It costs five more dollars to see a movie in the super big screen theater.
Not only do you get the super big screen and an ultra digital high resolution picture, but the audio is diamond-clear surround sound. And the seats are the most relaxing and comfortable seats you have ever sat in.
But the popcorn is stale, the Cokes watered-down, and the bathrooms are disgusting.
Want to solve all that?
Watch the damn movie at home with a decent home theater system.
You can hit pause when you have to go to the bathroom.
Unless your seat’s a toilet.
I grew up with coffee cans in the pantry.
This whole newfangled coffee pod craze makes no sense.
How the hell are you supposed to bury money in the back yard with those?
You can fit a few pennies in those things. Maybe a folded-up dollar or two.
But in order to bury your entire fortune, you’ll need to tear up your whole yard to plant a few thousand of these dinky little things.
Won’t the neighbors notice the mess?
And by the time you buy enough pods to fill up with your money, you won’t have any money left.
So let me get this straight…
Jack ignores his mother, and he sells the cow for some magic beans.
She throws them out the window, and they grow into a gigantic beanstalk.
Then he goes up the beanstalk and lies to the giant’s wife, robs the giant blind, and then kills the giant?
The dude sounds like a dick to me. He broke into a guy’s home, robbed, and then murdered him!
But I’m not about to say anything bad about Jack.
Because that guy just might lie to my wife, rob me blind, and then kill me.
You know what I love more than anything?
And not just any pudding. It’s got to be chocolate pudding.
Plain chocolate. No Fudge. No Dutch. No Milk. No Dark or White or Double. Just plain chocolate.
Sometimes I like a dollop of whipped cream on top, and other times I just want it plain.
Pudding pops? Hell no. That’s just frozen ice crap. I want creamy chocolate pudding.
Bill Cosby once gave me a pudding pop. I took it, screamed, and tried to impale him with it.
Lucky for him, they’re blunt.
He gave me the dry cleaning bill.
One cereal box sports a manic bee offering honey-flavored oat holes.
Bees sting. If you’re allergic, that shit kills.
Another box displays a chocolate-crazed vampire.
Vampires bite and suck your blood. Disgusting and deadly!
Then there’s the deranged sun with two scoops of raisins cradled in his sunbeams.
The sun causes skin cancer. And heat-stroke. And retina damage.
Didn’t Wheaties feature OJ Simpson once?
Man, that guy was a bloodthirsty bastard.
What is it with cereal companies using murderous characters to sell their overpriced boxes full of sugar and corn byproducts?
Fuck that. I’m going to have yogurt and bacon.
I bought a Keurig beverage maker for Christmas.
I mostly use fill-your-own coffee cups with it because Kona Hawaiian coffee is my favorite.
But I have other flavors like Caramel and Hazelnut that I like for when I’m too lazy to fill and wash the fill-your-own.
As for tea, well, tea bags are so much cheaper than K-cup tea. I’ve got boxes and boxes of tea on the shelf.
Unused. Because I’m too lazy to make a pot or pitcher of it. Or even put 2 in a cup and run the Keurig without anything in it for hot water.
An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but I’ve found that a leather bullwhip is just as effective.
Especially when it’s one of those doctors that tries to avoid patients as much as possible, packing in way too many appointments for the day and having the nurses do all those blood pressure and height and weight things.
“The doctor will be with you in a moment,” is such a lie, as same as “This won’t hurt a bit.” and “You don’t need that bullwhip.”
Oh hell yes I do! I say, and I crack the whip, grinning wide.
It’s been a while since I last had rum.
Usually, I drink Jack Daniels or amaretto. Or beer.
But rum? I mean, if I want to get messed up so I can go to sleep, I’ll do vodka. Or walk around the block to wear myself out.
Rum isn’t my go-to sleep potion.
Still, rum is rum, and my coworker brought me back a bottle from Puerto Rico.
How can I say no?
After mixing my third rum-and-Coke, I realized that it wasn’t going to help me get to sleep.
Regular Coke. With caffeine.
Not the gold-label uncaffeinated Coke.
I never liked green beans. They always made me feel sick.
“I made them, and you’ll goddamned well them!” my mother would shout at me. “They’re good for you.”
“No they’re not!” I’d shout back, and throw up.
Things got nasty as I got older. Then one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. The cops came and found me standing over Mom’s body, screaming and still holding the knife.
The doctors checked me out, head to toe.
“You’re allergic to green beans,” they said. “Clearly a case of child abuse.”
Insanity, schmanity. I was not guilty by reason of allergy.
Most mornings, I wake up early.
I start a cup of coffee, have some yogurt, and eat vitamin and fiber chews.
Then I get out my wireless headset so I can listen to my favorite podcasts.
At some point, Tinny jumps up on my shoulder and takes a nap. And I pet her.
I can type or text while my arm is around her. She doesn’t mind much.
The earlier, the better. More time to pet her. But at some point, I have to get up, shower, get dressed, and go to work.
She hates those goodbyes.
I do too.