Author Archive | soiledchamois

Tan, Maskless, and Fascist

Another stupid brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™

Dear Reader,

The following post contains a large dose of my opinion and some large quantities of venom. I am on a journey to free myself of that stuff, but this week I just don’t have it (Thanks Trump). Don’t read it if you don’t like that shit. There are no photos, ’cause I ain’t got none today.

— Management

Cliff’s Stupid Notes Version of This Post:

  1. I’m fighting off the return of “a mood.”
  2. People are the worst.
  3. Being tan in Michigan during January makes you look like a freak.
  4. I have a lot of diarrhea (that’s actually not in the post, but I figured I would share it, just because).
  5. I’m pretty much an asshole.
  6. Popeye liked his elbows sucked (I assume).
  7. Things will get better, probably. But maybe not.
  8. Let’s get loaded.

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2021, Mariah, & Chumbawamba

Unrelated Soiled Chamois file photo.

I know we’re only 4 days in, but so far, 2021 feels like I just stepped in a big hairy pile of spilled dog bowl water while making my way through a dark kitchen for my first cup of morning coffee.

One day into 2021, I found out that one of my close relatives had just tested positive for COVID (they’re reportedly doing well), and apparently, my family (sans Wifey, B, and myself) thought that it was a good idea to gather together on Christmas Eve, even though it was strongly suggested by the medical community that they don’t (they reportedly tested negative).

APPLICABLE SIDE NOTE: I highly recommend listing to Episode 9, Fire at The Beverly Hills Supper Club, from the podcast Cautionary Tales by Tim Harford. It really shows the dangers of what digging in and eschewing words of warning can do.

Two days later, we found out some BFFs also contracted and became ill with the virus and are just about to exit quarantine. That was followed by me going for groceries a few hours later and seeing close to 10 people selfishly deciding that they didn’t need to wear a mask.

[insert heavy sigh and head-shaking here]

I shouldn’t hate on 2021; I mean, it hasn’t had the best start, but it has a lot of pressure on its shoulders.

I can see ’21 sitting in its dressing room on New Year’s Eve as some guy no one has ever heard of, and a bloated and crazy Mariah Carey count down the last minutes of 2020. It’s nervously rocking back and forth, dividing its attention between making sure it has all the months in order, gawking at Mariah Carey’s massive fake boobs on the nearby monitor, and muttering, “don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020… .”

Then, as the guy no one ever heard of, Mariah, and her two boobs count down the final seconds of 2020, ’21 stands up, waits for the cue, heads towards the stage, and promptly trips and lands face-first on the floor at the feet of the guy no one ever heard of and Mariah Carey. Well, at least it assumes it’s Mariah Carey; from its perspective on the floor, all it sees is massive under boob ensconced in a sparkly dress and a whole lot of craziness.

2021 will be just fine; it just had a wonky start. It will stand up, dust itself off, push the guy no one ever heard of out of the way, take in one last view of Mariah’s two friends, hand her a card for a good therapist, and start the year as best as it can.

2021 doesn’t want to be compared to 2020 and will confidently point out that the issues I talked of above were technically 2020 problems. I get that, so I am willing to give ’21 a chance. I mean, things will get better, but just like a case of gonorrhea, it might take a while and may include some pus-like discharge from the tip of the penis.

I will not be making any resolutions, plans, or goals for 2021. Whatever happens, happens. I don’t mean that in an I give up, bitter fatalist sort of way, but rather in a Chumbawamba, get knocked down, get up again, sort of way. I am merely accepting that I can’t control what other people say or do, and much of what happens in life is out of my control; all I can control is how I react. And I got this.

Later.

The Longest Year

The end of 2019 and beginning of 2020 started so normal and promising: Wifey and I celebrated the New Year with some of our best friends (mid-Michigan power couple The Brookensesses, and Little Chris and his wife, the Mad Austrian), then it was watching B play soccer in the “bubble,” followed by his 16th birthday, passing his driving test, and a super quick trip to Pennsylvania to pick up the 2008 Subaru Forester that his Poppy generously gave to him in lieu of trading it in for a negative profit. 

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The Aftermath

Wow, that sort of felt good! The holidays aren’t such a pain in the ass when they are done from the comfort of your own home and without having to drive 14 hour hours round trip to be depressed and anxiety-ridden. It sort of sucks that it took a Global Pandemic and recommended travel and gathering restrictions (that many Americans seem to have flat-out ignored because they are morons) to make that happen, but I’m not complaining.

As you may or may not have noticed (I’m assuming the latter), I took a well-undeserved break from writing this shit show for a bit. I think all the writing about my late mother, dealing with depression, and other non-published projects took its toll on my Available For Use brain cells, and I found myself like the rest of the world for a week or so; not giving a shit about this blog. Not to mention I was busy making holiday dreams happen (not at all).

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This Tape

Outside of the “squares” that somehow live among us, everybody has a favorite band, album, or song. I have too many to mention, but I’m certain they are all better than your favorite artist, band or album. I also have something that is beyond all that: I have a favorite cassette tape. 

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Parts Amounting To Nothing

FRIDAY PART I

The past week has been an amalgamation of appointments, house duties, dad duties, holiday prep, dog care, and goofing off from the seat of my comfy chair while shoving handfuls of vitamin D down my throat and watching the last hints of summer tan drain away from my skin to leave it looking like the surface of a thrice-used teabag.

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Finding Normal?

Yet another unneeded brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™

Dear Reader,

The following mega-post written over a few days contains small doses of opinion and large quantities of a personal mental journey in search of some inner peace and self-love (not code for masturbation). There is talk of mental health and depression. I am CLEARLY not a doctor, just a putz with a blog and 49 years and counting of personal experiences dealing with some depression type shit. If the Google machine pointed you here because you were looking for immediate help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255 or visit suicidepreventionlifeline.org.

— Management

Part of my job as CEO and 1st Shift Supervisor in Charge of Day to Day Operations at Soiled Chamois, Inc.™, is to look through the pages of the blog every so often and make sure that everything is the way it’s supposed to be. Sometimes that means getting rid of something —like when the Archive shit the bed—and then bringing that something back for some reason even though that something’s bed is still filled with shit. Other times it’s just me looking and shaking my head at why and the fuck I ever would create such a monstrous time-sucking beast of ill-written over-sharing and unneeded goofiness. Then I proceed to start writing more of said, unneeded goofiness, like today.

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Alternates

After a few days off, I have returned to the Soiled blogosphere like a clogged toilet, poised to overflow its well-ripened contents onto the floor of life. But not yet.

I have been working on a post for nearly a week, but I just can’t find a proper ending for it. So instead of that post, I am throwing up and alternate post with some photos from Thanksgiving Day.

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