So, Like I Was Sayin'

Since I am FAR too lazy to think up and post some story today, I am going to be a bastard and just link to my four little posts on Austinist. That's right, I'm all kinds of uninteresting like that.

Side note: there is NOTHING "sophisticated" about a wine hang over. Just in case you thought there was. It's a sham, lie, and wild fabrication that needs to die. Okay, so I was the only one under that impression. Whatever.

My first little story is an ode to the Migas served at Curra's here in Austin (all articles are Austin-in-relation, so that we stick to the point of the site, dig?). If you don't love to eat chorizo when hung over, then go to the next article. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

The second story is an open letter to my home-away-from-home, Club Deville. I got some shit for this, as many are under the (hideously) false impression that Deville is little more than a watering hole. To them, I say "up your ass, commies", because they are wrong. That, and I have no tact or sense of responsibility to the feelings of my fellow man. So sweet. POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!

Numero three-o crashed and BURNED as an article, since no one fucking read the entire thing. They read the first paragraph and bailed on it. It starts out sounding like I am honestly going to make some pork taquitos, which is utterly ridiculous because I would probably burn my right arm off AND taquitos are like, ten fucking cents at the super market (big ol' bags of 'em are sold at Fiesta! So Delicioso!). Why would I bother to make my own? That's just... whatever. The beginning makes it sound like I am, but then the script flips and the predictable happens. All in the name of pointless silliness. I really liked this one when I typed it. BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM!!!

Installment number four… I don’t think anyone even read it, which is fine, I suppose, since that would bring the paycheck-to-readership into parity. This is a description of a true Austin happening. In some ways, it is a pretty standard and mundane happening, which I was trying to shine up with some tricky word-play and extraneous description. But, as the old philosophic and clichéd question goes: if a tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to pee on it, will the bears do it? I, for one, certainly hope they would pick up man’s slack. So philosophical, so deep. My brain hurts now. BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRNNNNN!!!!

Don’t fuck up your weekend by watching reality TV all day. I’ll be in Houston to pick up a pick up. Getting it back here might be a ill-fated journey of broken timing belts and tire-changings. Hopefully I will have no interesting stories, but will still be alive, come Monday.

Word to that.

Just Like Camp. Damnit.

I’ve been showering in my back yard for the past two days, and it has not been as sweet as I had initially imagined it. In my mind, I would go out there, fire up the hose, get all wet and soapy, and naked chicks would just pop out of nowhere, excited by my wet-skinned manliness .

Needless to say, it didn’t quite go down like that. More like, my 40-something neighbor pulled up in his Volvo and was like, “hey, uh, Craig. You know I have kids that play out here, right? What the hell are you doing?”

I’m sure you’re wondering the same thing. Well, for any judgmental assholes out there, I am not some exhibitionistic, lecherous cretin (well, I'm not lecherous anyhow). I was wearing my sweaty-ass jogging shorts on both occasions, because I’m sensitive to the gag reflexes of my neighbors. I have been re-grouting the tile in my shower, which takes 48 hours to cure, and I run four miles every other day. I HAD to clean my stankin’ ass, my kitchen sink is far to small, and the front yard seemed like a wholly inappropriate place to take care of my personal hygiene. Even though, my neighbors cut hair and wash their babies on their driveways. DOMINO, MOTHERFUCKERS!

We’re a tight community like that, but not tight enough for me to suds-up out front.

I got to take my first normal shower in two days, this morning. Oooooh it felt good. Warm water. My razor. Privacy. No more summer camp livin’ for me. But last week, pre-re-grout, the outdoors seemed like a reasonable option when compared to the moldy disaster that was my shower. You see, about a year ago, I noticed that the grout between the base shower pan and the wall tile was chipping out. Well, grouting is a pain in the ass (as evidenced by the backyard showering) so I said fuck it, and just bought some sealed caulk for the job. That shit dries over night. Presto! A year went by, and that caulk line turned into a dreadfully moldy filthy-shit line. Prest-nasty-o!

Stop, vomit time!

So I pulled all that shit out, bleached the affected areas, and re-grouted it. Now it needs to be sealed. That’ll take another 24 hours to cure. Sweet. Let’s hope the mosquitoes aren’t ravenous this weekend.

Damn I need a nap. And a million dollars.