Muppets et al.

A healthy man wants 1000 things. A sick man only wants one thing – Chinese saying 

I type it out verbatim. Even though I hate the phrase ‘Chinese saying’. I am briefly tempted to change it to ‘author unknown’, but decide, after some internal deliberation*…


*pictorial representation of what this might look like

to leave it as it is…. even if does feel vaguely fortune cookie-ish. I feel since it’s gender specific the answer is probably ‘Blowjob’. I think we are meant to assume its health. But I think we can all agree that this is unlikely when these two things are assayed against each other on the scale of probability.

I’m not the most functional grown up at the best of times. A situation made infinitely more dire by injury or sickness (see previous post). Even worse is that during such times I so fit so snugly into that stereotypical (wretched) male mold. Which is then further exacerbated by the self-loathing that comes with the acquiescence of such typecast character. Fortunately I have a very capable wife, without whom I’d be really quite stuffed.

I propped my odious and contemptible form up with caffeine this morning. A triple espresso meant to form some sort of bulwark against an overdose of codeine. Like Thanos I appreciate balance in all things. (I’m not entirely sure they should make another Avengers movie, I quite liked the way this one ended).

In any event, I only realized when I was almost at work that I had listened to almost an entire Muppets playlist without noticing…


Which is both worrying (because clearly I’m not copious mentos [sic]) and comforting (insofar as someone took the time to make a Best of the Muppets playlist). Its missing ‘Pachalafaka’. Which is likely my favorite Muppets showtune. Apparently it means transvestite in Turkish.

I’m not sure if that’s true or not. I choose to believe because it makes me grin. I also tend to accept Google as the fifth (albeit apocryphal) gospel.

The myth of adulthood



This perfectly encapsulates how I feel about life at the moment.

I am also procrastinating. I should be paying attention. I’ve been grappling (I think that might be too kind a verb) with this (stupid) tax calculation for… about two days now. I’ve now finally asked my wife to help me. This is basically my default setting. Try something obviously beyond me. Get frustrated. Get angry. Get depressed. Ask my wife to open the child-proof container.

Its a vicious cycle.

My day started off at Starbucks. The slowest Starbucks in the history of the world. Ever. Also the guy in front of me didn’t know what he wanted and then had to connect to the free wifi before he could pay for his Caramel Frappuccino® . This incensed me for a lot of different reasons. Mostly because despite sporting the appearance of a grownup he was just so clearly inept at life. How did he get here? What evolutionary fluke was playing out? Should I step on his larynx?



The grim reality of Basset Hound ownership

I swallowed a bug.

That is a bit of a misnomer. It’s more like I inhaled a bug. I can feel it crawling around in my alveoli. Well more likely flailing around in the sticky gumbo, like some world war one trench fighter, slowly succumbing to the undertow of muck that coats the inside of my lung. I can feel its death rattle though… and its upsetting me. Die already.

This caps off my crowning achievement for the day. Which was wrestling a half decomposed rat away from the Basset Hound before he could eat it. It came apart while we grappled for ownership of said rodent. I then had to pry his jaws open with my fingers to extract the other half before he gulp-gulp-swallowed.


This is still better than the dead bloated toad he tried eat once. But not worse than the time he found human feces in the park… and rolled in it. That was truly a vomit inducing affair.

I felt I needed to share my pain.