Well, we’re back from Indiana, and I’m hitting the ground running like a freshly excreted dog turd onto a frosty spring lawn.
The four-day trip into America’s heartland of COVID negligence for a soccer tournament was better than I thought (in that it happened at all) and just as bad as I thought (aforementioned negligence, combined with COVID fuckedupedness and guilt).
I’ll explain a bit.
I never promised you a rose garden. Or compelling images as part of the Soiled Image Tip series, and goddamn it, I am delivering on those non-partisan non-promises!
This post falls under if you give a person who likes taking photos (I’m hesitant to use the term photographer when referring to myself) a camera, they will take photos of it, no matter how mundane the task, and ain’t nothin’ more mundane than what I do on a Saturday night (for the record most of Saturday night, I thought it was Friday, Tuesday, or Sunday).
There’s really nothing like waking up to a fresh February snowstorm. Coffee tastes a bit better, breakfast is just a little more relaxing, and the urge to angrily shit on the floor like a caged ape and throw it at the first person that walks in front of the house is just a tad more indomitable.
If you think that throwing feecus is adjectivally extreme, just be glad I didn’t venture into the messy masturbatory world of caged primates and/or their evolutionary cousin, the overweight housebound adult male human in winter hibernation mode, AKA Auto-erotic-hibernation.1
That was probably more weather-inspired poo and goo talk than you or anyone other than me wanted. I digress.
Greetings, fellow Soilers, today I bring you Reader Mail!
Why? Because I got nothing else to talk about. Yeah, I could talk more about bikes and parts like I did in the last post, but in reality, the (higher-end) retail bike biz might not even be a thing in a few months, given 2020’s perfect shit storm of COVID, factories moving due to Trump tariffs, and unforeseen consumer demand. Not to sound like a fucking QAnon Qonspiracy Qook, but if you want a bike and it’s in stock, BUY IT NOW!! Same with parts.
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).
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.
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.
There is a special time in man’s life when he reaches a crossroad; one direction means that his life will stay exactly the same. While the other direction will have his life staying exactly the same, except he wasted time writing a blog post that no one—not even himself—will should read. For most of the past week, I have taken the first route. Today, I take the path of increased time waste. Apparently I have some time, and it needs wasting.
I promise, PROMISE! that this post will be under 3,000 words. Because, as the long forgotten prophet Sweet Brown exclaimed as she fled the fiery flames cast upon her dwelling by Satan’s Bronchial Demons, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”
Another stupid brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™
