Halloween is a lot like going to the bar for children. You dress up, eat about 8,000 calories worth of candy and then end up on the floor with dilated pupils swearing that you’ll never eat another piece of candy again. Halloween is also like hitting the kid lottery. I filled up a pillowcase one year and seriously considered retiring. But as the days of November creep along, your Halloween candy stash begins to dwindle. You start rationing like a world war has broken out. One piece of chocolate here, a cherry Jolly Rancher there, until you start only biting a half of a Butter Finger a day in a desperate attempt to make the stuff last until Christmas. No one ever makes it. You cave like the selfish sugar addict all children are. And then you hit rock bottom. Nothing left in the till except grape anything and Atomic Fireballs. Next to the apple that one jerk always hands out, the Fireball is the worst Halloween candy. They linger like black mold in your candy basket. You know they are there, but you avoid them until you have no choice. Throw them away? Never. They are still candy. But you eat them begrudgingly, like broccoli, because you have to. Continue reading “Fire Fireball Whisky”
I like to dedicate these pages to my bitching about important things like cheeses I think stink, knitting, classical music and being fat. I’d like to thank you all for your interest in me complaining about these subjects. But, I have written something about the Carolina Panthers, of which I am a big fan. I didn’t post it here because I didn’t want to alienate my fans in Lithuania. So, I asked a friend of mine to put it on his more local Carolina sports blog. You know, a blog unlike mine that has a purpose and a subject. He graciously accepted. If you’re interested in this sort of thing, please check it out. If not, please carry on. I’ll be complaining about something mundane shortly.
Sitting here in my Charleston, SC apartment, looking out the window at an overcast but otherwise pleasant day, I can’t help but have a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think the cause is pent up douche chills that will inevitably flow on this, the worst American tradition, April Fools Day. I think in the distance, you can hear the cries of an unborn child who doesn’t really exist because some woman thinks it’s funny to fake a pregnancy and end all trust she shared with her partner because it’s the first of April. Continue reading “Stop April Fools”