My fantasy about a French candy apple and ghetto malt liquor


This Brain.


Hate it. I hate this time change. Hate it with a passion.
It’s only one hour. But this is the modern mad world. This is the modern world and we live in increments of milliseconds.


In our day, our life. One hour is a lifetime. An infinity.


So don’t go telling me I’m overreacting because it’s only one hour.
One hour goes a long way. And I feel it. Take one hour from me and you will truly fuck up my day.
And that’s what happens every Springtime.
The shortcut for the memory-impaired, remember it?
Spring ahead, Fall behind?
So I woke up, it was 6:41. Aw shit. No, 7:41. Damnit!
It’s that familiar sense of disappointment I feel every year when Daylight Savings time kicks into effect. That sinking disappointment and sense of violation.
It’s like someone broke into my life and stole an hour. Threw everything askew.
Left me one hour closer to death and I didn’t even enjoy it. It’s like waking up from a long coma. Fifteen years, lost. One hour lost.
Never mind that in October I get it back. Not the point.
All I know is that right now it is 18:25 PDT and it feels…earlier.
Who do we complain to?
Which department controls this daylight savings crap?
Daylight Savings is one of those orphaned policies of yore when farmers woke up by the cock-a-doodle-do of the morning cockwakeup call, and it continued, unquestioned, unabated, and we continue obeying it. Following the “law” or whatever the hell it is. We don’t think of it, we don’t question it. It’s become some bizarre larger than life, Dickensian generations-old procedure that no one owns. We go along with it because ultimately society functions fine in spite of it.


Daylight Savings time is like the weather.
Everyone complains about it…


I bet if someone made it a cause, a cause celebre (love it!) and enough people rallied behind it, somehow, Daylight Savings would be relegated to the rear shed with the rest of our antiquated relics of bygone eras.
One hour. I need my hour. Need it…so…badly…


My brain is blurry.
Which means.
Pointless Ruminations.


I’m worried.
So many of my posts sinking into this category lately.
What does that say about me?
Pointless Ruminations are like cream puffs. They are great once in a while, but as soon as you make a daily habit of them it’s time to stop. Stop and self-examine. What is really going on. Why am I eating cream puffs every day? Why is my waist slowly expanding like my sex organ each time I think of Alizee?




Alizee, of course.


She’s a really hot French chick who I was introduced to by Athol Kay. OK, introduced in absentia. Athol doesn’t know her, I sure don’t know her. He turned me on to her (so to speak).
She got her musical start in 2001 while she was still blue-ball inducing jail bait. She 25 now, but…married. Still inducing blue balls.



From what I gather, she is the French equivalent of Britney Spears but a million times better for two simple reasons:


1) She’s brunette
2) She is seemingly lacking all the mental baggage which Ms. Spears assaults our good senses with


This Alizee chick is one of those women who truly leaves me breathless.


You know what I’m talking about. That person who, for whatever reason, manages to burrow right under your skin like a remorseless flea. That person who inexplicably grabs your gonads and will not let them go.


I’m sure most guys would say Alizee is hot, but I doubt very many would elevate her level of passion-inducement with the same lunatic tenacity that I would.


I’m waaaayyyyy over acting like a teenage girl in the face of marvelous physical beauty. I have way too much self-control and maturity damnit. Women don’t get to me anymore…


But this Alizee…she devours me.


I’d like to smear her body with a gallon of warm caramel syrup, from head to toe, and lick every ounce right off before proceeding to grab her ankles….


Filthy old man.
Isn’t that what I am?


Dude when am I going to grow up?


Or whatever it is society tells us we must do by the time we are 45.
Grow up!


Buy a house.
Get married.
Have a career.
Take things really seriously.
Have some weird investment portfolio.
Drive a respectable car and wear a respectable suit. Carry a respectable briefcase.


Obviously, not I.


Besides, I’ve refined and fine-tuned the equation, the secret “formula” if you will, that will allow me to lure my little French birdy and convince her to willingly surrender her loins to my debauched temptations.


From the Department of Cheesy Visual Effects (once again), I bring you:


That’s it.
Stir up those 2 ingredients in a lab beaker.


Break out the warm caramel!