The theme to this post will be things that don't make a lot of sense to me lately. Let's get into it.
1. Some Neil Diamond material. Before the die-hard fans come roaring into my street like a horde of infuriated Visigoths, all clutching copies of Hot August Night with a view to swatting me into submission with said album, I will preface this by pointing out I enjoy listening to Diamond. But to anybody I've offended, please bung on your copy of Hot August Night and have an honest listen to I Am ... I Said and THEN try to tell me I don't have a point. Yes, the narrative does demonstrate disenfranchisement and loneliness, but tell me you cannot listen to him moaning some quasi-Sartre lyric ('I am...') that nobody heard, 'not even the chair', without wanting to roll around the floor, clutching your sides. I have this image of an anguished person wailing, "I am!" to a room devoid of other sentient beings, and then reproachfully demanding: "Well, what about you, Chair? Why aren't you saying anything? Don't you even care?"
I feel guilty for wanting to laugh because Diamond is such a prolific songwriter and I do enjoy his stuff (except for that whiny shite You Don't Bring Me Flowers and the nauseating Turn on Your Heart Light), but I can't help laughing when I hear that lyric.
2. Donald Trump Junior. The semen-demon of #47 has commented upon the recent cancer diagnosis of his father's predecessor, Joe Biden. Trump Junior tweeted the question as to how Biden's wife Jill, a doctor, failed to diagnose a Stage 5 cancer. This is beyond spiteful. This is also deeply flawed. Do you know why, Trump Junior? It is because Jill Biden holds a doctorate not in medicine, but in EDUCATION. You would know this if you pulled your head out of your arse and did some research. Honestly, he appears to have removed his head from its poised position over a line of booger sugar only to stuff it straight up his bum. And the fact that someone can post something so malicious makes no sense.
3. The dormant danger of getting a clean pair of Reg Grundies out of your drawer. It's true. Yesterday, I cleaned my bathroom sink and mopped the bathroom floor with no problem. I then attended to my ironing - no problem. I decided to have a shower before going grocery shopping. I was at my drawer choosing from the freshly laundered Under-Chunders, moved slightly, and OHWHATTHEACTUALFUCKINGFUCKHAPPENEDJUSTTHEN?
Anyway, I'm having some rest with a diet of ibuprofen to quell the small spot fire that spontaneously ignited in the small of my back. Feeling a lot better, just taking it easy and taking no chances. But how can one perform a task that requires a certain level of manual handling with no drama, yet sustain injury choosing a pair of underpants? Maybe one day the Universe will yield an answer, but in the meantime, I will take great care in choosing my undergarments.
