Michael Bolton couldn't hold Laura Branigan's granny panties.

Of course I lost my first game in the League of Morons to a guy who auto-drafted. That's what I get for replacing Tony Romo with Sammy Watkins as my flex player. Rookie mistake.

It's 7 AM and the neighbor's hound dog is doing what annoying fucking hound dogs do. Not all dogs are worth saving, boys and girls.

Someone I met over the weekend mentioned wanting to do a comedy and music themed podcast. It got my juices flowing so yesterday I did a quick good search and found that there really aren't any music and comedy combined podcasts. A few comedy podcasts that sometimes have music, but none that are focused on both as a theme. That strikes me as odd because, again, the same buddy mentioned that musicians all seem to want to be comedians and comedians all want to be musicians. He wasn't wrong.

Maybe in the coming months I can talk him into it. I miss doing podcasts.

Got a call from gramma last night. She wants some politician's address so she can write him a letter. She's cranky about something. She has spent her life cranky about one thing or another. It's a miserable way to go through life. It drove away people who loved her and it beat down the people who stayed. There is a relief that will come when she leaves this big blue ball.

I'll call her back later on today. She'll rant about whatever it is she's pissed about, tell me she misses me, and I'll wonder on my end if I am a bad grandson for wishing the fucking call would just end already.

If I ever become a miserable cunt who cannot find joy in life I will have lived too long.


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