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2006-10-24 - 7:11 p.m.

Apparently, He Wasn't in the Mood for Chef Boyardee

Did you hear about this raving nutjob?

[Bobby Brady voice: Mom always said "Don't shack up with a psychopath."]

The world is a scary place, folks. I'm going to have to cross off the French Quarter as a place to meet Mr. Right.

Let's see, that leaves me with...

1) Denny's

2) The Afterlife (upstairs)

Well, well. As it turns out, I'm in the mood for a club sandwich and a 70 year-old. Of course, I might wind up choking on the fancy flagged toothpick while watching Pops waddle over to my table ("Lookie, lookie, here comes a long night of soothing someone's ego.")

And when I go to heaven (Ha!) with a toothpick sticking out the back of my neck, I'll ask God "What's the haps? Where's my room? I get my own room, right? Do I need to check in or register, or what? Oh, by the way, thanks a mil for taking me from earth before I had to fuck Grandpa Ass Wrinkles."

(silence)

"Well, as much as Junior said you blabbered, I find it surprising that you're a man/entity/whatnot of few words. So...what now?"

You misunderstand.

"You speak! Spoke! Spaketh! Cool. What, I'm not getting my own room? Damn. I mean, darn."

What you misunderstand, my child, is that, Grandpa...what did you call him?

"Ass Wrinkles."

Yes, Grandpa Ass Wrinkles was not waddling over to 'bone you,' he was planning to ask you whether your syrup dispenser was free from sticky fingerprints and hair. I believe he said the only thing missing was blood splatter. He was a retired homicide detective. 32 years on the force.

"Dayyyyum. I could've listened to his stories while he tried to get the blood moving again, ya know?"

He was happily married. Faithful.

"Like I give a shit. As if it's a sin to cheat or something. Keeeey-rist."

You know, I just realized there's been a bit of a mix-up. You belong in Mr. Devlin's class. He's an old friend of mine. You two should get along nicely.

"Oh...Cool!"

See that hallway? Take a left, and when you see the elevator, hit the down button.

"Great! Am I gonna get my own room?"

You'll get everything that's coming to you. Trust me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Being Rich...or Not

I am convinced that one day, I will go to the racetrack and hit it BIG. Purely by accident, or *possibly* by planning my bets BEFORE I drink 2 beers and have nacho cheese (and a stray jalapeno) dribbled down my shirt.

In the past, when I've bought the Daily Racing Form and the track program the night before, boned up on handicapping techniques, read articles about the races and contenders, I get so psyched up that when I finally settle down to figure it all out, it becomes TOO SERIOUS and homework-ish.

When a $2 bet with the correct combo of 3 numbers can garner $25,000, and 4 numbers in exact order can get you $125,000 to $900,000+ depending on the race and the longshots that slide in, the pressure sets in.

Thus, I enter the track unprepared, once again. I wind up spending too much on bets with a combo of favorites that wouldn't make much even if it hit, or toss away a few bucks here and there on bizarre longshot and somewhat favorite combos. The most I've ever made at the track on a single bet is around $80, having bet less than $30 the whole day. So WHOO, but shit, I can't quit my job yet, ya know?

And it's not like I want to live in a palace and dress my dogs with diamond-studded sweatsuits, while I shop for more diamonds for the fleet of no-longer homeless kittens who dine on fresh fish and ride around in my limo, complete with six litterboxes and a litterbox administrator, while I ride in the OTHER limo because please, what a stench.

No. I want a nice little house. Cottage like. A bit of land. A driver at my beck and call would be nice, but not needed full-time. On call chef to make deep fried chicken fingers dressed with lemon wedges and covered in melted colby, YES. A jet for you know, whatever, would be nice. An assistant. Because there are things to be done while I nap. And another assistant for when the other one is busy assisting me with something else. And a maid. Plus, someone trustworthy to handle the taxes and investments and finances and STUFF.

But mostly, I want this: A business manager I could walk up to, wave a speeding ticket at, and ask without a trace of embarrassment: "Do I really need to go to court for this?"

(Expected and given response):

"Noooooo, I'm sure we can get it worked out."

A boo boo make it go away-er. That's what I want. And if he could fry me up some chicken fingers at midnight, that'd be swell. Two birds with one stone...isn't that the right phrase, looker-upper person? I mean, assistant number 1. Fire the chef once I deem these chicken fingers cooked by my business manager worthy. *nibbling* Oh quite nice. Lovely. Yes. Fire Francois!

I'm not MADE of money, you know.