I’m tired of unrealistic hyperbole used as the yardstick by which true love is measured.  “I’d swim the farthest ocean, I’d climb the highest mountain,” etc.  In addition to the impossibility of these feats, it is unrealistic that you’d have to go to such lengths to prove your love.  Unless you’re in love with a Sherpa, you aren’t likely to be challenged with reaching the summit of Mt. Everest.   (If you ARE in love with a Sherpa, congratulations on a statistical rarity). So, I’ve taken the liberty of constructing a more pragmatic standard of relationship testing.  I call it, “the Drive-Thru Paradigm.”   Let’s say your girlfriend calls you on your way home from work, and asks you to pick up something from the only fast food restaurant on the way.  How many cars have to be in the drive-thru before you say, “Fuck this, I’m not waiting a half hour so my too-lazy-to-fix-her-ass-some-hamburger-helper girlfriend can enjoy a Crispy Chicken Sandwich”?  How many cars before the fallout from getting home without that Frostee weighs less in a cost/benefit analysis than waiting in line behind minivanfulls of  potential ‘Biggest Loser’  contestants?  And this, my friends, is the practical measure of love.  Unfortunately, I can’t use the Drive-Thru Paradigm (or DTP for short when you explain this bulletproof plan to all of your family and friends).  I expressly forbid my wife from making extravagant dining requests, because I take her to IHOP every single Saturday and I don’t want her to get spoiled.  (Author’s note:  If you do roll home without the bag of McWhatevers, don’t attempt to diffuse the heat you’ll take by telling her, “It’s not like you really NEEDED it, anyway.”)

I’m really, really happy for the Saints and the city of New Orleans.  Now “Who Dat” can take its rightful place next to “Show Me the Money,” and “How YOU doin'”  in the lexicon of justifiable junk-punch catch phrases.

David Guetta needs to work on his game.  “Excuse, me, Miss, but I’m trying to find a way to say this without being disrespectful toward you.  You see, you’re nothing I could compare to the local neighborhood whore.  Also, the way you’re shaking that ass, I really just can’t take any more.”   I mean, if you’re trying  not to be disrespectful, you want to consider not coming right back with the word “whore” in any context.  The guys from Jersey Shore had better skills than that.  Almost.

I’m 31, so I’m just conceding that I’ll never,ever  get to re-create the bike dancing scene in RAD to Real Life’s “Send Me an Angel.”  And this makes me sad.  (Yep, I know the band name.  I might have the soundtrack.  Don’t make this a big deal.)

Since I’m in between jobs, I thought I’d look for a little volunteer work.  You know, give a little something back.  Because that’s just the type of guy I am.  So I called my local Senior Hunger office (selected because the name elicited visions of famished geriatrics answering  phones) to see what I could do.  Disappointingly, this organization seeks to end senior hunger, but has little or no starving seniors actually working there.  For my money, if grandpa really wanted a meal, the least he could do would be to get on his Rascal and answer a couple of phones.  But I’m not running things, so whatever.  I’m just saying that you shouldn’t get a free ride because you’re a 93 year-old shut in.  It isn’t a good example.  This office is perpetuating the idea that once you get to be a certain age, you don’t have to do shit.  Geriatric laziness is a real epidemic in this country, and until we take a stand, it’s just going to get worse.  And if you think I’m bitter just because Senior Hunger told me they couldn’t use my help because they don’t trust alcoholics and drug addicts in recovery not to steal narcotics from the seniors to whom they deliver, you’re absolutely wrong.  Haven’t even given it a second thought. I don’t need their Meals OR their Wheels.  Let the lazy old motherfuckers starve, for all I care.

If you’re a smoker, and your wife repeatedly tells you that you stink of cigarette smoke, don’t crack back with, “Well at least I can shower.  You smell like bitch, and that’s the kind of stank that don’t wash off.”

“Hello…is this 107.7 FM?  No, no, I don’t know the phrase that pays.  I was just giving you guys a little  jingle to tell you if you play that Kings of Leon song one more time, I’m going to BLOW MY FUCKING BRAINS OUT.  Have a great day.”

These are the things that keep me awake at night.

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