Yesterday, I walked five miles to church. No big deal. I really need the exercise. Why? My youngest son in six-years-old, so I have to stay alive and fit until I'm seventy. Then I'm free to die of ass cancer.
But shed no tears, my dearest friends. I have great health insurance. Plus I plan on mixing the morphine with copious amounts of alcohol. Poor old Smith won't be feeling any pain as he sheds his mortal coil.
The service was great. We sang and danced for ten minutes. One of our members is from Nigeria. He got on his knees and howled like a banshee while the praise team performed the hymns. His antics used to scare my children. After all, their own father is white, conservative, and uptight. Thankfully, they've grown used to the multicultural Sunday hubbub.
I walked back to my Soviet-style concrete tenement. I helped James-uh study for his math exam. I'm a terrible teacher. I grabbed the poor boy by his shirt and threatened to pop him in the mouth. Algebra makes him so lethargic. I feel as if I'm trying to educate an opossum hanging from an oak tree. Talk about frustrating.
Yet I want to make one thing clear. I never spank my children. I don't believe that corporal punishment is an effective method of discipline. Instead, I scream the f-word at the top of my lungs and punch and kick the walls. That's much better. I might even win an award as father of the year.
I downloaded a new series called Fargo. It features Billy Bob Thorton as a hit man operating out of Minnesota. The first episode is fantastic. One of the characters kills his wife with a hammer. However, the murder is filmed so strangely that it almost feels like a fantasy scene. Fargo is special. You'd be crazy not to give it a try.
I paid homage to the Christ God. I said the Lord's Prayer on bended knees. No big surprise. I refuse to babble like a pagan. I asked Jesus to stop me from bitching at my eldest boy so much. But--in my defense--James-uh is a handful. And I can't sit back and watch him fail.
I went to sleep at 10 p.m. I didn't dream. I woke up at 6 a.m. and drank several cups of coffee. Then I read the paper while enjoying a bathroom break. Bernard Hopkins won another boxing championship. He's 49-years-old. Some people are blessed with great genes. Unfortunately, I'm not one of them.
I turned on Fox News. Things are going from bad to worse in the Ukraine. Russian separatists are causing an ass-load of trouble. But I don't know what Obama is supposed to do about it. The whole mess is a European problem. Let them deal with it.
Anyway, it's time for the song du jour. Here's Field of Stone by David Allen Coe. God bless.