Not to be swooped up in my loving Messiah’s hands, but to have access to all the sweet clothes and banging ass kicks left behind.
Hell, I’m scooping up me some yezzys and a polo track suit. (Maybe change this line)
Start me a fucking Etsy and eBay that shit.
I think it’s going to be shitty living here. So they say, or so I’ve heard.
What, like 7 years of tribulation?
That tribulation is going to fly by.
People will be saying, “Where did this tribulation go? It seems like just yesterday it was raining frogs. And the fires. Pfft, just a blur.”
There probably won’t be internet, so I’ll have to sell my pilfered goods the old fashioned way; by word of mouth, print advertising, and delivering a great product, only harvesting quality.
I probably won’t be the only one trying to get the hottest shit, so I’m sure I’m going to have to kill a lot of people.
I have to mentally prepare for that.
Even more pressure on top of starting a new business venture.
Richard and Bob finished a grueling, sun-baked, slave laboring day on the job and headed to their after work watering hole. Bob would always say that whiskey and beer is the best medicine to get the taste of the day out of your mouth. They pulled on the small, nondescript pub door and it was locked. Richard pointed out a sign that read…
To our loyal customers who know Billy like family:
We regret to inform you that Billy has suffered a major heart attack. Bill’s Swill and Fill will be closed until further notice. We apologize for any inconvenience. The family has set up a GoFundMe account for any donations for his medical treatment. Please call Debra at the bar’s number for the info, as the phones are now forwarded to her. Thank you for your understanding. We look forward to serving you in the future.
“Well fuck,” Bob squawked. “What the shit are we gonna do now? I don’t want to go home and drink. The old lady and those screaming bastards are there.”
Richard, the brains of the two, said, “Just hold on man. I’m thinking.”
Richard pulled his phone out and typed, ‘bars near me’. A plethora of options appeared, with only a few within 5 miles. He scoured the listings near the top and said,
“Bingo. Todd’s Place is only a mile away. It says that they have beer specials and their happy hour doesn’t stop until 7 p.m. I say we go there. Whatcha say?”
Bob looked at him with wide eyes and exalted,
“Shit, all beer is special to me, and if I’m drinkin, then I’m happy. Let’s go.”
They each pulled up to Todd’s Place. It was a fairly unremarkable establishment on the edge of town with hardly any cars out front. The two headed in. When they opened the doors, classic rock was playing and a haggard blonde woman was tending the bar. They took a couple of empty stools and asked about the specials that were advertised on the internet. She gave some spiel about all their beer being fresh and cheap. They ordered a pitcher of draft and started in on it. Looking around, they noticed a few men sitting by themselves at the bar, a man and woman in a booth snuggling, and two guys sitting fairly close on the opposite bar. Bob was the first to speak up and said,
“Looks like we gotta coupla blades over there.”
“Blades?” inquired Richard.
“Gay blades.”
“Don’t let them bother you Bob. Just drink your beer. Hell, I thought you were supposed to be happy. Let them be.”
“Look at them all cozied up to one another. Laughin and whisperin like some fairies. Makes me fuckin sick.”
“Stop, Bob. There ain’t no need for that. Just drink up man. What’s your thoughts about Jimmy getting to run the 300 ton crane? Think he deserves it?”
Bob didn’t acknowledge Richard’s attempt to change the subject. He just kept downing pint glasses and looking at the two across from him. Richard couldn’t understand why Bob was getting so agitated. The two of them sat in silence for another fifteen minutes until Richard said,
“Hell man. I’ve had my fill. Let’s get home. You ready?”
“Naw. I ain’t done here. I got some drinkin to do.”
“You should probably leave with me man.”
“I said I ain’t done drinkin. Leave if you want to leave. I’ll seeya at work tomorrow.”
Richard hesitantly left. Bob continued stewing and slugging away at his beer. Another twenty minutes passed and Bob’s pitcher was drained. The worn blonde asked about a refill, but Bob told her that he was good. The two guys opposite to Bob paid their tab and got up to leave. Bob quickly got the attention of the disheveled blonde and paid as well. He was probably ten steps behind the two of them as they walked hand in hand, slightly stumbling, headed to their car.
“Queers!” Bob yelled at them from behind.
The attention of the two guys were now completely on Bob and his derogatory slur. The contemptment and happiness of the two were now fleeting memories.
“Fuck you old man,” one of them said, as he turned to face Bob.
“Let’s just go. He’s just a dumbass drunk,” said the other, trying to pull him back by his arm.
Bob immediately saw red and was on them, swinging, punching, kicking, and spitting. When he emerged from his rage-filled state, Bob was standing over bloody and beaten piles of flesh spilled onto the concrete.
Once back at home, Bob washed the blood from his hands, got a beer from the fridge, and sat in silence for about ten minutes contemplating the previous events. He walked to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Bob absolutely loathed the person that looked back at him, and couldn’t believe what he had just done. Tears began to well up in his lost eyes.
He then unlaced the tops of his work boots, just enough to remove them, took off his faded flannel work shirt, weathered blue jeans, and dingy white socks.
However, he left the red lace thong on. He loved how the little frilly edges tickled his ass cheeks, and how the middle string hugged the buttplug.
My wife said that we needed the large cast iron pot washed to sear some steaks. I told her that I would handle that. I confessed to her of my relatively newfound joy from hand washing, hand drying, and seasoning cast iron pots with some type of oil. I told her that it was actually more of a slow burn of interest, growing gradually over time, as I was taught to respect the cast iron, if only subconsciously.
She gave me an awkward glance, but quickly said, “Okay.” As if to say, whatever, just wash the damn thing.
I inherited multiple cast iron pots that went to my mom after her mom passed, then to my dad after she passed, then to me after he passed.
That may sound like quite a long time, but it was all of 6 years.
I’m not exactly sure when or where the pots were bought, made, or where the lineage begins.
However, the thought of a pot being handed down from generation to generation is admirable and fascinating to me. The fact that is looks almost as good today, as is did upon it’s production day, is a true testament to hard work and care that is few and far between in todays society and current work ethic. Generally speaking of course. But…
I guarantee, a goddamned t-fal set will never last over 200 years.
Gloomy Forebodings 