January 17, 2004
PROGRESS REPORT
Things are going swimmingly at the Velocihovel. I haven't actually touched a tile yet, but I have rearranged the sawhorses holding my mantel so that I can park the Blazer in the garage again. That is progress, of a sort.
Not really, though. I must confess a certain lassitude of late. I just can't get dick done. I don't know why. Perhaps because I understand the sun will eventually burn away, and our species will disintegrate, and so what's the point of a mantel? You have to look at the Big Picture, folks.
No, the only solution to this lethargy is to book some vacation time, which I have done. To accomplish these tasks? Hell, no. I'm going skiing. When the going gets tough, Velociman hauls ass.
Whistler. British Columbia. Thanks to my bro Jack Straw and his significant, Shell-Girl. (Well, thanks to Shell-Girl. It's her condo. Holla!) A week in the Coast Ranges. Ah, bliss.
I won't ski every day, however. I plan to do some snowboarding, some snowmobiling, and, yes! dogsledding. They have that. I'll channel my inner Susan Butcher and mush my boys to the Iditarod finish line.
I normally think of warm weather this time of year, but hellfire, I wore shorts today. Plus the four of us were in Negril in July. No, it's time for some snow.
Warning: the following is disgusting.
I need to get rid of this freaking warhead on my inner thigh, though. After reading this story, which Margi turned me on to, I felt I should share the fact that I have a bomber-marble sized whateverthefuck about two inches from my sack. I get them occasionally from bike riding, but not like this cowboy. Ingrown hair or something.
So this fucker is titanic, tight, and tender. I lanced it with a spare insulin syringe of Flounder's four times today. Did I get relief? Hell, no. The punctures are obviously too small. Hurts like a bastard, too. So I gingerly grasped the pustule between two fingers and squeezed it until my eyes crossed, sweat-beads popped, and I nearly blacked out from the pain. Result? Nothing. None of that glorious Ruby Red grapefruit colored excreta we all secretly get off on. No twisted inch long hair sproinging out of the top of the volcano. Just pain. Shit. I might just get Jack Danieled tonight, put a piece of wood between my teeth, and break out the Swiss Army Knife. If that punk Hanks can take out a bad tooth with an ice skate this should be a piece of cake. Chocolate cake.
Warheads. I say we ban 'em.