Throwing Poo

If you’ve been paying attention – and judging by the lack of comments, you haven’t – the frequency of my posting has dropped way off the past couple of weeks.  I’d like to say it’s because I’m busy writing a book (show me a douche bag with a blog who isn’t, and I’ll show you a douche bag who procrastinates), engineering a zero-gravity espresso machine for the space shuttle, on a secret government mission to assassinate Flavor Flav, or engaged in some other lofty, pretentious project.  I’m not. 

And it’s not that I’ve decided to spend my waning days enjoying life by setting fire to old people, watching reruns of Maude and eating fistfuls of who-hash right out of the fucking can.  I’m not.

I’ve simply lost focus and...Hey there, Maxie cat.  How are you big guy?  Who’s a handsome boy?  Who’s a big sexy Barry White-looking motherfucker?  You are!  Yes, you are, Maxie!

What was I saying?  Oh yeah, focus.  I’ve lost it.  Not only my focus on this stupid blog, but on my entire fucking life.  My brain has been rapidly vacillating between devising totally retarded get-rich quick schemes (I could make cat scratching posts made of PVC to reduce the shipping weight), planning insane home improvement projects (Wouldn’t it be nice if I put a shower in the basement?) and seriously considering a vast array of radical career changes (Maybe I should be an architect.  Or a carpenter.  Or a political consultant.).  All true.

In between vascillations, I have these bouts where absolutely nothing interests me except eating mint chocolate chip ice cream and reading aloud to the cats every piece of junk mail we receive, including the catalogs.  It’s mostly just the ice cream, though.  

Anyway, I’m going to try to post more often, but I can’t guarantee it.  And if I go totally insane and decapitate my wife for leaving her dirty snot rags on the furniture (allergy tissues, she calls them), well, you can say you saw it coming.  Either way, everyone wins.  Except my wife, of course.