In the year of our deity 2021, I believe the last thing the world needs is another blog post written by me. I get that, and I am diligently working with state and local authorities to bring an end to the thrice-weekly murderous assaults to the English language you so often see here. However, a 16-year-old blog habit is hard to break, so you might be stuck with me for a while.
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.
The past week was filled with miles on the Dreadmill, some prison-style weight training, and a tall drink or twelve of “Well, at least January is fucking over.”
I took some pics around the Cul-De-Sac-Shack (two of which you see here), but outdoor activities were limited due to a winter storm and my distaste for being cold.
Yeah, I know, nothing makes one sound old like talking about the weather, but I’m going to talk about it anyway. I’m also going to talk a little about bikes, which is something I rarely do these days on this cycling blog turned outlet for idiocy.
WE BACK!
January, every January, is a slog of a month, and this January is proving to be even sloggier than usual. And by slog, I mean that it’s cold, wet, dark, gray, dreary, snowy, icy, slushy, and mother fucking relentless.
Seriously, If I thought I could kill January and get away with it, I would do it in a heartbeat! Wait, what?
Monday was Monday, but it could have been Sunday, Wednesday, or Friday. Yes, I know, it’s been discussed ad nauseam; that’s just how COVID life be. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck, but sometimes things—like 46.9% of all Americans—suck.
Tuesday, on the other hand, well, Tuesday can go fuck itself. All it took was 25 minutes for me to want to go back to bed and or start cracking beers.
Minute 1
I stop by Wifey’s office in the former Chamber of Farts, where she lets me know that B is off school due to icy road conditions. Apparently, we had freezing rain overnight, and the roads are way too treacherous for the teachers to get to their virtual classrooms located in their actual classrooms at the school.
Minute 5
I mix up a shitty cup of coffee and then somehow get the dogs outside and off of the deck that is coated in a glaze of slippy ice.
Minute 7
A morning dump sneaks up on me like a sniper deep in the shit behind enemy lines; there were many casualties.
Minute 11
I go out to the garage to open up the giant tub of Ice Meltz® I bought recently. I removed the hard plastic tab as instructed, but I can’t get the lid off. To quote my father, “well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!”
My thumbs and I fight with it for a few minutes before busting out the right tools for the job; a tree pruner and a hammer. Next time I’ll get medieval on it with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch, Marsellus Wallace style.
Minute 15
I spread some “salt” on the Cul-De-Sac-Shack’s driveway before taking an extra cup inside to access the front sidewalk without having to walk on the icy driveway.
Minute 16
The dogs let me know they want morning treats with crying and growling. I supply the treats, and they both shun them for some reason. Fucking stupid dogs! I love them, but some days!!!
[shakes fist at the sky]
Minute 20
I grab my big red cup of Ice Meltz® and head out on the front porch—Lola excitedly follows me outside soon as she hears the front door open. Not wanting her out while I’m spreading probably not all that pet-friendly ice melt, I try to get her back inside. She is not cooperating.
I frustratedly sit my cup of Ice Meltz® down on the porch and reach down to try and get her in.
Minute 21
Somehow, in the span of fewer than sixty seconds, I seem to forget my purpose for being outside, step down onto the ice-covered cement porch step, and slide right off the porch and onto the sidewalk and snow-covered front yard.
Being a long-time expert at embarrassing myself, I quickly do a scan around the “sac’ to see if anyone was outside, and then laugh and raise my arms in victory as if I meant to do it, just in case any neighbors saw from their windows. They might be looking out their windows thinking that I am a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch, but at least they’ll know I’m a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch and can still laugh at being a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch.
Minute 22
Lola runs right into the house. It seems all I need to do to get her inside is throw my ass off the front porch and into the front yard.
Minute 23
I go inside and shake off the snow and assess any injuries. My shoulder and hip took the brunt of the fall, and I was helped a bit by the snow in the front yard, but I have no doubt that I’ll still bruise due to the blood thinners in my system. For now, I’m just happy I didn’t hit my head or fall entirely on the icy cement.
Minute 24
I finish the job I set out to do and go inside, fighting back the urge to weep at the slap-stick idiocy that has followed me around for 49.5 years.
Minute 25
I revisit Wifey in her office to relay the story, get some sympathy, and apologize for being the sort of man that can’t open plastic containers of salt correctly or provide proper treats for our dogs. I also apologize for being a dimwitted fatty who just fell off the front porch, and even though I can, and do, laugh at myself, somedays I just want to go back to bed and start over later.
Later.
Another stupid brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™
Cliff’s Stupid Notes Version of This Post:
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.
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.
Yet another unneeded brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™
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.
