Filler Killer

It’s been four days, so I really oughta get my blog post up, but I seem to have come down with a severe case of the don’t-give-a-sh^ts, and that was before I found out Guiness was on sale at the casino.

So to while away the time while I play Drunk Fallout, some chewy chewy filler from back in the day…

You know what I like about beer?  Beer makes you stupid.  And it seems like the best way to deal with the world, some days, is to add a handicap to my brain.  I mean, I’ve never claimed to be Einstein (for one thing, he’s dead) but I will admit to being a little smarter than the average bear, but to continue the bear metaphor, some day the other bears are just so fucking stupid it makes me want to burn down the forest.  So when I have to devote a portion of my brain to such complex tasks as not falling over, or trying to not drool while I’m talking, it kind of puts me on an even keel with the rest of humanity.
Take shopping.  I hate shopping.  I go into the store, I am like a heat-seeking missile.  I am completely focused on my target, which happens to be cat food and Count Chocula cereal.  I budget, barring trouble locating the Count Chocula, 15 minutes, tops, to complete the mission.  But then you have to deal with the people squatting in the aisles, like tiny pieces of human cholesterol, peering at the cat food labels like they were chimps staring at the monolith in 2001.  And you want to grab them by the shirt and scream “IT’S NOT THE ROSETTA STONE!  IT’S FREAKING CANNED CAT FOOD!  IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT YOU BUY, THEY’RE NOT GONNA EAT IT ANYWAY!  AND EVEN IF THEY DO, THEY’LL PROBABLY BARF IT UP AGAIN LATER!”  But they stand there, peering anxiously at the calorie count on a package of Whiskas Temptations treats, their carts blocking the aisle, and yet somehow the store employees are not allowed to cane them with broomsticks obtained in the housewares department.
Or even worse are the Radio people.  I call them Radio people because that’s the only explanation for why they STOP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AISLE AND STARE AT NOTHING.  You’re pushing your cart dutifully along from the coffee to the multigrain cereal, trying to grease the wheels of commerce, and the nimbob in front of you just stops.  And stands there, eyes wide, as if they’re trying to remember their locker combination.  They must be receiving transmissions from the homeworld.  That’s the only explanation I can think of … somewhere orbiting Alpha Centauri, is a human-robot factory, and occasionally they beam instructions to Earth: “JUST STOP IN THE AISLE AND STARE AT NOTHING” they say, their antenna quivering with mirth.  “THEN GO STUDY THE CAT FOOD PACKAGES FOR HALF AN HOUR.”
You know what?  Maybe it’s better that I leave town.  I have an axe and a knife.  I will flee civilization and live by my wits in the wild.  I will stalk the wily elk and grapple it into submission before carving great elk steaks that I will roast over a fire made from old growth redwoods I cut myself.  Forget humanity.  I will become like a beast of the forest, with only my intellect to sustain me.
At least until it starts to snow.  Then I’m kind of fvcked.

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