Okay, guys. It's been a bear of a day. And they're just going to get worse from here till the end of the year for me.
There's way too much to do at my office, and since my office is me, there's no time to finish everything that needs to be finished. And buy Christmas presents. And get ready to fly back to Tennessee. And attend Christmas parties. And so on, and so on, and so on.
I don't feel holiday cheer, I just feel intense stress. It's a good thing the two men who wrote that obnoxious fucking song, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," are already dead, or I would have to hunt them down and shove knitting needles down their piss slits.
Though with my luck, they'd probably both be into hardcore sounding and would start singing the song loudly, trying to piss me off more so that I would shove the needles in harder and harder. ('Atta girl!)
And while we're talking about pain to the genitals, I am 39 years old and, as you can see below, there are exactly 39 more days until I turn 40.
Is there any significance to that? I mean, other than the sagging balls, gray pubes and getting my own, personalized stool at Little Jim's.
(Not that kind of stool. You pig...)