Remember how I lost my marbles last Friday…no? you don’t remember? Well, thanks a lot, that’s very nice of you.

I still haven’t found them, nope. In fact I am concerned that someone stole them only to post them a Craig’s list to resell them because I think I had some pretty fucking awesome marbles…sigh.

Or maybe they saw it coming…
the mid-life crisis that is and rolled away and are secretly waiting around the corner to take me down when I least expect it. 
Mother fucking marbles.
  I did actually schedule the mid-life crisis though so its not like it is a HUGE secret.

Maybe I swallowed them which would explain the lump in my throat or the pain in my belly. Its really hard to conceal the fact that you have been crying all day because you can’t find your stupid marbles and you think they ran away with the neighbors wife or that you ate them and now you can’t even think about food because there are marbles stuck in your throat.

I keep telling everyone that I just got really baked before work. It’s not going over so well.

What does one wear when embarking on a mid- life crisis…a dirty wife beater, no pants and a beer holster? Its kind of cold to go with out pants. I think that technically it is not a mid-life crisis…It’s not like I’m getting a toupee after all. I mean how do you know its mid-life. I don’t think there is anyway to tell, because you would have to be clairvoyant or sentient….sentient, I like that word it’s kind of soothing but also a pain in the ass, this being sentient thing.

Babble. Babble. Babble.

Meltdown…maybe I will call it a meltdown. MELT  DOWN. Yes I am starting the rigorous process of having a melt down … a tattoo, another tattoo. Yes another tattoo…to make three…well kind of if you consider the smudge of one thats left on my something or other as a tattoo…I wonder if I could go to Jim’s Tattoo Parlor in Maine and stab him with his needles for allowing that one to happen, eh bygones I guess. It used to be cute and funny….
and so did I.

I am going to start a list…a running list of things I need to accomplish to adequately succeed at this meltdown thing.
1. Younger Man
2. Hair (I have hair silly, just different hair)
3. A Sexy Convertible
4. Motorcycle
5. Another Tattoo to Commemorate this Stupendous Event
6. Another pair of Stripper Shoes
7. Fronts. (WHAT, This is my Melt Down)

8. A Mother Fucking Tiara (unless I just get like five more fronts then I can glue them to my skull with fixodent)

If I have left anything off, just let me know.

I already thought about boobs, but quite frankly mine are better and bigger than my marbles that rolled away.

I try every morning to take my 90 lb puppy, yes puppy, for at least a 30 minute walk.  (try is the operative word, sometimes 10 minutes sometimes 45, but never longer and sometimes never). 

Prelude to the Walk

It starts out with me getting her to pee on the driveway because our lawn looks like it has alopecia. We paid a *lot* of money for a lawn that has a balding disease! Apparently female dog pee kills grass.

And then its POOPY TIME, whoo hoo, it is always exciting when its POOPY TIME.

So then in case you couldn’t guess we go to POOPY TOWN (a little like funky town)

And once the eagle has landed I always feel the need to inspect, diagnose and treat the issues.  Dr. Blondie in Da House!

AHEM!

The Serious Part of the walk

So we start down the very steep, very curvy driveway where, not that long ago, one early evening, a close friend saw a black bear.  (We think the same mother fucker who ate all of the 15 peaches off of our first peach tree…deep breath)  So as I walk down the drive way at the crack of 8 am. I am SNEAKING around the switchback, stomping my feet, clapping my hands and whooping, like a tourettes case on crack! 

(this is the peach tree while it still had peaches)

Haven’t seen that bear yet…lucky him.

Once we are on the walk all is fine, nice, normal, no pulling, cars not speeding past or anything *Unusual*

EXCEPT FOR THE 23 CANS OF BUD LIGHT, THE 150 NIPS OF BLACKBERRY BRANDY PEPPERED WITH THE OCCASIONAL JAEGER NIP, THE TWENTY MCDONALDS BAGS, THE 60 CIGARETTE BUTTS AND THEN….the diapers.  I’m sorry maybe you didn’t hear me…. I said THE DIAPERS.

(if you collected it all, it might look like this, just with 20% more diapers)

 Now I can’t help but let my mind wander and imagine what that party was like.

So there’s this infant in diapers, who can’t really walk with out the little basket with wheels, yet Mommy and Daddy are kind of, not that interested and quite frankly Mommy’s Breasts taste like the salt flats in UTAH..  So whats a baby to do?

*RALLY YO POSSE, GO HIT UP THE PACKI FO SMOKES AND NIPS,  GET LOADS O KIDZ MEALZ, AND GO CRUISIN’ EAST SHEFFIELD ROAD, BITCHES*

(This is where I realize I was right in my assumption that I should never have children.)

So now the Infantile Posse is nippin, smoking, pickin up bitches, Baby  is so drunk and lovin’every minute,  hangin out the Moon roof waving his Diaper like it’s a Victory Flag, until a low hanging branch catches the diaper and rips it out of  Baby’s hands.

Scared shitless, the Infantile Posse leaves Baby to walk the walk of shame home, naked covered in poop.  (Hey if you’re wearing a diaper, you don’t know how to wipe your own ass yet!) crawling up the lawn looking fo dat god damn basket with wheelz bitches.

Yes that is what I imagine on my morning walks with my puppy. I certainly don’t blame the baby for the *SYRINGE* I found one morning. I point my finger squarely at his mother. That barren wasteland, how she ever gave birth must be a medical miracle, and no wonder he is a crazy drunken stripper baby.

By the way, it’s not like I live in the ghetto. One might say  the town I live in is bucolic, idyllic, serene, rural.  You get my point, you would never expect such deviant neighbors around you in this lovely little Normal Rockwell Town.  But then again…I live here, bwahaahaahaa.