The Busy-Lazy boys (and cousin Sasha, natch) are spending the afternoon at the Designing-Business Chateau decorating Drag Queen Eggs in celebration of the resurrection of Christ. This Fierce Executive Drag Poultry Eggstravanga is fast becoming an annual tradition. Will we be able to top the Glittery Bedazzled Ovo-Realness of last year’s batch of eggs? Tune in to find out!
Yesterday was I all, Hey everypony! I just posted my 3,000th post! But then I realized that I said the same thing two months ago! And then I was all, How’s that possible, yo!?! And then I remember that I had deleted most of the posts related to adoption and/or posts directly related to the boy because of the mentally ill loons who troll blogs that talk about adoption and shizz, and then I got mad about those mentally ill loons, and then I was all, Fuck it. I guess I reached my 3,000th post twice. Whatevs.
Because it’s Sunday and/or Easter, we had pho for lunch. The boy had a ton of food to eat, but he said that he always has more room for tripe and/or marrow, so he started picking food out of my bowl. Ordinarily I’d be all, Don’t touch my food, yo! But since he’s my kid, I was all, Whatevs.
Hey everypony! Guess who just reached Post No. 3,000!?! This guy!
Thanks for putting up with my crap.
Busy daddy gets back from his Very Important European Business Trip tomorrow night, so I took his car to get washed. Because I’m nice like that. Plus, I don’t think he has taken his car to the carwash, like, ever before. Maybe we just have different priorities?
While we were waiting for busy daddy’s car to come out of the carwash, the boy wouldn’t sit still. He pretty much burned 1,000 calories during the five minute wait. Like, I was exhausted just watching him run around. Like, where do kids get all of their energy? I guess maybe I shouldn’t have given him that triple espresso after dinner?
I’m kidding! The boy doesn’t drink triple espressos! He prefers grande caramel macchiatos, silly!
After work, I took the boy and his cousin Sasha for a quik-e bite at a sushi-slash-hibachi joint in Uppityville. I’ll tell you what, the Good Friday traffic was mental because the drive that would ordinarily take about five minutes took, like, more than 25 minutes! Plus, the parking situation was ridiculous. But no matter. Our meal was half off because of some special deal that the place was running.
The eats were just awight. Maybe that’s why it all was half off?
During my lunch break, I had a quik-e doctor’s appointment to a) check my hearing and b) figure out what’s going on with my chronic ear infections-slash-sinus congestion thingamabob. Apparently it’s not “normal” to have vertigo and/or a near constant bloody nose. Plus, I’ve been told that a grown man isn’t supposed to have snot running out of his nose holes 24/7. Who knew?
The good news is that my moderate hearing loss hasn’t progressed much since my last checkup. Like, I can still hear awight and stuff, but given my family history of hearing loss and/or diminished hearing, I need to check myself before I wreck myself, yo! You know, on account of not wanting to go deaf. The bad news is that my ear infection is “severe,” which means I’m back on antibiotics. Sad face.
I was all, Doc, I’ve been on antibiotics, like, a bajillion times this year!!! I’m sure I’m starting to develop a resistance to the stuff. And my doctor was all, “If that infection shizz goes from your ear holes into your spine, it could become meningitis and then you could totes lose your hearing all together, yo!” And I was all, Doc, why you gotta be such a bummer? And my doctor was all, “Losing your hearing would be a way bigger bummer than having to take antibiotics, yo! Take your damned meds, son!”
So now I’m back on antibiotics, for the third time in as many months! I’m like a walking pharmacology experiment. My doctor said frequent air travel is the likely culprit for my latest bout of ENT maladies. He said airplanes are basically petri dishes of infectious disease. Gosh, I wish peeps would just keep their cooties to themselves!!!
After work, I took the boy and his cousin Sasha for some Chinese eats. Everypony knows that Chinese eats in the northeast are generally awful, but cousin Sasha said that even the worst Chinese eats in the northeast are far superior to the crap they call “Chinese” eats in England, where she lives.
Since busy daddy doesn’t particularly care for Chinese eats, we rarely eat the stuff, so I sorta had to rack my brain to think of someplace to eat the Food of Our People. We ended up at a random Hunan joint on the outskirts of Uppityville. Apparently it was Old People Night at the restaurant because the place was crawling with the olds. Like, I’m pretty sure the average age of the diners was north of 75 years old. Plus everypony was white—save for the waiters and us.
I dunno why, but the crazy old broad sitting in the booth next to ours was talking non-stop, like, really loudly. The entire restaurant pretty much heard her entire life story, which included getting “screwed” by the “dirty Mexicans” working on her house renovations, as well as the fact that her underwears were running up her buttcrack. Her dinnermate, who I can only assume was her beleaguered husband, listened quietly and barely said three words.
Our food was awight, but the best part of our meal was the post-dinner oranges and the fortune cookies. Cousins Sasha’s fortune said, “An angry man opens his nouth and shuts up his eyes.” Even though the obnoxious old hag seated next to us made me want to vomit, I kept my nouth (and my mouth) shut.
Protip: if a Chinese restaurant is patronized entirely by the Whitey McWhiterson crowd, and nary a Chinese person, turn right around and go someplace else.
There was this one time in grad school when busy daddy and I were in the audience at The Ricki Lake Show (back in ye olden days when guurrl was broadcasting from New York City), and one of our friends happened to be watching the show live and saw us on the teevee, so she snapped a pic using her honest-to-goodness Polaroid camera (not any of that new-fangled Instragram crap), and then four months later she gave us the photo because there wasn’t stuff like texting or iPhones back in the Dark Ages.
Gosh, our hurr dids were so much more complicated in the late-1990s. Don’t judge.
On my way to the train station, I spied a couple of signs posted on a street corner that read, “Google: Please don’t vomit in the taxi.” It seemed like an urgent message, since it was posted not just once, but twice.
My immediate thought was, Yeah, Google, you totes shouldn’t be vomiting in the taxi, sheesh! Then my second thought was, Um, how does Google vomit in anything, let alone in a taxi? And then my third thought was, Maybe somepony’s name is Google Latrice Smith and her boyfriend had posted those signs to remind his guurrl not to vomit in the taxi and stuff. Because that shizz will stain, yo!