Duty
Besides being an amusing homophone for a juvenile synonym for poop, and thus leading to hilarity during Ford pickup truck commercials ("Built Ford tough... The Ford F-150 Super Doody"), this is a loaded word. Among mature adults, from which I am proud to distinguish myself, it resonates with a host of concepts, all of them deeply serious and utterly noble.
I prefer to think of it in terms of kaka. Occasionally, however, a situation arises where I must consider the concept of duty in opposition to my natural inclinations towards sloth and apathy. Fortunately, these times are few and far between.
Also fortunately, this is not one of them. Margarita!!
Free association
Having gone to bed at 3AM the past couple of days, and woken up at the usual hour to go to work, I'm feeling punchy as hell. I thought this would be a good time to write a post about whatever pops into my head in the next.... oh, five or ten minutes.
... hm. Nothing yet... oh wait, there we go. Rabbits. I remember back when I was living in Warren, there were rabbits all over the damn place. I heard some guy shot one, ostensibly for food, and got suspended or kicked off of campus once. I had a gun for a little while, a Walther P99 9mm handgun. This does not, for people who know me, jive with the generally laid back attitude I have towards things. It's not like I carried it around with me and pointed it at people when they cut me off in traffic, though. I sold it a while back, anyway, so all I have now is the safe. Speaking of assholes in traffic, I spent about an hour in rush hour traffic yesterday on the way home, and I work less than 3 miles away from where I live. Why is it that nine out of ten cars on San Diego freeways are gigantic SUVs? I always see some paragon of human reasoning on local news pissing and moaning about the high price of gasoline, as he leans against his Expedition which gets about half an inch to the metric ton of fuel. Some guy in Mississippi, or one of those states that I can never get straight, converted his pickup truck to run on wood. Which I guess would be pretty cool, if he lived in the 1800s. On that note, I saw some thing on the Daily Show where Bush pledged some ridiculous amount of money towards coal research. COAL?? We know what coal does. It's black, it's carbon, and it burns when you light it on fire. How much more can we possibly need to research about fucking coal? It comes in briquettes from Albertson's. Unless your research is going towards making Superman so he can crush coal into diamonds with which to dust my bathroom floor, I think we can probably afford to forgo unraveling the mystique of this magical fuel. Mystique, isn't that a Cirque de Soleil show? That Snickers commercial with the girl doing that freaky shit with her legs scares the bejeezus out of me whenever I see it. I always wince, fearing her spine will just go "Oh, for fuck's sake" and throw in the towel. The one thing I absolutely, positively hate about going to the gym is if I forget my workout towel. Then, I need to fork out money for one of their towels. They cost four dollars, another "fuck you" with a smile provided by the greedy bastards that run the gyms, and besides which, smell like the inside of a guinea pig's well-used cage.
Time!