Long ago I realized that I am two shots of cheap bourbon away from being happy.
Or a bong hit of homegrown.
This has been a simple way of life for me. I do not recommend this to anyone else. I have been happier–the years from 1970 to 1979–but I was younger then.
I will stop being bad when I die.
Enjoy life. Often.
We are not yet married but she has already assumed the role of one who must be obeyed. I cringe when she talks of pain in her back and my world spirals down like a Netflix horror movie. As we lie in bed, the sheets move and bad smells happen. She does sometimes say excuse me in a creepy voice.
We speak. She says, “the dog is peeing on the coat you left on the floor. You are a slob.”
We are looking forward to marriage.
Doctor, sometimes I just want to go ahead and kick the bucket. I have no purpose. I don’t even feel like making whoopee anymore, not with my girlfriend anyway.
Stephen, you are too much. You are eating too much. And not exercising too much. Your purpose in life for at least the next two years is to get in shape for your kidney transplant. Sure, the last two years have been tough, and you have to be tougher. Get in shape. Take your meds. Fight for your life.
Thank you, Doctor, how much do I owe you? Somebody call 911– I’m having a heart attack.
My father’s assisted living home smells like poop. My father has been fading for five years. He now says very little. He will have a chocolate, a piece of fruit, a stiff Vodka Tonic. After his first sip he will say “this tastes good.” I have to keep the conversation going, and I talk about my girlfriend or my health issues. He does laugh and make expressions. He thinks I am a little nutty, like my mother and her Mother. He enjoys my visits.
Vance G was a crazy character. On the way back from away football games he would lead the team in singing, “spent the last year Rocky Mountain way,” then the team sang “ba na na na,” and then Vance, “couldn’t get much higher.” The team sang, “ba na na na.” This bonded us. He even sang it after a loss, which infuriated our head coach.
Later in life we shared a house. He was a womanizer which was fine with me. We had women coming and going. The sounds emanating from his room became a bit much, so I wore earplugs. When three of his rent checks bounced, we got into a fist fight. After that our friendship was never the same. He died several years back at the age of fifty from a brain infection. He will not be forgotten by me and not by many women.
The Joking Life 