Taco-holism.

Hello, my name is Jon, and I am a taco-holic. 

Living with a taco addiction is terrible. It affects your ability to make rational decisions.

Sunday night we ate at my favorite taco place. That night I became deathly ill. This of course raises the question of wether it was the food or the flu.

Today, I took the taco leftovers out to throw them away just in case they were the culprit . . . . But I couldn’t do it. I decided that risking grave illness was better than throwing tacos away,

So I ate them.

I’m sitting on the toilet waiting . . . Just in case.

Somewhere.

Somewhere in this house is the place where I put things so that I don’t lose them. I don’t know where that place is. Wherever this place is, it must be full of things.

 Somewhere in another dimension, next to a pile of unmatched socks that I have lost, there is a huge pile of delicious food that I never got to eat because I left it sitting on a restaurant table in a styrofoam leftover container.

 Next to the pile of food is a single socket. It’s the one that is missing from my socket set.

 Somewhere in my brain is a box where I put important things that I want to remember. The lid to that box is locked to keep the memories safe.

 Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten what I put in the box of important things that I want to remember. And the chances of me getting to open the box to remember what I put in there are slim because the key to the lock is in a place where I put things so I don’t lose them . . . . and I don’t know where that place is.

 

 

Get Your Hands off my Email.

I was sitting on the couch watching TV, when all of a sudden the front door burst open and a representative from Levi’s came running into our living room. Before I could react, he ripped my jeans from off of my body and threw them into the garbage. Then, after a brief struggle, he was able to force me into a newer version of the pants I had been wearing. 

“There you go” he said cheerfully as he opened the door to leave, “You’ll thank me later.”

I felt a bit violated not having a choice in the matter. Worse yet, I soon discovered that my pockets had been rearranged. Instead of two back pockets, I now had one big pocket on the left thigh. And my front pockets were now on the knees. The belt loops were gone because this new pair of jeans was supposed to be fitted better to my butt, eliminating the need for a belt according to the Levi’s guy.

 I was angry . . . . No, furious!

Actually, that never really happened, but it’s how I feel when Windows, or Facebook, or Itunes, or Gmail, or some other operating system or app decides that it is in my best interest to just yank away a version of their program that I am comfortable with, and replace it with one that they deem more beneficial.

I am not the most computer savvy person in the world, so these changes can be very traumatic. There is comfort in familiarity when it comes to my relationship with technology. It makes me livid, when you take away a system I am used to. That system was my security. It was my blanky . . . . .

Give me my old blue jeans back!!!

 

It’s cold in Michigan . . .Too Cold to be Manly.

It’s a windy twenty degrees in Michigan right now. Our heat registers look like iPod docking stations, only the iPods are actually humans, and they aren’t recharging, they are soaking up heat. There are fights and arguments over the dining room register because it blows the most heat.

Even the dog is reluctant to go a outside to pee.

I used to watch all those shows about living in Alaska and think I wanted to move to there. . . . where only real men survive . . . . I would live like a wild mountain man and all that nonsense. I’m starting to look at things more realistically now.

I will miss garbage day just to avoid being outside for the three minutes it takes to put the garbage out. Real men in Alaska would take out the garbage in their underwear on a windy twenty degree day.

Real men in Alaska hunt and fish for food on a twenty degree day. I get chilly in the frozen food section of the grocery store and try to hurry down the aisle.

Real men drive a team of Husky dogs pulling a rickety sled through the snow to go the hundred miles to town for supplies. I won’t drive anywhere without starting my truck and letting it warm up for an hour before driving to the store to get more hot chocolate.

I now know that I would rather live in a jail cell with a group of delinquent kids repeatedly shooting me through the bars with BB guns than to live in Alaska.

I’m not giving up my dream to go and live like a real man. I’m just altering the location where I do it. There must be some place in the Caribbean where real men endure hardships to survive. Hardships like slow service at the beachside Tiki bar.

A Message from the Natalie Warning System.

Attention all animals residing in my house.

This is a message from the Natalie warning system:

Natalie (the young girl that also lives here and who treats you all like her children) has recently determined that all of you smell and have greasy fur. Those of you that have been with us for a while know that this means that at some point in the next 24 hours, your flea-bitten carcasses will be snatched up and hauled into the bathtub regardless of any snarling, hissing, teeth gnashing, and claw baring. You will be thoroughly scrubbed with shampoo and then have your fur styled and fumigated with smelly-goody stuff. Some of you who are less fortunate may also be dressed in various little girl and doll clothing after said fur scrubbing.

It is useless to resist.

Do not look to me for help. I will be going to the neighbor’s house when the melee begins, and will not be returning until the baths are over and the hair and blood stain cleanup phase has begun.

You have been warned.