And why doesn't the coffee shop deliver?

It's 71 and sunny and I have a whole list of fun things I can do today (really--a list) and I can't get this fucking permafrown off my face long enough to go do any of it. Last night I worked late tattooing the twitchiest man alive with the dumbest tattoo I've done since I did that Taz holding a shotgun in one hand and a confederate flag in the other.

Then, when I went to the awesome dump of a bar with Kara I couldn't even play darts because somehow I lost my driver's license. A week ago. And just now realized it. And you know the probability of finding it is inversely proportionate to the length of time it's been missing so that thing is fucked.

Oh, but I almost forgot the good news. My MasterCard should be up for a promotion soon following its unusually hard work over the last couple of days buying all that internet crap for the guy in Oslo who stole my credit card number. Way to go, you silver piece of shit.

Fine. Fuck it. I'll do it.

Shelley Pomeroy's End of the Year Party is actually happening. I'm not sure what's more impressive: That we did something we said we were going to, or that we all think we can be in a small mountain cabin for three days and not hate each other by the end of it. Excuse me, I mean hate each other more.

If I were betting, I'd say the odds are good that someone is trapped in a refrigerator that's on fire before Memorial Day. And if pressed, I'd name Moronica as the favorite to be enjoying an up-close view of the crisper drawer.

In real life, the blog's writers and posters act just like they do online. So you can imagine the potential for anti-awesomeness this trip possesses. It's not a vacation, it's a prison sentence.

On the other hand, Moronica is threatening to bring ungodly amounts of alcohol, and my favorite friend Doogie will be there.

More to come, I'm sure, after I serve my time. I'd write more, but the labels say it all...

Those bastards at the cable company...

...took away my cable this afternoon. Apparently they did an audit of what customers where paying, and compared it with what services customers were receiving. Fucking assholes.

Life no longer has meaning.

Attention: Molly Slaggerty

So while at my gym today a man in the locker room started a conversation with me. This is the first time someone at my gym has spoken to me (and hopefully the last).

Anyway, Miss Molly, this is your fault. It was painful; he was a real estate agent.

Realtor: Hey man, how many tattoos do you have?

Me: (what? you're talking to me? fuck) ... (mumbles something incoherent)

Realtor: Yeah, I go to the shop downtown. I'm thinking of getting a big dragon.

Me: (You mean like as a tattoo, or a pet) ... (mumbles something incoherent)

Realtor: On my chest.

Me: (that doesn't answer the question) ... (mumbles something incoherent)

Then I did that thing I do where I try to drum up business for you... Hope you don't mind doodling dragons on lame dudes' boobs.

And oh yeah, he was fucking naked the entire time.

I told him to go to your website. And to put on pants.