Rod Stewart Got His Stomach Pumped

Getting edgy this afternoon as the Coulter-clone in the cube next to mine has her desktop satellite radio turned way up. It never veers from the all top-40 station. All top-40, all the time. And, really, it’s only like the top 20, cuz I swear to Jebus it’s always the same 20 over and over and over again, all goddamned miserable day long. If I go another day hearing that nasally pussywillow sing “you’re beau-ta-fa-uh, beau-ta-fa-uh” another dozen times, I’m gonna need the good insurance cuz I will have rammed my steel letter opener right into both eardrums. Which would be better than having to hear that untalented douche whine about his testicles getting torn off in a threshing accident and falling in love with his favorite goat or whateverthefuck that shitty, shitty song’s about. And don’t get me started on the half-assed dancehall “right temperature” song. Fucker’s so played out it’s deader than Abe Lincoln. White kids summer party song, my ass.

I wear these wickedly painful earbud headphones all damn day not only so I don’t have to listen to the endless top-40 song cycle, but also to avoid having to listen in to the newly-graduated, frat-sorority conversations that go on around me. These kids set new levels in vapidity every day. Any time I catch one saying anything half-way intelligent, after nearly falling out of my seat, I wanna give ‘em a pat on the back and say something like, “THERE you go, kiddo. Spoken like a college graduate. Keep at it and one day you might just walk upright.”

But I don’t. My hope is usually dashed when the next thing outta their mouth is less intelligent than what my dog says with her eyes. I go back to pounding my head against the brick wall in my mind while my fingers get back on track and type, type, type…

All this while today some fucking moron in Massachusetts calls the cops because he buys a vanity for his bathroom remodeling project only to get it home and discover a huge amount of drugs stashed away in it. The luck. I mean it’s the kind of thing stoned college kids and down and out losers everywhere dream about day in and day out. Jagoff.

Type, type, type…