But I was busy. With what you ask? Oh, nothing really. But saying I was busy is, I think, more professional sounding than, "I just couldn't be arsed to blog the last few days."
Alas, I am now arsed, but I don't have much to say. Oh sure, there are many subjects ripe for the pickins:
1) The debt ceiling debate rages on. (put the Extreme Couponers in charge)
2) I have a new kitten. (how does litter extinguish vile poo smells so quickly and yet we can't do anything about water treatment plants? fill the bastards with litter!)
3) My son just finished driver's ed. (his teacher told him if he gets into an accident and the air bag deploys to let go of the steering wheel as to not get burns on his arms. Why do people have so much respect for teachers? Lots of them are idiots. Not all of course. But I refuse to give them carte blanche respect like I would the fucking Missionaries of Charity. Ooh, they don't get paid enough! Oh yeah? Well plenty of them are getting overpaid for teaching our kids fuck all so I think it evens out.)
4) I put my son on an Amtrak train that was over an hour late yesterday. (Mother of all that is holy. If you need any further proof that government entities are a waste of oxygen, get involved with Amtrak. I swear I didn't even know anyone worked at the bloody station until 45 minutes after we arrived when a loudspeaker turned on to tell us about the delay. Oh, but the staff made themselves known each time a train arrived by going outside to help people board... while simultaneously taking a smoke break. Imagine having a job that allowed you to smoke while you were helping customers? "Oh, we do apologize Mr. Smith but you may feel some burning sensations over the next week." "Something to do with the stitches healing?" "Err, not exactly. I dropped a lit cigarette from my mouth into your chest cavity.")
5) It is still too fucking hot. (there really isn't anything I can say about this other than God made a serious fucking up by not allowing some natural ventilation in armpits, crotches and the space under your boob. What was he thinking? I'm sure up in heaven, at those high altitudes, he probably never sweats and therefore never considered what swamp ass feels like. "What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us?" Yeah, well he'll never be just like one of us until he smells like rotting chicken soup after mowing the lawn with a heat index of 115.)
Okay, yeah, so as you can see- not much going on at all.
I plan to be back as soon as possible with a meaningful piece of social commentary that will educate, inspire, and motivate. Yes, I know I've never done that before. But now's as good a time to start as any.