The struggle, as in all wars that are worthwhile, is of course against pants, the polyester and cotton bane of a mans existance. Shortly after men were suckered into joining 'civilized' society, women have plotted to make us not only look silly, but wear constricting clothing.
As many of you know im not some granola chewing, reaking of sweat hippy, giving peace a fucking chance kinda guy, and in general im all for ugly people (myself included) to wear more and more clothing, lets face it we all have been subjected to some obese, hairy, pungent smelling, detestible peice of flesh digging her thong out of her crack, and lets face it many of us have been scarred for life by that event, the fact that clothing designers have not yet put weight restrictions on spandex shows yet another pink wing conspiracy (Gay fashion designers plotting to subvert the male youth by letting any rampaging hippo slip into something skin tight showing off the nastiest camel toe on the face of the earth, the seams near splitting, about to drown anyone standing too close in a wash of sweat and cellulite. Such a picture, and possible even the mental image could move the weak minded to considering homosexuality on the spot.
Irreguardless like many of lifes battles, I choose my battlefield, the office, and like every other time Ive tried to battle my enemies in life, life dragged me out back and bitch smacked me around like an assisant Health Club concierge in Kobe Bryants bedroom. The tale of my battle is neither epic, nor in some ghey ass iambic pentameter, but a struggle of near epic proportions none the less.
During the course of my morning, in which i summon enough courage to rouse myself for another battle against the pathos that is my life, I try to answer these basic questions. Who am I? What am I doing here? And where the fuck is rest of my bourbon? After a few moments in which alcohol dreams of who I want to be (porn star) fade back into the dim recesses of a foggy mind the answers come, clear, brunt, and not softened by the previous nights liquors, I am Jake, and I live in this filth, and that was Iron City salt and gravel in that bottle by my bed, because im too damn poor to afford anything worth drinking.
After making a visit to the infirmary and having my stomach pumped, by which I mean racing too the cactus in the corner of my room (still festively decorated with blinking hot tomale christmas lights) and emptying the contents of my stomach and bladder (not nessicarily in that order) I feel almost good enough to venture to the first trial of my day, the dreaded mirror of woe.
Not any warrior can take the chance encounter of meeting the mirror of woe head on, its not that we are worried about the dried vomit and booze which is plastered to cheek and forehead, or even the bright lights above the bathroom sink, but the fact we dont remember if we did something stupid last night and have a penis or something tattooed on the forehead or cheek. Lets face it, theres very few things more disappointing to the heutero male then finding that a very large, very black penis, has taken up residence on the face in india ink. Not only is it difficult to explain to the nun you beat the crap out of on the way to work, but also to people your not beating the crap out of.
'Hey Bob?' a co-worker might say, is that a 'penis tattooed on your face or are you just happy to see me?'
Anything less then assult and aggrevated battery against such a person by say tearing off one of their limbs (take your pick) and beating them until they sleep, would be the real crime, despite what any courts with their moral high ground, and precident might think.
Thankfully on this given day, I was looking good, yeah my eyes were bloodshot, I had a black eye, huge welt on my cheek, my hair was stuck to my head with satans own hair gel (no not that you sick and twisted monkeys) blood, tequila, and vomit, 2 and 1/2 days facial growth had sprouted on my face, which meant I had the beard of oh say a 13 year old pakistani girl. And I was still an overweight white guy with pasty skin and covered with moles, but damn it there wasnt a mother fucking tattoo on my face, so I was thinking thinking I was just a few sit ups away from studdom.
A little water, some lyicol disenfecting wipes, and I was ready to give my blurry eyes a test, the morning slashing of the face to remove unwanted hair and moles from the old face. Choosing what must have been the dullest disposible razor who had lived long past its prime I pressed it against my already hagard skin and procede to remove strips of flesh and hair in a very painful fashion, but damn it like the commerical says it 'Helps wake you up'. A little rubbing alcohol, old spice, and toilet paper later and I was ready to forcibly eject what had refused to defiled my cactus.
By this time I realize its 9:30 and im already 30 minutes late for work, so in a mad rush I grabbed my least stained shirt, black socks, keys, wallet, thong, shoes, a black and red sock, a pop tart and my mornin coffee 'Jack Daniels', and rush off to work.
Next Week Part II 'Hey Dude wheres me breeches?'