Depression Jams No. 12 & 35

I had planned to rant about all sorts of groovy stuff, but I’ve spent the past three days thwarting the Bubonic Plague. My Sabbath consisted of half a dozen vomiting sessions, interspersed with incoherent bargaining with God to quit screwing around and kill me already. I am a clean, mean killing machine these days, so the recoil from said puking felt like the kick from my Mossberg 500. That’s what a strict regimen of abdominal work will yield: a gastric revolt akin to high velocity birdshot. It was tremendous.

I kinda wish I had the foresight for video documentation, because it was pretty hysterical in retrospect.  Whenever I start feeling just a bit too self-satisfied, one of y’all could have hyperlinked clips of me puking and crying like a pansy. Then we all could have loffed and loffed and loffed.

The past two post-puke days have been a daze. It’s like a drunken binge in reverse. Last night, I made a wisecrack on facebook that I just needed a beautiful woman to toss a drink in my face in order to complete the effect.  Within seconds, several of my female friends were asking for a) directions, b) my cocktail of choice, and c) “how soon can I do this? This needs to happen like yesterday. I want to douse you with wobbly pop more than I want to breathe.”

The only thing that is falling in proper sequence with an alcoholocaust is the runaway boulder of depression that signals its denouement. I’m desperately trying to evade it, but I’m failing miserably. Nothing can shake me from this current funk. I’d try to exercise my way out of this, but I’m just too weak. Laughing at others’ misfortunes usually works, but it just fell flat today. For example, I watched Kirstie Alley thud to the floor whilst rumbaing on “Dancing With The Stars.” I’m a demented little twerp, so I’d normally laugh at this crap. But today? No dice.

I just got bummed out thinking about how hot she was 25 years ago and the mess that she is now. And while Kirstie certainly was a beauty, I personally found Shelley Long much hotter back in the day. Diane Chambers would have wiped the mat with Rebecca Howe in a battle of wits. And all things being equal, I’d rather lust after a babe who has her nose stuck in a volume of Remembrance of Things Past than some blindly ambitious hussy who chases every millionaire that crosses her radar. I mean, really. I’d much rather deal with a prissy egghead who would tolerate my bumbling dilettantism than a shameless gold digger with no self-restraint.

Come to think of it, I’ve had more than my fair share of prissy eggheads and out of control maniacs already.  And furthermore, I don’t have Sam Malone’s hair or winning smile, so I should probably punch out of this allusion tout de suite. I’m probably destined for a Carla Tortelli anyway.  And who the hell am I kidding? I’m wholly bereft of Sammy’s charm, but I am a repository of utterly useless knowledge. I am doomed to be Cliff Clavin.

But I digress.

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One Comment on “Depression Jams No. 12 & 35”

  1. zohrbak says:

    I am laughing out loud. At work. Not cool.


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