*Runs out into the sunlight*
*Loads the carbon fiber Benelli shotgun*
*Shoots fiery blazing ball of evil in the sky*
*Runs back in the basement, locks door, closes blinds*

*Panting wildly at all that exertion*
*makes note to do more cardio*

*Feels around in the dark for vacuum hose to fend off Monster Dust Bunny that’s come to kill us all*

*Holds breath, turns on vacuum, sucks that fucker up*

*Flops down on the floor, waiting for another axe to fall*

It doesn’t come.
Nothing.
Just silence.

And then a realization.

Someone hit the mute button, put in earplugs and is wearing TWO eye patches.
See nothing, say nothing, hear nothing.

After I was probed by aliens in the first week of May leaving me with  *FrankenBoob © , all I could muster was that lame ass post about how the Internet, God Bless it’s tiny little heart of stone, was trying to coerce me into becoming a vampire slut hooker.
And that’s when I locked my self in the basement in a time of nothingness.
Grey.
Rain.
Rain.
Grey Rain.
And went insane.
Slowly.
And surely.

Lost all of my marbles…Once a-fucking-gain but only for a moment.
Because I had sights to see.
Horses to lose my shirt on.
Plagues to contract.
Days that needed me to do nothing but roll around on the couch in a foggy agony of cold meds that do nothing but make me slightly more stupid.
And then another realization that my floor was/is getting furry/furrier by the minute and soon, like that liquid metal guy from that terminator movie the fur will, with out a shadow of a doubt, turn into another Monster Dust Bunny.
Right now as I type this I can see out of my tiny little hole I made in one eye patch, the fur? Is gathering strength. It is rolling across the floor carried on the balmy waves of air wafting through, around, over and under me, the couch the table and chairs. Scooping up the bloody carcasses of the Malignant Mosquito’s From Outer Space that I shot with the Sig 9 mm, with my very own hands, right out of the Mother Fucking Air!
These fur balls are going to be one bad ass MOFO to contend with.
Just as soon as I get me (or my) shit together.
Just as soon as I take a nap.

Just as soon as I figure out what the hell that  Fiery Blazing Ball of What Can Only Be Pure Evil is, in the sky.
Making my eyeballs burn if I take off the pirate patches.
Making my skin turn pink if I stand out in it longer than the time it takes to load the shot gun.
Making my toes thaw out from the blocks of ice, that I have grown so fond of.
This  fiery blazing ball of evil in the sky has made these blocks of ice melt away like the Wicked Witch of The East.
Or something.

And now…

In the quiet I can smell the farenheit. I can hear the mercury rise

It is now The Hot Season.

And I am in Hell.

Exactly where I love to be.

(pretty sure I have all of my fingers and thumbs and hands. Yet I find this picture of my left hand to be totally creepy.)

It’s hot.

AND…

So. Am. I.
(**)

P.S. *More on the FrankenBoob © later. But lets just say everything is fine and  nothing is wrong.

P.P.S. ** I realize that saying  ”So. Am. I.”, in reference to the hot temps,  might make me sound like I am tooting my own horn, but really I have been sweating my balls off today (much to The Dishes approval) which is something I haven’t done since August  2010.

Ooh The Internet is giving me recommendations.
*runs around in circles clapping hands* 
Taking Internet suggestions is always a great idea because The Internet is such a good influence with great values and morals and doesn’t really discriminate against anyone, even if it has a name that rhymes with smoatse. Which, if you don’t know who that is, do not ever try to figure it out and google it.
PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF YOUR EYEBALLS!!!!
Stay here and forget that I even typed that in.
I’m now afraid that the thing I typed up there is going to come and try to steal more of my innocence which apparently The Internet doesn’t think even exists anymore.
(you know how when you get afraid of something it happens or how when you say Beetlejuice three times he shows up? Like that but WAY worse!)

Let’s stroll through some of the suggestions The Internet believes I am looking for, like a  lost puppy needing a home, all alone on the world wide web…shall we?

EBAY???
(said with complete exasperation)

*dramatic head roll while rolling eyes way back in head*

Oh EBay, I thought we were going to keep this our little secret…you know I can’t have the world know about this side of me? Some people out there already think I’m a tranny, now you want them to think I’m a tranny hooker…a tranny stripper maybe?
Not nice EBay, not nice at all.

Um…I know I talk a little bit about strippers and such but I’m not sure how these would go over at work, you know the place that isn’t named Shotgun Willies where I go on a daily basis to make money in the form of a paycheck and not dollar bills stuffed into my g string.
 For fucks sake you can’t even see my g string at work.

Usually. 

Amazon, you really need to stop plying me with high school slut dolls, even if they are vampires or zombies.  Amazon, you know  if I wasn’t so against dolls this might be a doll I would buy but I have to tell you that this one is kind of a slap in the face because I am A Vapid Blonde, not A Vampire Blonde and I am not in high school and I was never a slut.
Not for quite sometime now, Amazon.
So if you don’t mind could you get your facts straight?

Not to mention am I crazy or does she look like a stripper too?

I have been contemplating a career change, but  how does the Internet know this?

Oh Zappos, we used to be so close. We used to have such wonderful one night stands but this…this abomination is something I can not get past. Why in the hell would you think these are what I’ve been needing all my life?

Since when did I turn into Alfonso Ribeiro, Zappos?
You’ve seen my closet…you’ve provided me with hours of entertainment and I’m not talking a little soft shoe over here I’m talking some good old hard core shoe porn.

For shame Zappos, even EBAY knows me better.
You’re way more likely to find those tranny heels up there in my closet than these…uh, I don’t even think I can call them shoes they are so fucking awful. 

Oh wait, hold on Zappos I’ll be ready in a moment I just need to put on my Tic Tac Toe’s and my Members Only jacket and I am ready for my big night out at the roller rink where I will “moonlight” skate ALONE!!!

Thanks Zappos, not only have you doomed me to a life stuck in 1982, you’ve cursed me into being a middle aged man going through a mid life crisis, driving a metallic burgundy convertible Sebring wearing my tic tac toes, members only jacket and a pink popped collar polo shirt.

But wait Zappos, there is one piece of this puzzle that is missing.

Don’t you see it?

It’s glaringly absent from my new image.

So much so that there is no way I can pull off my new swarthy slick image with out this piece.

There is no middle aged, tic tac toe, members only wearing, Sebring driving, crisis having man with out one.

The comb over.

It suits me, no?

Now I have to go to my stylist and convince her that cutting my hair into a comb over is a most excellent idea because that will complete the entire ensemble.

I am so excited by this make over that you have given me.

But really, Zappos, you shouldn’t have.

 How can I ever repay you?