Productivity and desire to not work here fuel today.
I may be up for a wicked new job. It's another contract job, 6 months for sure, maybe 9 or a year. Much more money, lots of experience and potential for something wicked afterwards. No insurance though. But, fuck it.
When I was 10 years old I preformed surgery on my foot because some gross thing kept growing underneath it. It was like yellow and bubbly.
"Don't pick at it, Brent"
"Eat it, Mom, I'm digging the fucker out!"
Yep, I sure as a fatty likes vegetables said that. Then as sure as a fatty likes fresh pie I got a pair of scissors and a big piece of chewing gum. If you bite down on Bazooka hard enough you don't need morphine.
So, I dug out whatever was bubbly and sticky and I was fine.
My point? I don't need insurance like a fatty needs ranch dressing. I have some scissors and bubble gum. Cancer? Fuck it. You can only root deep in your body with scissors until you pass out or dig the fucker out. Either way works for me.
So, me and Wig Wolf and Man Face and Crumble Cheeks and Jersey Hair and Stupid Mustache and Smile Guy and Mole Teeth might be parting ways here soon. Or maybe not, who knows, it's a crazy world out there, dorks.
I got my truck registered in Washington on my lunch break. I wish I had put some thought into a kick ass vanity plate like ...
Those would all be good.
So, thanks to a Pentagon mandate the media are not allowed to put out pictures of dead soldier's coffins coming home?
What the fuck do you think goes on in war, dickfaces?
"I say, I've been shot, Timothy."
"My, Pippytits, call a time out and I'll go get Mom."

In the war young Johnny did die
then he came home so Mommy could cry.
He died from a headshot near Kabul.
They showed his headshot from high school,
but not the coffin where he rests.
'Cause we don't want voters to get upset.

And poets die sooner than water skiiers? Good thing I'm a bad poet.
Later, dorks.
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