Resolute.

2009 has a lot of work ahead of it to try and top 2008. I do believe, however, that the year has the capacity to outdo its successor. In the name of effort, here are the things we will be doing to try to better ourselves and our lives.

1. Save More, Spend Less.
2. Get healthier (and for me, lose the saddlebags, pommelbags, cantlebags, and all other bags I've put on since The Boy moved in with his wonderful, but not-so-wonderful-for-my-thighs cooking).
3. Eat out far less often.
4. This really isn't a #4, but I'd like to point out that #1, #2, and #3 have a lot of synergy.

I will report back periodically as to how we're doing.

My mother would squeal with glee.

I have made a decision. It is time to stop taking The Pill. I have not yet told The Boy, so shhhh... I think he may have a sneaking suspicion but let's not tell him until we have to, shall we?

Why have I come to this decision, you ask? For one simple reason. Having a baby is the only way to rid our dwelling (if only temporarily) of The Cats without The Guilt or The Guilt Trips. It is the only legitimate reason to pawn the dirty animals off on family members until The Child is decently grown.

In the spirit of the just-passed holiday of Festivus, here is my list of grievances:

• Pooping indoors. Yes, we humans poop indoors, but not habitually for our entire lives. We also try not to poop on walls or floors.
• Cat butts. Dirty. Dingleberries stuck to the carpets.
  
• Starving cats. At all hours. Every day.
• Cat hair. It contains mysterious sticky substance in it that, once it gets on pants, shirts, blankets (insert chosen textile here), it is nearly impossible to remove. It just curls up in little dirty rotten cat-hair balls.
• Meowing. Incessantly. At all hours. Every day.
• Litter Boxes. I do not want to touch them. This creates strife when The Boy is tired/not feeling well/irritated/(insert excuse here) and does not want to clean them.
• Fights. Every squabble has involved, at some level, The Cats.
• Garbage cans. THEY KNOCK OVER THE GARBAGE AND SPREAD IT AROUND THE HOUSE. Not some flimsy plastic can with no lid, no sir, they knock over the stainless steel pedal-lid version.
• Sick fucks. They are sick fucks who like to hump each other in wide view of neighbors. Suck. Fucks. I cannot stress this point enough.
• Doggies. The Cats taunt them. They get near them and then get pissed off when the dogs want to play.
• Early mornings. Incessant Meowing (see #4). Waking up the puppy, who then wakes up the big dog, both of whom need to be walked and fed, all just an hour before my alarm goes off.
• Fatasses. Cats should not weigh 23 pounds. Or 19 pounds, even. Gross.

As you can see, the list is long and varied. There may be one small part of me, however, the part that has a shred of compassion and decency, that will not allow The Cats to be given up and that may care about them, a wee, tiny bit. That is why I need something like The Child to help justify the banishing of The Dirty Rotten Awful Cats. Why couldn't they be normal and cat-like? Keeping to themselves, cleaning their own butts, eating their own food and staying out of things. Seriously.

Day in the Life of The Man: Reprise

So it's almost two years later - some things have changed, some have stayed the same. Yes, I am still The Man, but this time, I wear a tie and I may be an idiot. I am happily co-habitating with a wonderful gal who deals with my idiosyncrasies, my horrible sense of humor, and my penchant for pushing buttons. The boys are still here - albeit, whinier than ever and in a constant state of starvation (read: on a diet, and up to 25% "less fat"). Big dog is, as I type, at the foot of the bed snoring with all the force of a Cummins Turbo Diesel on a 12% uphill grade. The newest member of the family, Albert, is in his crate, barking menacingly at the sounds of the night.

Albert Pujols Blyleven Maddox-McKay
a.k.a. Rotten, Bubba, Booger-boy, The Boy, "Huh-uh!!"

Age: 6 1/2 months

Height: Tall enough to drink out of the toilet (4-legged), Tall enough to eat off of the kitchen counter (2-legged)
Weight: .5 Nalidogs = 2 Fat Ones = 3 Other Ones
Breed: Boykin Spaniel/Rotten Golden mix
Distinguishing Characteristics: Pseudo-toupee on the back, Dr. Seuss tail, Beautiful Blond Eyelashes
Favorite toys: Water bowl, Food Bowl, Paper, Plastic, Shoes, Blarry the Blue Blobster, Nalidog


To-do List for This Week

1. Clean bedroom. Eliminate nest.
2. Press work clothes. Give up and take them to the dry cleaners.
3. Finish reading I Am Legend. Curse either book or movie for not being true to book or movie.
4. Ring in the new year, set strategy for cheating on resolutions without The Girl knowing (shhhhhhhh...)
5. Set aside money for textbooks that will likely not be cracked open until mid-March.
   

If John Edwards is a faggot...

...then Ann Coulter is a pre-op tranny. She's angry, outspoken, bigoted and conservative, and in the wake of such events as the Foley Page Scandal and the Ted Haggard Scandal, I'm not entirely unconvinced that she is actually a shim.

Supporting Fact #1: Women's Suffrage

What female would actually say that women should not vote? I guess the voting demographics suggest that all but one election since 1950 would have been won by Republicans. Did anybody else just get the heeby-jeebies? Last time I checked, only men were able to make "suffrage" sound like a bad thing. mAnn takes it to a brand new level of ignorance and deceit.

Supporting Fact #2: Adam's Apple

We've all seen it! And for some reason if you haven't, Google "Ann Coulter Adam's Apple" and see what you get. Better yet, if you have the Google Toolbar installed on your browser, just type in "Ann Coulter A" and look at the top of the auto-complete list.

Supporting Fact #3: Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Okay, I lied about the pre-op tranny thing. mAnn is actually full-on post-op tranny rock 'n' roller Hedwig Schmidt from the off-Broadway musical. Thanks to the folks at Encyclopedia Dramatica for this one. 'Nuff said.

If I were you, John Boy, I'd watch out. Remember in grade school when the little boys always picked on the girls they liked? It's kinda like that now, but this little boy named Ann has working parts and is determined to try them out on his/her new beau.

Don't say you haven't been warned.

An Afternoon in the Life of The Man

I'm not saying that I was a saint growing up. I'm not even saying that I was the average teen. I had my good points, but I had some smudges that to this day I still wouldn't tell my mother. I started smoking cigarettes at 14, pot at 16, I dropped acid for the first time at 17, and was that kid wearing a black trench coat and combat boots that the police had to chase away from the mall for spooking too many customers.

That's why it's difficult for me to admit this:

My name is Mike, and I am The Man.

Yes, The Man, as in "fuck The Man" and "down with The Man".

Kids frequently hang out in front of the restaurant with their friends, some with skateboards, some without. Apparently, the end of the shopping center is the prime spot for kids to hang out, because it's easier to run around back if somebody is spotted by The Man or any of his Associates. Yes, I've chased them off, and I felt awful about it. Turncoat! Hypocrite! Traitor, Rat-Fink, Benedict Arnold, Judas Iscariot! These names come to mind as the door closes behind me and the kids skate off to their next perch.

Today, I took some ID's. Pretty good fakes, if you ask me, but NC ID's are almost impossible to fix as long as you've got a brain and a good light source.

"It's real, I don't know what you're taking about."

"The expiration date doesn't match up, sweetheart. How about you, where's your ID?"

"I don't have one."

"Really? That's not what your server said. I'll make you a deal. You guys cooperate, and I won't turn in her ID to the A.L.E. She won't lose her ID for 2 years."

"Preston, come on, give it to him! I don't want to lose my ID for the next two years!"

"No. It's my ID. You're not going to take it away from me."

"Okay, let's try it this way, hand over the ID or I'll call the cops. I'm sure they'd have a field day with this one."

"I don't have an ID."

"Preston, come on, please!! I'm gonna lose my license!!"

"No."

"Alright, I guess I'll just have to call the police on this one."

I walked over to the phone, trying not to show the slight limp I've developed whilst recovering from the loss of Lou the Appendix.

"Mike," Sadie calls, arm outstretched, grasping the miscreant's fake ID. "Here you go. He gave it up."

"Tab them out and make them pay for the alcohol they wasted. They're not allowed back."

I called the A.L.E. anyway. I can be a spiteful bastard when I want to be. Danielle and Preston will have to explain to their parents what was so stressful about school on Thursday that they just had to hit the bar before heading home. "Man, study hall was a bitch today!" I can imagine them saying. "Mr. Willis just wouldn't lay off me about the Preamble to the Constitution. Jeez, I just couldn't wait until lunch so I could sneak off for a smoke behind D building!"

It is my cross to bear, this new status of oppression I've come to adopt. It's only fair, considering the youthful hi-jinks we played upon the generations before us. An endless cycle, and a sure sign that I've finally begun to grow up. I just hope it's not too late to remember to have fun along the way.