The final morning of a holiday you wake up with the inconvenient awareness that the moment that you get out of bed you’re done for, in the poo, stuffed, neutered beyond all recognition. That final rising means the next time that you get into bed it will be to wake up and go back to work.
Maybe I should take an afternoon nap.
My cat seems to be on a permanent 24 hour afternoon nap rotation except for the moments when he wants to break my balls. His strangest behavior is reserved for when he needs to take a dump. After the final voiding from his bowls of whatever waste was befouling him, he proceeds to prance sideways across the room like a sailor who has exhausted the last of his shore funds, at which point he will suddenly leap into the air as if attempting to extinguish a fire that has somehow erupted on his tail. Returning to earth he will continue on as before as if the strange acrobatic interruption had never taken place.
I watch such behavior with a mix of resignation and hope that the soon to be ex-wife gets the fucking cat.
Mind you, he is someone to talk to when I get home. I can say things like, “How are you, Duke? How was your day?” and he can look at me like I’m a fuckwit. It’s strangely comforting the amount of colossal disdain that he routinely displays. At this point in my life I think that presented with the image of a loyal dog wagging its tail in pleasure at my arrival I’d simply want to punch it right in the face. And a decent punch too, none of this half-pulled rubbish. Aim for a few feet through the other side of his head. WHAM! There it goes, thank God I purchased a sausage dog and not a pit bull.
Hey ho, here we go, a final day where you try to make the most of it and all you manage to do is to sit down and start typing incoherent spew while you realise that you’ve run out of coffee and the shops are closed. Does it get any worse than this?
The bell tolls 12. Halfway there, baby.
Don’t get me wrong, I like my work. I just like holidays better. Even holidays where I spend most of my hard earned time driving across Europe in a futile attempt to distract myself from the fact that the very idea of erecting a Christmas tree and getting up in the morning to open a present that I wrapped for myself would most probably lead me to bad thoughts of bad things.
You can’t joke about killing yourself because then you’ll be buried under an electronic avalanche of concerned folk desperate to make sure that they would be able to say that they contacted you before you did that selfish thing, and what a waste it was, boy oh boy, he had so much going for him, I tell ya, if only he knew how lucky he was and how good he had it, I can’t begin to tell you, pass me one of those little croutons with the speck and the endive salad, I just love those, they’re so springy on your taste buds, like a veritable taste explosion, what was I saying again?
I’m not one for killing myself because it’s a sin and YOU’LL GO TO HELL! but it’s funny because the big stuff never makes you want to top yourself. Like the ex-good wife packing her bags and walking out, all I wanted to do was to punch up my non-existent dog. But briefly lose your car keys and it’s like, “fuck this, I may as well just kill myself! where’s a motherfucking bazooka when you need it?!”
My cat is asleep on a chair and is dreaming. I know he’s dreaming because he just jerked his head and made a few twitches. Most likely he’s dreaming about working out how to open doors with keys. That way he could get into the food cupboard and out the front door whenever the hell he felt like it. The jerk in his dream was when he finally got out the front door and got run over by a moving van, serves you right you little bastard, see? I told you so. Wouldn’t listen to me, would you. And now you’re just a bloody smear with bits of grey hair sticking out.
The cat has woken up and is looking at me funny.
I’d go out for a walk except that it’s January in Holland. I’m supposed to be going to the gym but I have the feeling that that’s got about as much chance of happening as the Democrats coming to the sudden and collective realization that border walls are cool as fuck. Most probably I’ll sit here all afternoon and drink German wheat beer. It has NO FRUITY NOTES at all and I like it so all of you can go and get fucked. I purchased a big beer glass specifically for this type of beer. It’s a very tall and bulbous glass, the type of glass that is most shaped like a woman with whom you’d like to do the bang bang bang. You need to pour in the beer in a certain way to get the right type of head, (Funny! Head! Get it?? Ha ha!) You lean the bottle into the glass and then you upend the bottle vertically but you KEEP THE LIP OF THE BOTTLE SUBMERGED and that way you get the right amount of head and not a glass with a little bit of yellow at the bottom and then a whole lotta white froth, (like Australia used to be, get it?? Get it??)
No, I haven’t started drinking yet. This is what I’m like at parties when I’m in the mood. People that I knew used to invite me to their parties just for the off chance that I was in the mood. Mostly I wasn’t in the mood. But when I was then all bets were off. I’d enter and the hostess would come up to me with this forced smile on her face that she’d spent at least 30 minutes shaping in the royal bathroom of overused marble that masqueraded as a place where someone like me could wipe off his ass while standing up because that’s what you do when you’re using toilet paper whilst surrounded with the gross national export of Carrara for an entire year.
“Would you like a glass of champagne?” she’d ask while stiffly beckoning a university student fitted into some foreign black and white attire who was working to supplement her studies because daddy-whoring hadn’t yet been invented back then. I’d take the glass, flash the young chicky a demented grin, and then ask the hostess whether or not a cure for herpes had been invented yet. I wasn’t asking for myself, oh no no non, but for a friend, you see.
“Oh, you’re so wicked! Whatever will you think of next? Come let me introduce you to Lord McGuire.” I allowed myself to be pulled along on the off chance that McGuire either knew my friend, knew about a cure, or both. The servant, sorry – student moonlighting as a white slave – was giving me strange looks which I interpreted correctly as she desperately wanted to fuck me. The demons in her head were grappling with the juxtaposition of the twin realities that she presented herself as a lesbian but that she had an overwhelming need for a good rogering. What to do, what to do? I haven’t often been to a party with actual servants, apart from in Uganda but all of those were black. In other words, real servants of the serving servitude kind. We played a long round of golf in Uganda once, me and some of the boys. Each of us hired a personal caddie for the entire 18 holes for one US dollar, a price that we considered to be slightly exorbitant but what the hell. We also got a 5th caddie whose sole purpose was to run back and forth between us and the clubhouse with our drinks order. We required one bottle of Ugandan Nile Special lager each per hole. These were half a liter bottles, mind you. The poor lad was more exhausted at the end than we were but we had promised him another dollar if he was not late for a single hole. The other stipulation was that the beers were not allowed to foam over when we opened them, a requirement that resulted in the young lad having to walk stiff legged at a furious pace; he would have given those ridiculous walking athletes a real run for their money. Piley tried to cheat him out of his bonus dollar but we were pretty sure that the bastard had shaken his final bottle so as to save 25c. Either that or he was jerking off at the 18th.
“Lord McGuire is in international shipping.”
“A real life pirate!” I said at the top of my voice and then I spilled my drink all down my pants. “Where is that nice young lady with the tray?” I demanded, and suddenly there she was before me, her hands shaking so much with anticipation that all of the offered beverages slipped off her tray. “You’re fired!” cried the hostess, and with that I took the girl by the arm and led her away for what I referred to as comforting.
Afternoon naps. I told you, no good can come of them.