CRAPOLA

And so it is Friday, thank gawd, thank gawd.

I've only been at work for exactly 1 hour and 19 minutes, and I'm already bored. "Living," for me, is what happens between the times of 5pm-11pm on weekdays, and for 48 hours on weekends. The other time not accounted for is spent on what I call "Soul-Sucking, Hair-Graying, 'Rhoid-Inducing, Can't-Fart-Without-Looking-Around-First" work.

Maybe I'll pack up the kids and Becky in the Prius and escape for greener pastures. Motor north via the 101, throwing off the shackles of responsibility and the last vestiges of my tax-paying life.

And maybe bats will fly out of my anus.

I often resist the urge to go running down the street completely naked except for a pair of red pumps while screaming "Toto! Toto!"

I often resist the urge to run amuck with a weed whacker.

Without Becky and the kids, I'd probably go insane. "Or turn dang fruity," as my pop would say.

Hey, I hear Nancy Reagan is available now. Think I'll put on a tux and go innerduce myself. But I guess Becky wouldn't like it. Of course, before you get married, it's all "Sure, go ahead and seduce all the octogenarian ex-presidential widows that you want! I'm cool with that!" But as soon as she gets that ring, boy howdy, there go all your hobbies!

Next week I'll post a picture of Buster Poindexter with a small Asian girl per Mike's request.