Here we are.
Just like last time.
Same as next time.
Time is fleeting, look at it go.
Enjoy the weekend.
I’m halfway to gone already.
Tommy The Cat
Sailing The Seas Of Cheese
Interscope Records | 1991
FRIDAY AIN’T NO THING WHEN YOU DON’T HAVE TO WORK IT.
So earlier this week, we sent up Challenger II, in increments, and awaited the fireworks.
Three days on, and nothing e‘slpoding yet.
Still, treading carefully over here.
So I find myself with 10 minutes to myself for once, a miracle of uncertain dimension, yet it colors me optimistic.
AND THEN I GET A HORRIBLE CASE OF BRONCHITIS BECAUSE WHY THE FUCK NOT.
So this is the first day off(actually, really, no-foolin’ off) and I get to spend it trying to suck in life-sustaining air through a diaphragm of mucus at least three feet thick.
I FEEL ALIVE, WHAT CAN I SAY.
A lot of shit seems to be transpiring in the world, so much that I can hardly keep up with it if I even bothered to care. Can’t watch or listen to the news at all anymore; a half-hour broadcast is 22 minutes of TRUMPZOMG!!1!, 86 seconds of dumb chicks who are not nearly hot enough to be on television pointing to maps and telling me about the weather, and 90 seconds of some human interest story that, lately, is repetitive variants on IMMIGRANT DONE GOOD. The rest is commercials. They don’t even bother with sports any more.
So fuck the news.
Even Drudge is bringing me down lately, then it suddenly occurred to me – I think I finally shed the final fuck I had to give.
It’s a great feeling, except now I have absolutely no idea what is going on, nor do I care to learn anymore.
Are we at war with someone Over There?
Trump been impeached yet?
Sorry, fresh out of fucks. Don’t expect on seeing more any time soon neither.
Any more protests?
Watch as I emphatically and dismissively shrug my shoulders with an immature yet smug expression on my face that clearly indicates what I think of you and your questions.
This is where I am.
And it’s not a bad place to be.
So when the world ends, and creation comes tumbling down all around us, as it inevitably will, I, too, can be genuinely surprised at the timing of it all.
It’s St. Patrick’s Day today, a day where everyone in America becomes a little bit Irish by drinking themselves stupid, but not troubling too much about it because unlike other nights of the year where they get shitface drunk, at least what is supposed to come back out after March 17 is supposed to be green.
March Madness is in full swing. I’ve created a bracket that is already up in flames, because, see above; they don’t even have a sports report anymore and I don’t get a chance to watch games or enjoy anything at all because EVERY SINGLE MOTHER FUCKING THING IN THIS CUNT WAFFLE YOU CALL A SOCIETY HAS TO BE GAMED TO THE LEFT OF THE SOCIO-POLITICAL SPECTRUM, SO FUCK OFF AND DIE, FAGGOTS.
I also note that Our Former Simple Affirmative Action President created a bracket, but since he doesn’t matter anymore, neither does his bracket.
Off to drink this thing off and tap into my culture and heritage.
Oh, and if you come across any Scottish folk acting all tough and indignant about BEING SCOTTISH on this day, do remind them that the Irish at least had the balls to fight back against the English, not bankrupt them through sponging up the entitlement money.
Have a bitchin’ weekend, and get ‘em the fuck in.
My Little Armalite
Roll Of Honour
The Irish Brigade
1975 | IRB Publications
You Shook Me All Night Long
So far, I’m enjoying today’s Friday a little bit better than yesterday’s Friday, and with any luck, tomorrow’s Friday will continue the upward trend, so that by this time next week, all seven Fridays will be pretty fucking sweet, and something worth writing home about.
I’ve taken to calling today’s Friday DIRFAY.
Tomorrow’s Friday, probably, will be YARFID.
Sunday’s Friday, I have no fucking clue, but it’ll probably be RAYDIF.
So still hanging in here, the project that won’t day is nearing it’s second attempt at liftoff. Imagine if the NASA team in charge with prepping the final Challenger flight knew in the couple of weeks beforehand that the thing was going to its very best impression of a bottle rocket, and that there was likely nothing you could do to prevent it, but you all were going to go through the motions and push forward and persevere regardless simply because historical momentum demands it, how do you think that crew handles their prep work? With vigor and enthusiasm and sober attention to every detail? Or by not giving a single flying fairy fuck about any of it because the inevitable is absolutely so regardless of your feeble gestures?
If you guessed the former, get the fuck out.
So yes. I still have a job. There was about 36 hours in the past week where that wasn’t assured, but alas.
Let’s drink, now, until the end of creation, because what other rational choice do you have, really?
Get ‘em the fuck in.
Antennas (Let California Fall Into The Fucking Ocean)
Hooligans United: A Tribute To Rancid
Deal’s Gone Bad
Hellcat Records | 2015
Fuck it all.
As you were.
Drink up, suckas.
If I Had My Way
If I Had My Way: The Early Home Recordings
Reverend Gary Davis
Smithsonian Folkways Recordings | 2003
YOU KNOW WHAT DAY IT IS.
I DON’T HAVE TO TELL YOU DESPITE THE FACT THAT, FOR ALL PRACTICAL PURPOSES, YESTERDAY WAS ALSO FRIDAY, AND TOMORROW WILL ALSO BE FRIDAY, WHICH IS ODD, SINCE TODAY IS ALSO FRIDAY.
IF EVERY DAY IS FRIDAY, IS ANY DAY FRIDAY?
MEANWHILE, I’LL BE OVER HERE, NECK DEEP IN THE SHIT AND PREPPING THE DESERT REDOUBT IN THE FEW SCRAPS OF SPARE TIME I WINNOW OUT OF THE ALWAYS-FRIDAY, YOU KNOW, IN CASE THE DEEP STATE GETS REALLY DESPERATE AND DECIDES TO JUST START LOBBING NUKES EVERYWHERE TO BLAME TRUMP.
I MISS THE 80s WHEN SPY SHIT WAS COOL, INSTEAD OF, BASICALLY, A KLATCH OF BITCHY MIDDLE SCHOOL GIRLS WITH CLANDESTINE SURVEILLANCE CAPABILITIES, WETWORK EXPERIENCE, AND SLIGHTLY LESS EMOTIONAL COMPOSURE.
SO IT’S RAINING. AND IT’S GOING TO KEEP RAINING. PROBABLY FOR EVER. YET WE’RE STILL IN A DROUGHT. PROBABLY FOREVER. EVEN AFTER SACRAMENTO WASHES AWAY DOWN THE SAN JOAQUIN RIVER AND OUT INTO THE EAST BAY.
SO I’M OUT.
WILL BE DRUNK BY DUSK OR HALF-PAST OBLIVION, WHICHEVER SHOWS UP FIRST.
GET ‘EM THE FUCK IN, FRIENDS.
WE’RE ALMOST OUT OF THIS, YET.
Hit The Beach
Year Of The Spy
Rebellion Records | 2007
THERE’S NO TIME TO EXPLAIN.
LITERALLY NO TIME.
SINCE, AS WE’VE ALREADY ESTABLISHED, TIME IS MERELY A STATISTICAL TRICK YOUR MIND PLAYS ON YOU TO RECONCILE THE GAP BETWEEN DISTANCE AND VELOCITY THAT YOU ARE OTHERWISE INCAPABLE OF COGNIZING.
HAVE A BITCHIN WEEKEND AND GET ‘EM THE MOTHERFUCK IN.
I HAVE TO GO DRINK AND PASS OUT SOON.
TUEZ LA RÉSISTANCE.
You’ve Got A Great Body, But Your Record Collection Sucks
More Trouble Than They’re Worth
Nitro Records | 1998