Frosted Pops

I started out this morning in a good mood, despite my bed being terrible. Our bed is terrible. We’ve had it for a long time, and we need a new bed. I’m not going to tell you why, but I will hint that it’s not from sleeping on it. I hope that hint was sufficient for even the most nonsubtle of folks.

Anyway, I visited my wife getting ready, and then got ready myself. After talking with all the kids, and kissing the wife, I went out and saw frost. Frost everywhere. Jack Frost, Robert Frost, Frost/Nixon, Frosty the Snowman, I saw it. Incidentally, in light of this very paragraph, I think “Frosty” is kind of a dumb name for a snowman, isn’t it? I mean, frost is usually very thin and sitting on something, like, for example, every goddamn window on every vehicle I own.

But I’m very sweet. No seriously. Shut up. No YOU shut up! No YOU shut up! No YOU shut up infinity! So I scraped all the frost off my windows, and then (this is the sweet part) I scraped all the frost off my wife’s windows! Take that, nonscrapers! You cannot outsweet me! I also verified air pressure and window washer fluid, detailed the van, washed, dried and waxed it, and tossed out rose petals from the front door to the van doors. It took me all morning, but I finally completed it just in time! And then I went to work.

I must have missed this notice on my calendar, or my Outlook, but today was clearly Drive Ten Miles Under The Speed Limit Day. Every time I passed one slow asshole, I’d move back over and somehow get behind another slow asshole. I hate slow assholes! I want to shoot them all with burritos and hot sauce and Taco Bell so those assholes will move! I know what you’re thinking right now:

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww

And I don’t blame you. I blame your parents for not exposing you to more of the harsh realities of food that causes spicy anus, swamp ass and explosive diarrhea, or “The D” as we call it around my neck of the bathroom. And all the colors that run our lives. If you see the D, you drink the pink! I just made that up. Just now. It’s a catchy saying that will be all over the media in no time, and then all the cool kids with concussive rectums will be saying it. But I cannot stress enough: Say it, don’t spray it.

But this post won’t be all bed-wrecking ice-scraping diarrhea! No sir, or madam, or in between if you’re still in transition from one to the other. Not at all! I see no reason why we shouldn’t include a father who hired assassins to kill his son!

It’s not what you think – the father wanted the son to get a job, but the son was playing war games way too much. So the father hired people to keep virtually killing his son in the game. His son thought something was up, so he asked all his assassins, and one of them let it slip that the son’s father had hired him. He didn’t stop playing. It didn’t work. The son is 23. And lives in China, thus proving that not all Chinese are ambitious math wizards with an exquisite work ethic. Just most of them.

Finally, this post is over, is what you’re thinking. Well, you’re wrong. I will now take this opportunity to bitch about how old I am. I’m so fucking old. Every morning, I wake up and sound and feel like I have tiny bags of microwave popcorn all over my body. Pop-pop-pop. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so fucking old – did I mention that I’m so fucking old? – or if it’s my messed up bed. We’re getting a new bed this year, and I’ll let you know how it goes. No, not that – I mean whether the popping continues.

Edward Hotspur

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