Up From the Asses – A Slight Return to the Groovy Grill

Hello Carnivorous Kittens and Cantankerous Kooks, it’s been a long and silent fortnight (with Flair!) holding myself from your glorious gaze (and occasional comments – ha-ha). Rest assured that your flesh flogging friend is alive and well in the solemn embrace of his suburban cradle, just blowing less blog bubbles from the backyard, that’s all. I’ve been a busy boy of late and had to temporarily tame the creativity crust around my pompous pile - Wear my big boy boxers for a bit, work out the dainty but daunting details that soil my favorite pair from time to time. The stubborn under stains of responsibility are all that hold them together anymore, that and the waist band of wasted wants.

You wish and whittle on the sour skin from around your professional intentions like an ever irritating hang nail that keeps catching on your favorite sweater. You wait to be recognized at your place of employment for the life you’ve shed at the bottom of the corporate ladder, for the skin that collects under your eyes like grocery bags on a wind swept fence. What happens when they acknowledge your work and reward you with a job that will surely shave years off your life due to stress? A double edged sword that most certainly presents a pinch when introduced to your nether regions, stick that sword up the corporate pucker of progress one too many times and you’re left with nothing but a big asshole, and that’s what I’m becoming (or reaffirming). A delightful dollop of dookie with nary a sink in sight, I am still a nice person, but I’m barking out orders like an over sauced military man at a gay bar. I have to defend technology when it fails; that’s like going to Edison’s grave every time you blow a light bulb and demanding an explanation.

Bum butter on toast will never taste like fine scotch from a brunettes beautiful belly button, no matter what color they both are.

The business bunnies can smell me on the commute now, like an ever fragrant crotch of crisp carrots. They think that I am one of them, a freemason or one of those guys who watch football for the cheerleaders. They look at me differently, like I’m a member of their country club, they know that I’m a business bitch but they can’t quite place my face at one of their poker games. I’ve been rewarded with more work, more reports and more responsibility for slightly more money, but I’ve been broken and I think that they can see that. Sense it.

I’m busier but I haven’t been happier in a long time (I haven't seen The Pig this much since High School). I’m taking steps in my life that I’ve always wanted to take but couldn’t. I’ve done some backtracking, but at least I know where I’ve been this time around. I promise that I’ll stay in touch a little more frequently and if I ever drop off the earth again I’ll make sure I send a few of you e-mails just to let you know that I’m still above ground for the most part.

I'd love to quit this job and work with animals, not the briefcase kind that'll fuck you over given half the chance either.

iPod played “John Lennon – Just Like Starting Over” while posting