Monday Morning Commute: Pepsibones And I Are Gym Class Heroes
Yes, hi, hello, how are you? The scent of rot you’re picking up is a prescient notion of your future-rot, a fate guaranteed by your entrance into Flagship Humanity. I apologize on behalf of Whatever Is Up There for our inevitably decline into stuffing for an overpriced casket.
But!, lament not. It’s the Fourth of July weekend! At least, here in the Empire. I don’t know what the rest of the world is going, and as I have been trained by a stringent regiment of indoctrination throughout the US school system – I don’t care! Are you all still watching the footy-ball? I have my money on the team of polar bears from Antarctica. Those cats (bears) can ball. Like woah.
So slough off those momentary premonitions of your inevitable demise, and gather those fucking rosebuds while you may. And by rosebuds, this weekend, I meant some chemical-soaked beef, and your light beer of choice. Let’s all party on the Titanic together.
Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.
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Reading / The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde, by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Over the weekend Pepsibones My Better Half and I had the pleasure of attending an engagement party for a good friend of ours. His name is Patrick Cooper and his worth in nerdlore, humor, and quality writing is prolific. It was a backyard event, filled with cold cut platters served up with Star Wars figure centerpieces, alcoholic and caffeinated beverages, and lavished under the umbrella of sunlight. I diggity dug it.
It was a welcome event, replete with celebration of life and warmly portentous of happy days. Mr. Cooper and his wife are a cute couple, and the kids seem destined for happiness. Bravo to happiness, I say. If I had to guess, I would say all the bitterness stemming from the harsh reality that marriages are seldom conceived intelligently and built on ill-purpose in our society has most of us scorning them.
If we were built on the dreams of the nuclear family only to realize the unpleasant nightmare of reality, I think we should dare to imagine the idea that some though very few relationships can actually be happy.
Dare to be happy.
It was a fun event overall, but it was certainly underscored by Team Omega Level’s utter dominance at one of the most important things in life: backyard games. Namely, yard ball.—-
Watching / Inception [Trailer, Ad Nauseum]
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Yard Ball was an unknown entity to the Waterdrinking Brothers prior to Saturday. But to say we did anything short of exerting an unfathomable mastery over the sport by the end of the day would be selling us short. Just kidding. At first we fucking blew, but somehow we ended up taking home the prize. Which was an sadly inflated sense of self-worth after winning a game at an engagement party.
Pepsibones (and I have to admit it’s burdensome to call my brother by this nom de plume in the middle of what is supposed to be a relatively friendly story) carried my sorry ass for the first game. The kid was a maestro, a prodigy even. I didn’t know his rickety old-man bones could conjure such intensity. I think he’s a ringer, and we’ve all been wrung.
I consistently under-utilized by rippling biceps of doom in the first bout. Or more specifically, my slightly chubby arms of moderate definition. I had visions of all those games of mini-golf I’ve played, and in a bout of frustration, wailed a bail with uncouth anger. I’ve zipped balls by people’s faces, smashed them towards BMWs being saved only by the providence of a well-placed fence.
And so I said to myself, Drinkwater, don’t be a dickhead.
The result was that my attempts at the Yard Ball were pathetic, often coming nowhere near my desired goal.
Bones carried us though, and we were, as HOV says, on to the next one.
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Playing / Fallout 3 [Forever, Apparently.]
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The second round? I came out with a glorious thunder typically reserved for my flatulence. In other words, I got really lucky with two throws and all of a sudden we had won. There were high-fives about as for a moment, Bro and I got to return to a state of gym class heroism. Don’t stunt, we all love winning. Even if it’s something meaningless, there’s something glorious about being good at something. Besting someone.
But?
A brief caveat.
Our opponents spent a good deal of time drinking, while I laced my veins with caffeine, still riding an energy drink from earlier in the day. I’m pretty sure if I had drank anything, I would have hurled throws into neighboring houses, broken windows, collapsed in fits of laughter. It was with a guilty conscience that I accepted my triumph. But fuck, if I still didn’t accept it.
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What are you fucks up to on Spaceship Earth this week?