My phone thinks that I think I’m Spider-Man…
Last night while bar hopping into the wee hours of the morning I saw a homeless man with a clothes horse. Or a drying airer. Or clothes airer. Whatever you happen call one of these things where you live…
Among the many thoughts that raced through my mind, the loudest and shoutiest was…
“Man, if I were to suddenly become homeless maintaining possession of a clothes horse would not be high on my list of priorities. One of the small joys I would take out of the soul crushing situation would be that I could throw my clothes horse in a fucking river. I hate those things.“
Christ. What a grim indictment on our society that the charity tin sitting on the bar needs to be chained and padlocked to the goddamn beer taps.
Or, from a slightly more abstract viewpoint, perhaps this image exemplifies how our collective hope is intrinsically tethered to beer?
So. Husbands. According to recent studies you have two options:
1. Do chores, get laid, get divorced.
2. Don’t do chores, don’t get laid, don’t get divorced.
When looking for a new job one must always reflect on the skills gained throughout one’s career.
Because of my Irish heritage I am required to carry at least three (3) potatoes on my person at all times.
That moment you realise you care more about some of the characters on Game of Thrones than you care about some of your immediate family members.
I think I was just propositioned by a 60 year old man.
A completely unsolicited “Why don’t you come with me and shower in my hotel room?” isn’t your usual bar room banter is it?
Well, sir, since you asked, my reasons are many and varied. Here they are in list form:
- Not really my scene.
- I still have money.
- That bar chick though…
- I don’t find you attractive.
- You look like you might kill me then burn me in your hotel room bathtub.
Quite a thought process to arrive at a simple “No thanks man, I’ll pass. Happy hunting.”