I've come to a stark realization: Postoperative Vicodin and my usual brand of thoughtful, carefully composed, measured, closely reasoned blogging...
Don't mix!
My powerful brain has turned, I find, into something with all the intellectual acuity and initiative of a bowl of six-day-old vanilla pudding. By way of illustration: It just took me fourteen minutes to come up with that lame-assed simile.
Physically, I improve daily. I can now walk short distances without a cane or a crutch, climb stairs foot-over-foot, and lift seven and a half whole pounds on the Nautilus machine using only the muscles of my thigh. (My preoperative record was a still impressive four pounds.)
I've come to the regrettable realization that my burgeoning career as a barnstorming professional pole-vaulter will have to go into cold storage until a great deal more healing has taken place, but this sad fact is more than offset by the fact that I'm stoned to the gills most of the time. Hey ho: God never closes a door without opening a window, dig? Which is good, because Jesus Christ has that deity got some evil farts.
Was going to say something else, but can't remember what it was. See? See?
Oh, yeah, I remember. A certain Dartmouth/Columbia Biz grad who just waved his little fucking magic wand and erased, nullified, annihilated, liquidated, obliterated (see note at DESTROY, 511.3) the product of the last fourteen months of my professional life needs to be Extraordinarily Renditioned to Turkmenistan and sliced into small pieces by an angry mob of Capuchin monkeys armed with plastic sporks. Fuck you, you piss-stained little MBA twat. Fuck you and your fucking sleek turtleneck sweaters and your $900 camelhair jackets and your fucking mousse-tousled, highlighted coiffure and your fucking BlackBerry and your ugly children and your frigid, neurotic courtesan -- here's a little food for thought, you revolting little business-school dog-turd: Are you really convinced she loves you for who you are?
There. Enough of that, eh? Let's just conclude that the Executive Class and I aren't going to grow old together and leave it at that.
6 comments:
Glad to see you on the mend, as evidenced by all the piss and vinegar rising to the surface.
As to misdeeds by a Dartmouth person, I cannot speak. Sure sounds serious, though. Would never have suspected such chicanery from a graduate of the alma mater of Ted Geisel.
Oh yeah, glad your experience with God and the door has been better than that of my wife and me. Her new saying is that "Whenever God closes a door, he slams your fingers in it and turns the key in the lock." Sounds like your God is more benevolent than ours.
Happy it's Thursday? Tomorrow it's Friday...even better.
Happy to hear of your progress, Neddie. Keep us posted when you can.
Mantra of the day:
Walker's Pond...Om
Walker's Pond...Om...
While you were at Walker's Pond, getting naked and baying at all three moons while sucking down the last of a Kessler's to sand the edge off the tail end of that crumbly purple microdot, your future boss was in a healthy drunk and diving headfirst down a stairwell in Hanover, a particularly valuable bonding ritual that also bestowed the appropriate managerio-cranial bandwidth for times such as these. Far be it from me to say you backed a bad pony.
Oh, God, that microdot was just awful, wasn't it...
Oh! You're fine!!! If you can summon up that much vitriol for a worthy subject, then you are fine. When I was taking Vicodin and working at a job I HATED, I found myself loving everyone! I remember the day I got off the El and thought, "Hey! This isn't so bad! I LOVE these people!" When I got home, I threw out the Vicodin. I, unfortunately, should have quit the job before the Vicodin, but no one's perfect.
Glad to hear you're doing better.
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