Holy shit. 2 weeks from this Monday...on November 14th...I will marry the hottest chick I've ever laid eyes upon. My best friend. The peas to my carrots.

Holy shit. I have the coolest job in the world. I've made my way to the top and I'm happier than ever. "It's good to be the King".

Holy shit. Kristen and I just moved into the coolest house. It's perfect. And I bought a regulation air hockey table for the Florida room. How cool is that???

Holy shit. I have the coolest kid ever. Sure she tried to hide her report card in an act of defiance (even though her grades were GREAT). But that rebellious mindset will lead to power and leadership. Or prison. OK, time to crack the whip.

Holy Shit. I am a white guy in the greatest country in the world. I make great money, and have few - but very select - friends who I would trust with my life. I live in a good neighborhood, and am about to marry the coolest, most amazing woman I've ever met. I can say for the first time in a VERY long time, that life is good...and I am happy.

So...needless to say...do everything you've wanted to do NOW. Make amends with those whom you hold a grudge with NOW. Live like the world will end soon. Because it will.....soon.

Things are too good for the world to continue without imminent annihilation. It would only make sense. Life is going too well. This just doesn't happen to people like me. The undeserving.

But then again, I've dealt with my share of shit, and I really do try my damndest to be the best person I can be. I try to treat everyone with respect and I take life very lightly. Always have fun in the midst of adversity.

And so I say to you all. In all my life, things have never been so promising, so enlightening, so damn good. So this must mean one thing. The world is coming to an end. It only makes sense. Along with the crazy weather, the wars, the new diseases...all of it. It's all coming to fruition. I'm not trying to be gloom-n-doom or apocalyptic, but things cannot be this good without it all crashing down at any given moment.

Brace yourselves. Do what needs to be done. Make amends, forgive, love, be patient, be kind, don't fret, don't regret.

Because at any given moment........................................................

I was at popular restaurant chain a month or so ago (for the sake of argument we'll call it...TGI FRIDAYS) with my lovely fiancé and beautiful daughter. It was one of the rare Saturday afternoons when we all had off and could spend some time together. It was a great day…miniature golfing…a little loitering around the mall…good times are being had by all. So we pull in to the Friday’s for some lunch. We’ve been out since late morning and our tummies were growling for some grub. Now typically, Friday’s isn’t all that bad. The food selection is good, the atmosphere’s nice, and they have TV’s all around the bar and surrounding areas, which is perfect for those 7-second moments of silence. ESPN... conversation…ESPN…color on the placemat…ESPN…”What’s that dear? I do to listen to you!”…ESPN…

I think you get it.

So I open the menu, ready to scan the numerous selections. I go straight to the sandwich page, “The Greatest of ALL pages”.

I can’t help it, sandwiches are my thing. I’ve always been that way. They’re simple, yet can be piled with nearly anything to suit your taste. It’s the most brilliant and versatile food invention ever. Growing up, my Mom would give us the choice of anything we wanted for dinner on our birthday. My brother and sisters would pick lasagna, giant spaghetti & made-from-scratch meatball dinners, steak, mammoth casseroles with tons of sides…the best of whatever your heart desired. So for my 10th birthday it was MY turn. Everyone eagerly awaited the decision, as they all knew they would be eating very well tonight. It was only a matter of what the meal would be. So my Mom asks, “It’s your day! What would you like for dinner?” She was all cheery and smiling…basically pulling off a brilliant acting job convincing me that she’s enjoying the thought of having to slave in the kitchen for hours to appease my goofy ass - who by the way was already raking it in with presents and cake. Why the hell go through THIS? I knew deep down inside she cursed this day, but she played the part well - as every parent must at some point during a child’s life. So she leans down, awaiting her sentencing…a perfect 50/50 smile consisting of half sheepish grin and half “son-of-a-bitch”.

“I want ham and cheese sandwiches…all the way.”

So unique is the look of sheer confusion, complete surprise, and massive relief all combined. This was her face…encompassing all 3 emotions simultaneously. Yes, that’s what I wanted. Brother and sisters be damned. This is MY day…these are MY rules! I want sandwiches!

And sandwiches I had. Sandwiches we ALL had.

So I’m looking at the sandwiches on the menu, and what is typically 12-15 sandwiches spread over half of a page, had been Jew’d down to a mere 5 sandwiches. That’s it. Five fucking sandwiches. So I ask the waiter, who’s a pimply little chump that’s still in high school, has the work ethic of [Insert ethnic or racial preference here], and is about 7 minutes late in saying, “Hi, my name’s Thad, what can I start you off with?”

I ask, “Thad…buddy. Where the hell are the sandwiches?”

His reply? “Yeah, we’ve downsized our menu a bit.”

No shit, Pimpleton! Did ya cut down on spoons too? How about napkins? Salt & pepper? KETCHUP?? Because it would make about as much sense! (Of course I didn’t really say this. If you have any grammatical sense, the lack of quotation marks would have told ya.) How the hell can a restaurant like this cut back on SANDWICHES? Sandwiches are the staple of any “good times, we’re hip and fun, eat our greasy fries and drink our flat beer til you puke in our air blowing, non-paper-towel-having restrooms” restaurant. You know the kind…your Bennigans’, Ale Houses’, Jungle Jim’s ...etc. They all have mean sandwiches to compliment their over-priced platters and drink specials.

None of them are worth eating.

So I was somehow talked into ordering these Sesame Jack Wings. I had no clue what they were, but Kristen and my boy Jim swore by them. And of all the people I trust in this world, they would be ..1 & ..2 respectively. So Sesame Jack Wings it is!

We finally got our food (after each plate and side was delivered in 2-minute intervals over the course of 15 minutes). All seemed to be enjoying their “good times, fun food joint” food. I take a bite…

What the fuck is this shit? (Apologies for the continued language, but if you tasted these things, “What the fuck is this shit?” is exactly what would come out of your mouth.) This stuff was hideous. It was even ugly to look at! Each bite created a massive seepage of oil and goo from the soggy, deep fried and taken out of the fryer 10 minutes too soon, “pseodu-chicken” wings. It was vile, and it was repugnant. And I immediately thought of all those who had raved over this putrid delicacy. Rest assured, a wide-spread wave of lost respect made it’s way over Orlando that day. Who in their right mind would eat this shit?

Not me. I don’t care how bad my gut is growling or how shaky my hands are from not eating. Oh…..right….they shake regardless. Well whatever.

So Kristen gets ticked off that they served me this crap. She insists I take it back.

“Tell him to take it back! Order something else! That’s crap!”

But I don’t do a thing. Oh I say a thing…but I do nothing.

When good ol’ Thad returns, I tell him of not only my displeasure of the service, but of the piss-poor quality of this establishment’s food. I went into great detail about the consistency, smell, taste and feel of these chicken atrocities as it swirled around in my mouth like a vile storm of inedible waste. I figured if I had to endure a bite of that crap, I mind as well indulge him with every last grotesque detail of my encounter. Sparing no detail, and embellishing the hell out of it for effect.

He asks if I would like another plate of them. Silly boy. Why the hell would I ask for MORE of something I am disgusted with? That would make me an idiot!

And I DID say that.

The boy cowers and runs back into the shadows, leaving what appeared to be a trail of shit behind him. Kristen asks why I’m going to sit here and continue to starve when there are a ton of other choices on the menu. What she did not understand, and what I tell you now, is this…

You simply do not return restaurant food. Period. If your food sucks you have 2 choices:

1. Suck it up and eat it.
2. Push it away and hope to God you have something in your refrigerator that has not expired in the past 3 months.

Regardless of your decision, you let the waiter, the manager…anyone in earshot know how bad the food was. They took your time; you take their pride.

But do not…DO NOT…take it back.

They will spit in your food, pick their nose and wipe it on your chicken, sneeze in your mashed potatoes, and piss in your Lemonade…among many other sick and perverse atrocities.

And that is why I’m here. To spread the word. The Good Word. Don’t take the shit back. You never know what you’ll get.

So I’m sitting here staring eye-to-eye with a glass of sangria. That’s right, I said it…sangria. Yes, I know after my “Sangria” blog one would think that I would have long ago abolished even the sight of the dreaded juice. But alas, I am sitting here having just finished a very long weekend moving in to a new home. It’s been a grueling, hellacious week and I’m winding down here at what is now 10:00pm. All beer was voraciously devoured yesterday – some may say in “excess” - on the greatest day of the week; Football Sunday. Aside from a 6-year old bottle of Formula 44D, sangria is the only thing going on this, Monday Night Football night. I see the bottle staring at me…calling me. I contemplate driving to the store to pick up a 6-pack. But my first instinctive thought is:

You stupid motherfucker! You’re gonna get up, put some clothes on, shlep your tired, beaten ass to the store for some BEER? Sit your ass down fool – you’re going nowhere! Dumb bitch – now pass me the pretzels!

So it’s settled. I’m staying put.

No sir…I’m comfy, cozy, beat, and football is on. Fuck that.

So it’s this or nothing. I look at it and tell myself, “I’ll just have a little. Not enough to go back to that horrible, God-awful abyss of immeasurable misery and despair. The “Sangria Hangover”. Never again. Just fill the cup half way, and we’ll nurse this baby.”

The sangria pours out a little faster than I had anticipated.

So we’ve got a ¾ ………to about a full – yes, a full glass of sangria to nurse through the night.

And so here I am, glass in hand.

But this isn’t actually my point tonight. My point is; have you ever had a song in your head all day that just won’t go away? You don’t know how it got there, and for the life of you, you just can’t shake it? Of course you have. Even Hellen Keller awoke some mornings to find a certain muffled beat or mumbled rhythm in her head, not knowing how it got there, but it lingers all day. We’ve all been there.

My friends, I have long been a helpless victim of this common phenomenon in a manner that is not your ordinary, run of the mill, got-a-damn-song-in-my-head-and-can’t-get-it-out sort of thing. You see, the songs in my head tend to drift toward rare, obscure, HORRIBLE songs.

It all starts with the blaring sound of my morning alarm clock. Unlike the majority of the general populous who experience this nuisance, the song that first blasts from my alarm has nothing to do with the song that lingers in my head all day. In fact, I rarely recognize what it is at all. Someone could be reciting satanic spells in a voice 5 octaves deeper than James Earl Jones, sacrificing virgins while evil elves fucked sheep in the background live on the radio. Imagine that sound?? The point is, it wouldn’t faze me. I hit the snooze button instantaneously with the start of the radio and shoot up out of bed. Then it happens….

Without warning, without coherent thought, my vitals have just barely begun to ignite from their nearly comatose state. Before I can pry my crusted eyelids apart, it appears. Louder than the radio alarm that just woke me with a piercing volumatic fury. (that’s right, “volumatic” is hereby a word. Deal with it.) Like a sonic boom in my brain, it appears.

Lionel Richie’s, “Say You, Say Me”

I don’t know why, I don’t know how. I haven’t heard the song in what must be 10-12 years. I would have remembered hearing it because my Mom was an avid Lionel Richie fan in the mid-80’s. I simply haven’t heard that song in many, many years. Why now? Why this sudden rush of,

“Say you, say me, Say it together….naturally.”

“…I had a dream, I had an awesome dream. People in the park, playing games in the dark…”

What did I do to deserve this? Is this some random extension of a vivid nightmare? Has some freak glitch in my neurological system bridged the gap between unconscious fantasy and the now painful conscious reality?

And it plays…all day. It drifts in and out of course…I’m not a COMPLETE lunatic here. I’d go mad if I had to endure 24 hours of that shit. It ebbs and flows, in and out. You’ll go about your day; not realizing the song has vanished. But when you find yourself in those brief moments of silence…when you have a small window of opportunity to catch your breath and gain some time of quiet reflection. Perhaps it’s taking a shit in the privacy and intimate solitude of a bathroom stall. Or during those few minutes when you pretend to pick something up from under your desk so you can pick the living shit out of that nagging snot buried deep within your nasal passage. Or when you’re walking about oblivious to the world, ignoring all forms of life around you. It’s those moments when it hit’s you unexpectedly.

Last week it was the theme song to “The Golden Girls”, several days ago the theme to “The Great Space Coaster”, and in the middle of July, amidst 100 degree heat…”Jingle Bells”. I’ve gone through weeklong periods of day-after-day Christmas songs. FOR NO REASON!! “The Humpty Dance” was in my head all day yesterday. I don’t know why, I don’t know how. I haven’t heard them in years, but here they are playing in my head. These out of date, lame, piss-poor compositions.

Maybe there are others out there who face this curse on a somewhat regular basis. It would certainly ease my mind knowing this.

Who knows what tomorrow brings. But if you hear me humming a vaguely familiar tune, only to find that when you recognize it, it’s the dumbest song you haven’t heard in a long time. Know that it’s not my fault.

OK the Sangria’s halfway done…I’ve just filled remainder of the glass with Red Bull. Sangria and Red Bull…yes, I think I’m on to something here. Better try one more before testing this in the real world.