Jon leaves this afternoon for a roadtrip that begins in Cleveland and ends at the gates of Graceland in Memphis, a trip with two of his childhood friends who also turn 40 this year. I think it’s just an excuse to spend six uninterrupted days discussing Star Wars without any disparaging looks from the wives that say, “Dork.”
In a dramatic turn of events this week happens to be the week that my sister said, oops, wait a minute, I didn’t tell you that I needed someone to watch Bo for four days? NO YOU DIDN’T, SISTER. And that if I didn’t watch him they would have no one else to leave him with, and he might die, alone, starving in their empty house while rotting in a puddle of his own piss. I told her that he best learn quick how to ration his water. She brought him over last night anyway. When Chuck saw him leap out of their van he looked at me like, “You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.”
When I mentioned to my Mormon friend that I was going to be alone this week, alone with a sociopathic Beagle and a baby who regularly throws her body several feet across a room to prove a point, she asked me if I was eating retard sandwiches. “Do you have any idea how much hate-mail you would get if you published that on the Internet?” I asked her. “Retard sandwiches?”
“I don’t have a website,” she shot back. “And besides, that’s what you’re acting like, like, gimme some more of those retard sandwiches!”
“I’m totally going to tell the Internet you said that.”
“You know they will totally agree with me. And be sure to spell my name right.”