Saturday Blast From The Past

It’s like you think you’re having a celebration of some sort. Oh look, it’s the weekend. You’ll watch football, and for some reason you don’t bother to question, that means you can eat Cheez-Its and drink beer. Eat a frozen pizza and then more Cheez-Its. Frosting on crackers. Beer. The rest of the peanuts. Hot-N-Spicy Cheez-Its. Oh look, a jaw-breaker. You go from one to the other until you feel bloated like a whale stranded on the sandy white beach of your couch surrounded by the driftwood of empties. Then you can wake up at three fucking thirty still bloated and just lay there like a wet mushroom wishing you could fart. When five thirty comes, you realize you can fart…continuously, and you just know you’ve got an adventure percolating and it’s due to arrive around six thirty. By seven, after the cover artist interview and two gear reviews, your legs totally asleep, you decide the worst is over and it’s safe to try and stand. Standing becomes an adventure in and of itself and you hold onto the towel rack and try to walk with what feels like scuba flippers on your feet, feet that sit below knees belonging to what must be someone else. If only you can get to the shower. The hot water--glorious hot water--blasts you in your face and somehow that makes things start to be okay again. As you stand beneath the assault of the hot wet needles of nirvana you realize that the shower is the true achievement of human evolution. It’s this driving force alone that causes evolution to bother to continue and you’re grateful you live in an era to take part in it. By seven forty five the ringing in your ass fades to a distant memory as you slide into the cold car seat on another Monday morning drive towards a weekend of Spicy Cheez-Its and beer.