He snoozes comfily on the couch.
I shove banana peppers in my mouch.
I jiggle his foot wake him up.
Wait for him to (say "What's up?" would be the obvious choice here, right? BUT what I think is even more obvious at this point, and three glasses into the Yellow Tail, is that I should not be writing poetry. Emily Dickinson, e.e. cummings, I am most certainly not. Even though I like the goat footed balloon man.)
I guess I should've known that I was to call it a day when I told a little girl to blow her nose and she sneezed on me, spraying godknowswhat all over my shirt, face, and hair. Not really, but wouldn't that be funny? Give me a fucking break, I'm exploring new job avenues, and maybe I'll be a sitcom writer. They put "Full House" and Bob Saget ( who I am made to believe after watching E! True Hollywood Story is quite the comedic, troubled genius. ASSPHINCTER says what?) on TV, how hard should it be? What I have learned these last couple days is that it is always harder than it looks. I mean, HOW FUCKING HARD could it be to get 19 kindergarteners to line up and listen to instructions? I'll give you a clue. (And sit down for this one, because it's gonna be a hand over mouth gasp shocker) IT IS DAMN NEAR IMPOSSIBLE. Without a cattle prod, cough cough.
And why the hell is OPRAH giving away cars anyway? I mean, can I get some of that over here? If she can give away 200 and something cars, why can't she give me a fucking job? Don't know that I'd want to scrub toilets up in that place, though. BUT, I would definitely know to hand her some vaseline as I walked in, because those are my thoughts. You work, you get screwed. But let's not get enveloped in the negativity, mmmkay?
Maybe a little haiku before I go. The cup speaketh.
I like to eat cheese
as I type furiously.
Scoffing at lactose.
Now I have made it clear why I don't have a job. But I will have a call from MOMMA, who will be upset that I am eating the cheese. Dairy free is good for me!