aside, the zombie used such a motley assortment of clichéd melee weapons to kill… well, wait a second. The zombie shot Abe Lincoln in the temple with a pellet gun and killed him. We didn’t see the shot or anything like that- we see the zombie steal the pellet gun, and then the lady finds a post-Booth ex-President.
Can I get a hand?
Can I get a hand?
This belongs in shit I’ve never seen before, but… since it’s the other side of this section’s coin… There might not be any zombie breach, but now I’ve seen a zombie bury a person to kill them. Think about that one through the irony, eh? Still got them fingers wriggling up through the dirt though.
That was new!
That was new!
I have never gotten half an hour into a movie about war without knowing what the fuck the message is about war! I mean, the kid is obsessed with killing and being a hero and not thinking and being a target, I get it… but as far as a character goes, he’s fucking useless! We hate him. So the more he waxes patriotic, the more confused I get. I’ve never seen stilts used… so… much. I mean, up until now, I’d never seen stilts in a zombie movie. Now, I have! Not sure it added anything, unless you really like watching a guy in stilts…
Review Notes
Review Notes
Willam LUSTig.
Starts with a hummer.
Kuwait?
What a ‘stash.
This dude must gargle with gravel.
Why is he using a lantern from the 1880’s?
Sam Harper.
And then the corpse wakes up, breaks the neck of the man examining him, pulls the corpse’s pistol, and shoots Gravel Throat 6 times through the corpse’s torso.
“Don’t be afraid. It’s only friendly fire.”
And then goes back to being dead?
Que the patriotic music.
And nostalgic pictures and everything else Uncle Sam.
PATRIOTISM.
1980’s suburbia?
Twin Rivers, USA. Gotcha.
July 1st. Gotcha.
You don’t give a fuck. Gotcha.
Some little kid’s room…
How can a child be having flashbacks?
And, why are they photographs?
Foot-full of broken glass. That’ll teach you.
Kid is smiling way too much to have that cut.
Some kind of dream about Uncle Sam, the guy who he foot-bled over.
Kid has issues. Including that he can’t act.
But he’s lost his dad *and* uncle and it’s his uncle he dreams about? Ungrateful brat.
A lone police car patrolling.
No, it’s a cop bringing… the kid’s mom back?
And necking her to death?
And pestering her to death?
Burke, you’re a twat.
Some old army guy…
So, both her brother and husband are both named “Sam”?
Dog Tags.
Dog Tags and really shitty advice.
Why is there a Deli sign?
And… some guy dressing in a uniform and talking about donuts. I like this guy. I like donuts.
Sargent Jeb.
Might be a little disturbed.
Survivor’s guilt.
And Loser’s remorse. The fucking cat is glitching already. I am he.
“I… I never made anything out of my life. Nothing. Nothing at all.”
And another flashback to… comic books?
That kid… Oh, there’s two blonde women with short hair? That’s not going to confuse the shit outta me.
“Why couldn’t they have just sent a telegram?”
Who the fuck is Phil?
Oh, wait… was her husband a bad guy? Not the hero?
Filthy little sneak, listening in!
Nice. An ammo can. I approve.
So… why is the kid suddenly talking about friendly fire in class with Mr. Yellow Tie.
When did this turn into show and tell?
Jody. Life ain’t easy for a man named Jody.
This is a pretty pro-patriotic… I mean… Fascist perspective on military service.
So, this kid interrupts class to talk about his dead uncle, and then when the teacher encourages him to share more, he disses the teacher. Great. Jody, you’re not gonna make friends. You’re never gonna fit in much kid.
“When I grow up, I’m going into the Army. And I’m going to do whatever the president says, ‘cause he knows better.” Oh. Well, this movie came out in 1996, which was when Clinton was… You know.
Kid seems pretty intent on being stupid.
That’s one hell of a casket and one hell of a hearse a whole hell of a lot of slow-motion shit that didn’t need to be in slow motion.
Kid, why the FUCK don’t you miss your dad?
Kid wants to open the lid and smell the char.
“I have all his medals. I want to put them inside.” He speaks as if a ESL acting coach is giving him pronunciation and articulation lessons.
Well, it really seems like his dad was a shit.
And that’s a shitty salute, kid. Along with your shitty acting and shitty outfit.
“Jody, stay away from the coffin! It’s not something to be playing with!”
“I wasn’t playing.” That… that’s what makes it fucking worse, kid. Three years ago, his chopper was shot down. He’s burned to death and then has been buried for three years. Why the holy hell do you think there’s anything remotely resembling a human being in there?
SEE? He looks like shreds of beef jerky held together by dried chewing tobacco spit. With fancy lacquered nails.
This army guy treats objects like women.
“I must be batting .750 with the bereaved. That’s why I volunteered for the job.” I call bullshit.
And this movie came out in 1996. Why is a television from 1978 featured so prominently in the set?
We just keep introducing new schmucks into the plot. Great.
No kiss for you!
A-ha! His dad was a teenage runaway and a drunk. So… Knowing this, why did sister have a kid with him?
And this new asshole is boasting about… well… asshole legal shit that he’s doing.
Why are we talking about tax evasion?
Jody is too good for this table.
“I’m not watching TV. I’m in mourning.” Kid… You should have done the vast majority of that over the past three years as the corpse waited… you know, I’m fucking done. Where’s the fucking zombie?
“Alright Ralph. You’re dead.”
Is that a Warhol on his shirt?
Cam-locks are pretty basic. Must be an idiot to be having this much trouble with it. Must be an idiot to be breaking into a sealed casket.
The beef jerky hands are moving!
“It must be awfully lonely being dead.” No, Jody, think it through. The vast, VAST majority of people who ever lived have died. The dead outnumber the living by a stupendous magnitude. Consider a million dead for every current living- so much more company for the dead.
How is this kid not in therapy?
Ok, that’s a pretty leathered corpse.
Ah! Jeb is here!
Well, most of Jeb is here.
That’s a wooden leg.
“I heard it got blown right off!” Kid, the way you’re talking about human dismemberment, (or perhaps mayhem is a more technical term) you’re gonna be jerking off while dissecting roadkill in a couple years. You need help.
Jeb has to make sure Jody knows he still has functioning genitalia.
Jeb’s telling Jody not to be a soldier.
Little shit is pretty suicidal.
I like Jeb. He’s an honest man. Ought to take a piss on Jody. Stupid little shit.
Disparaging the war, back-talk, sass…
“People who don’t respect the American way of life deserve to have their butts kicked.” I officially hate this kid. I would pour him the Kool-Aid, and if he hesitated, I’d have drunk a cup myself just to be rid of him.
It’s the 4th of July, the corpse is resting… and we have teens spray-painting swastikas on gravestones and getting ready to burn the American flag.
A whole lot of woo-hooing while spinning the burning flag around like a lasso, and then multiple shreds of burning flag end up in Sam’s grave. Got it.
So does Sam. Eyes open.
Casket opens.
Sam sits up.
The sounds of labored breathing… Is Sam back alive? Or is he a corpse? Why do we hear breathing?
Pinning all his medals back on his rotted chest and… suitcoat?
Uncle Sam the Peeping Tom. I see that out my window, I’d shoot it.
Fucking stilts?
Uh… My mind had melted and it has nothing at all to do with hallucinogenic mushrooms.
Stilts… tree branch…
Zombie with shrubbery pruners
Now we have a zombie dressed as Uncle Sam.
Oh, the teens are being so disrespectful!
And the zombie… spray-paints a dude to death?
Look, idiots, if you show Sam covering the lens of the camera with paint, you have to have paint over the character’s eyes when the perspective changed. 101. Funda-fucking-mentals, you cheese-fuckers.
Looks like ravioli on his leg, but I think it’s supposed to be a broken end protruding.
And he’s getting buried alive by the zombie.
Idiot friend looking for him… Gets hoisted up the flagpole. By a garotte around his neck.
Whee. I give a shit.
Trying to get costumed kids ready for a parade float.
“Where is that hatchet?”
Teacher got the axe. Right in the head.
Jeb just… lights off a cannon for the shits of it?
Jody. Sulking.
Firetrucks. Ok. I once rode in a firetruck in a parade with a neighborhood kid. His dad was a fireman. He and I are riding in the firetruck, the firemen are marching next to us, my friend hawks up a loogie and spits it out the window. I try to do the same thing, but I’ve never spit in my life. I literally don’t know how. I try to force saliva out my mouth with forceful direction, but instead, I just impotently drooled onto the firetruck’s running board. I have never forgotten the look of utter distain and loathing that the fireman next to us gave me.
Wait, who the fuck is this family? We’re half-way through the movie? Stop introducing characters for Christ’s sake.
And why the fuck is the kid in a wheelchair with burn scars all over his face?
His mom wants to ruin the parade?
Oh. A really lame attempt at the Labyrinth crystal balls routine.
Oh, he’s a fireworks victim. Looks kinda like a zombie.
So, a fireworks victim who can’t tell his parents which other children lit him on fire?
Uh… They invited the local town hooligan to sing the National Anthem and he went Vicious’s “My Way” with the thing, and then mooned the town. And the zombie is upset. And the mayor is not.
What kind of fucking fireworks put a kid in a wheel-chair?
And where are his parents while the costumed man is caressing his cheek and whispering to him?
Enter a limo. And a new fucking character.
Jeb doesn’t like that guy.
He’s a politician.
Jeb and the zombie literally making eyes at each other.
BBQ!!! I’m so hungry!
Pretty sure that’s not how you chop ribs, but whatever.
Off to smoke a joint.
“I found it?”
Man fuck that cop.
“Now where’s the cleaver?” If I only had a nickel for each time I asked that…
A sack race?
And they’re cheating?
This is the worst bullying scene I’ve ever… seen.
Kid rolls down a quarter mile hill and just keeps hopping? Where the fuck is he going?
No, that’s not necessary.
Zombie, cleaver, orange groves, town hooligan, decapitation
“The way you shoot, you should get a job working at the post office!”
And the zombie steals the pellet gun.
Oh, shit! Abraham took one in the temple! And then he gets thrown off a two story float?
Jody, you’re a sociopathic freak. You’re so stupid I want to beat your ass.
Sam was a bad man? The guy this kid has grown up wanting to be?
Oh, he was a REALLY bad man. With his own sister.
And now the dad gets casually mentioned into the mix.
“I’m sorry that that happened to you.” says the burgeoning American Psycho
BBQ head. Head, BBQ.
Is the blind kid some sort of prophet?
“I’m sorry. We should have left you in the shade.”
The Congressman is missing.
Oh! Shit! The kid got burnt last year during the 4th of July celebration!
And it looka lika Congressman get burned this year!
Zombie setting off the fireworks. Yup.
Cop trying to be a hero.
Congressman being burned alive.
Townspeople watching like a happy sheep.
Cop… gets the flagpole. Is that kelp as a special effect for intestines?
The blind kid IS a prophet.
Jeb… Foxhole…
Is it Jed? I can’t hear worth shit. I should get my ears professionally cleaned.
Damn, people abandoning the wheelchair kid every other minute.
The zombie somehow killed the army guy and… the casket…
Why is the kid’s mom pulling a Psycho?
This kid is reminds me so much of someone I cannot name.
Whoah. That’s one gnarled up zombie.
Whoah! Oh, that scared the shit outta me.
Ah. The 8 shot revolver.
“Jeb, get the cannon.” Sure. It’s 600 pounds and cemented down, but sure, I’ll just go fetch it.
“You have to be dead first. Are you volunteering?” This is not scary. This is shit.
This blind kid has the patience of a saint. Just sits wherever he’s parked.
How is it the blind kid keeps narrating the plot-line?
Jed is really fond of following orders.
That was the strangest falling/grunting/falling from higher up again that ever seen.
Zombie still not dead. Whoo.
Sure burning nice tho.
Wowzers. Big explosion.
How the FUCK does the blind kid know… fuck it.
And the kid is burning all his war toys now.
Blonde lady watching on and smiling.
And then the screen shatters? What the fuck does that mean?
“For Lucio” Ok. Respect. I respect that. Your movie sucked. Your dedication was heartfelt.
And we end with the best part of the movie, actually. An outtake of the dude on stilts falling HARD.
————End Transmission——————–
Introduction
Introduction
I just got dyslexic and wrote the date as 10/31, and started wondering about Halloween, but then again, I’ve been on what could best be described as a mushroom bender the past couple of days. Nothing crazy, but then again, a mouthful of 10 grams of fresh mushrooms simply because you don’t feel like taking them to the drier is a bit extreme. Or so I suppose, I’m weaving back and forth. Literally, and, I guess, figuratively, since I’m writing as I weave.
I had a realization today that hit me like a ton of bricks to the nutsack. I am officially having a mid-life crisis! It’s one of the fucking lamest things in the world! It’s a cliché of toupees and corvettes and divorces and PEDs and taking up a combat sport or driving a lifted Tacoma, which all sort of blend into a pastiche of “I’m pretty much a generalized failure and realizing it has sent me into a tailspin of nihilistic frenzy that my credit rating and overall reputation are going to suffer for damn near a decade to come.”
That was all during the police raid on my neighbor’s house that I watched on mushrooms for a bit before I came down enough to drive off and do some errands, and they were still at it while I brewed up some mushroom tea, and then they’d left by the time I got around to the aforementioned big mouthful of freshies.
So. I’m in the parking lot of the snooty grocery store- the one with fresh, sober young adults smiling and manning multiple cashier stations, instead of the poors-centric “we got lots of self-check out lines that are often held up by drug addicts spazzing out or elderly people becoming befuddled by the technology that has only been around for a fucking decade already.”
I’m pulling into the grocery store, and I park by a Porsche, which normally I wouldn’t notice, but this one had a color and a stance and the perfect shoes… and it was even a 4-door! I found myself thinking “Man, if they only made a wagon version of this thing, I’d be in trouble.” And I realized it. I’m having a fucking mid-life crisis.
Wow. Just got some amazing cracks out of my lower back right there. That’s the benefit of running. Damn, it makes things feel good. I’m resting today, since I’ve been losing a shit-ton of weight and kinda fasting a bit. Still living on those shakes. Well, those, coffee, frozen blueberries, and grapes. Mushrooms too, if I’m being strict in my accounting.
I’ve lost the mouse. A-ha! Who the fuck would hide a mouse on the left side of a computer? I mean, the right of the computer is occupied buy drug paraphernalia, including the ladybug coffee mug that my wife bought me. I think she wants me to get the tattoo. I want to ask her, but like I said, we’re moving away from the rich person’s grocery store and into the poor persons store.
She’s cancelled all her subscriptions after I was a little bitch about a kitchen hand towel. I was cleaning the kitchen and tripping at the time and I found a towel that said “I would exercise except it makes me spill my wine.” and I left it on the counter for… oh, yeah! My wife was at work. And I was at home, tripping and cleaning. Andre Agassi¸ we have more in common than you’d think!
And I left a note for her to find on the kitchen towel draped across the counter… “Please cancel whatever subscription brought this shit into our lives. Not only is it disgusting, but we already have 4007 hand towels.” Yeah. My wife is at work literally grinding her vertebrae into mushy splinters heaving obese people around who should most realistically be forced to take better care of themselves…
There is actually a good reason for government sponsored electronic implants, but I’m going way Terminator here and should probably ease off the gas pedal and let things coast a bit until we get back to the central idea of a Middle Age Crisis. I… let’s see.
I bought this house in 2016, so that means I left the IT money at about the same time. I worked for about, what? 8 months? 14 maybe? In social work, and then I decided to get tested for autism which resulted in an ASPD diagnosis and I’ve been writing these for, shit… I think it’s been 8 months of reviewing? My wife calls it blogging, or journaling sometimes. I see a bit of where she’s coming from.
She has an Ex who would write treatises in his journal about all her wrongs and then leave it out for her to find and read. Talk about passive-aggressive. Which, let’s, since my wife and I were talking earlier and I stated that if something isn’t aggressive, then it’s passive-aggressive, which, you know, binary sense of thinking… you can either get up in someone’s face and be aggressive about it, or you can lay back in the cut, waiting for the moment of yawning dawn when the head tilts down just the slightest as the first rays of the sun ease over the horizon, caressing fearful, sleepless cheeks; “Don’t worry, you made it through the night.” and then you sneak up and leave them a really nasty anonymous note slandering their character and implying that they cannot trust those friends and family closest to them, as the letter writer most assuredly must be.
Jesus Christ, I’m weaving and bobbing in figure eights as I write, my body controlled by fungal puppet strings of elastic, content to bobble and ease as long as the wrists remain anchored on the laptop, the fingers moving, and the text becoming. Becoming. It used to mean Attractive. I think. Something very close to it?
Like, the way I was looking at the Porsche. Oh, the bobbing and typing. Comparison is that of Johnny Depp portraying Hunter S. Thompson. Shit. Tintin. I have no idea which Thompson, or Thomson, he is. I could google it but I think he’d tell me to keep flowing with the mushrooms and caffeine and maybe take a bong hit if I want to but the most important thing is that the words aren’t in my head anymore and they’re captured in this strange mirror in front of me. Ok, that got me paused. Just sitting here feeling. This shit is rolling on harder than I anticipated, but in hindsight, it’s a really potent strain, and I had mostly picked the aborts.
I close my eyes and rub the stubble on my face and fringes of my head and the sensation feels like blue and orange streaks on respective left and right side of my body. I can see my brain functioning as hazy blue energy, distilling itself through violet as it drops lower through my stem-core, becoming purple as the ideas take movement through me. I’m moving like an epileptic wacky-inflatable arms used-car gimmick-guy.
Someone just walked past my window with a child’s stroller festooned with glow-sticks. Or, I think that’s what it was. It could have been a dog, I guess. I thought I had skin cancer on my scalp, but then when I was picking at it earlier, almost making the decision to go have my doctor do a punch-removal-biopsy of it and then it came off, not a perpetual scab, but more of a… gunk lesion, you’d call it? Something where small crap accumulates? Is that the right word? Lesion? Maybe not.
And then when it all dries, it’s caught in your pore, like a head of waxy nothingness that you absentmindedly have been touching, fearful that it is… what the fuck am I talking about? Yeah, I picked at what I thought was cancer and it was… nothing. I think that sentence is actually a perfect literary summation of the sum of my thoughts. One of these days it will be cancer, or emphysema, and I’ll look back with ___________ at this part of my life? I can already tell you how I feel about other parts of my life.
I’ve rolled in the gutter with the trashiest of coke-whores and worn tailored suits once or twice before I lost the pants. I’ve groveled at the altar of alcohol, I’ve squished cheese-vomit down a shower-drain-gate… I’ve broken down and cried, nothing but shame, begging my parents “I promise I’ll quit. Just please let me go as far as I can go this time.” while an aunt and uncle I don’t know looked on, unable to fathom the depth of the well that the echoes of the voice they heard ringing out of, the only thing to escape the black hole of despair and sorrow.
I write sentences so convoluted Word just fucking gives up. That’s My Prerogative, though. I fucking insist on it from the center of this selfish cocoon of spit and writ that I’ve wrapped myself within. I’m a Broken Man going through A Midlife Crisis, and part of me wants to scream that I’m living the best life ever while days go by without looking at myself in a mirror, let alone meet my own gaze.
She bought Us a new computer, since She wants to support My Writing. I wish I had the strength and conviction and knife worthy of seppuku, to ease her of my burden while the balloon that is me deflates of all it’s prose and blueberries. Do you know how much blueberries you have to eat to clog a toilet? I do. I also feel like I may have already asked this question, but things are a fuzzy with the details lately.
I think I overdid it with the caffeine. And the mushrooms. And maybe the caloric deficit. Anorexia occurs when people need to feel like they’re in control, right? I feel like I’ve read that. Is it the same thing if one choses to temporarily fuel oneself through other methods and the end result is that of fasting and weight loss? “Drink two quarts of milk a day and think of nothing but boxing.” or something like that. Not Joe Frasier. I can’t think of the guy’s name.
I drink *two* kinds of milk in my coffee, plus kefir, so… What can I say? My midlife crisis… has enough calcium? Is that something an adult should consider an achievement? I sometimes sit here, contemplating the question “How can I consume less?”, and I mean of everything of consequence, since I am a parasite. I need to look at the other side of the coin and ask “How can I provide?”.
Please, some kind of sign. Give me the thing to do. Yes, I’m attempting to Pray, hopefuls sent out like shrapnel, heat, radiation, energy; thoughts looking for an ear to receive them. I was not put here as an agent of Raze and Ruin, and were I, I reject it and seek a different path. Is this a midlife crisis? It reads like a dying man’s song of triumph and repentance.
I need to roll over into the wave and let this surf wash over me, cold and overpowering. I need to stop writing. I need to find a movie to watch. Jesus, those are powerful mushrooms. Jesus, these are powerful mushrooms. Jesus, I am a powerful mushroom. Jesus is a powerful mushroom. Quiz time!
A: Jesus, those are powerful mushrooms.
B: Jesus, these are powerful mushrooms.
C: Jesus, I am a powerful mushroom.
D: Jesus is a powerful mushroom.
I haven’t lost the urge to hurl yet. Or maybe it just came back. I’ll bury you all! Ok. I think I found something to review. Uncle Sam “The corpse of a patriotic veteran reanimates and goes on an Independence Day killing spree.” Going into this, I guess I have to be ready to think outside the casket, since the theme in this one seems pretty narrowly defined. In that it’s fucking one-sentence vague as hell, too.
The date of killing sprees is always important in the movies, yet in real life, it’s rarely so. Zodiac and Ramirez, maybe, if my memory severs, I mean, serves correct from that True Crime obsession in an earlier life? I want to state for the record that I currently believe Ed Gein was controlled by a combination of the moon and a local cow.
I can’t provide any proof, nor am I really sure about the control ratio or any details of the power-sharing arrangement. It could be that they worked together to guide him, it could be more of a time share arrangement where the cow was driving ninety five percent of the time, handling day to day business, while the moon would stop by for scheduled custodial actions and activities? Fuck. Why am I going on about serial killers? Oh. Yeah. Midlife crisis.
So… that’s a dark addition to the narrative. I want to make a t-shirt that reads “I used to fantasize about shooting up the school, too.” in order to normalize the conversational stigmata of metal health with young adults. The urge to vomit returns in force. I feel waves of revulsion rippling the skin up my back, I need to re-adjust, make something pop; all I can smell are my socks. They’re off, but… I don’t know how long. My feet might get cold.
I’m out of coffee and I feel like the trip has leveled off. Somewhat. I think I need to drink some cold water and watch this thing. I love peanut butter so much. Are these yawns real yawns or mushroom yawns? Could it be possible I need more caffeine? I’m shaking my head no with a grimaced smile while my eyes are sparkling with want.
Man, the munchies are a real struggle bus right now. I mean, it’s stranded sideways in a snowy, muddy ditch with all the warning lights blinking and everything except the driver’s door jammed. And I’m lying on the Fuzzy Wall all Jeffried and Keith Moon’d and as long as the heat is on I can’t be bothered to move.
If you’ve watched the storyline carefully, as carefully as I’m writing this sentence, you just might have noticed the part where I’ve become a soiled tabby lying in the sunbeam, awash in my own piss, letting it dry without moving, eyes watering and stinging with chemical irritant. I myself missed that moment, and as much as cats hate baths, I swear on the lives I’ve already lost; I will make something someday. And that will be my first step as a new, post-midlife crisis man. Until then I work to accept myself and make improvements whenever given an opportunity. Allow the abrasion of skidding to resume.
Ok. First things first. I have a confession. I ate a handful of gummy-bears. That was bad. But I’ve also gotten out from that heavy surf. I feel like I can stand again, if not walk.