Sunday, July 09, 2006
No, Euros, it's not September 7th! It's July 9th!
Havana cigars for the guys! Pashmina shawls for the ladies! It's the Bucket's Second Birthday! Wheee!
Actually I haven't bought any of you anything, but know that if I were so inclined, I would totally have no hesitation buying you all things you thought were the two above named items but were instead clumsy knockoffs I had rolled and/or woven by the Guatemalans who live in my attic. It would be the thought that counted and the thought would be: I hope none of you are smart enough to know the difference between tobacco and construction paper.
Yes, our relationship over these past two years has grown and grown until now we're all like family: all boiling passive-aggression passed back and forth while we try to pretend to enjoy Grandma's awful peaches-and-beets cobbler. We wouldn't have anything to bond over if it weren't for "Seriously, who the fuck puts beets in a cobbler?"
I guess the analogy doesn't really work because all of you who are familiar with the comments section here know the aggression is fairly active and the beets in the cobbler, well, that could be anything, starting with Brad Pitt's dick.
I applauded myself for leaving you all with a mental image of a baked dessert made out of Brad Pitt's dick, but I just know some of you aren't nearly as disgusted as you should be.
I complain a lot in this blog, but really, the existence of the Bucket has been nothing but a boon for me. It has brought great joy and happiness and undreamed-of heights of personal and professional success for me, for all of which I am grateful. I don't like to brag so I haven't talked about all of it openly, but since it's a special occasion, I'll lift the veil of secrecy for a moment and list some of the great good things the Bucket has brought me over these glorious 24 months:
All this... it's almost too much for one man. And it cost me almost nothing. Only one bleeding ulcer, 3/4 of my marriage and more than half of my immortal soul. I should be arrested for stealing!
Seriously, I can't stop taking things. Somebody stop me. I'm begging you.
Really on this inauspicious occasion, I would like to announce some major changes as I overhaul the Bucket to align with the present blog reality. In the near future, look for:
Change is growth and without growth, we die. It's like Morgan Freeman said in The Shawshank Redemption (you can see it RIGHT NOW on TBS, go check!): "The worst part about prison life has got to be hands-down the forced sodomy."
There's a lot of truth in that. He also said: "Get busy livin' or get busy dyin'." I intend to get busy livin'. FOREVER. But immortality comes at a price. Usually, it's just your soul. But who needs that crap anyway? And you can take my conscience with you while you're at it. Inconvenient bastard cricket wearing a tophat.
Really what this post is all about is an affirmation of what the Bucket is, has been and will continue to be built upon, for these past two years and the years to come: lies.
I'm a huge fan.
All lies aside for a second, I will say that I love you all.
No, I do. I'm serious.
OK, don't believe me. Fuck you.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 10.0
PS-Two years, 639 posts, nearly 93,000 visitors. Holy fuck. I know it's still small-time in blog terms, but it's sure more than I ever got out of my Hello Kitty diary. But then I could also scrapbook in that, so it wasn't totally useless. And of course by "scrapbook," I mean "masturbate."
PPS- Out of town houseguest starting tomorrow. Sporadic posting may follow this week. You have been warned.
LAST EVER TOTALLY SKIPPABLE WORLD CUP SOCCER SECTION
I got busy last week and totally spared you all of reading about soccer. For me, the final can be summed up in one picture:
Zidane walks off after receiving his red-card for being a fucking dumbass and as just punishment he has to walk past the trophy he must know he will never hold again on his way out of the stadium. Fucking brutal.
Of course as an America-hating liberal collaborationist, I was totally rooting for France. My stupid fucker of a DVR cut out the whole goddamn 30 minute overtime, so I didn't actually see the Zidane incident live, but I saw the penalty kicks and enough on replays to make me sad. Yes, Italy gave us pasta (modified from the Chinese recipe) and Sophia Loren, but they also give us crap lay-back-and-wait soccer that makes me want to strangle my TV. They should have lost to Australia four rounds ago. I hate sports. I'm never watching any again.