A Can Of Gumout

When I was a younger man — a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away — I struggled with finances like most young adults.  And by struggled I mean, after allowing for absolute essentials like going to the bars every night, there was usually not enough money for luxuries like work transportation.

As a result, I drove a P.O.S. (hint: does not mean Pretty Old Sedan) that often gave me fits.  It would start OK, but the moment I put it in gear the engine would die.

Because of the aforementioned money crunch, I could not afford frivolous splurges like a tune-up.  A friend told me that the carburetor (those were the fuel injection thingys back in the Stone Age) was gunked up.  His advice was that I should just spray in a can of Gumout (a fuel-injection-thingy-gunk-cleaner-outer back in the Stone Age).  I did, and it loosened things up just enough that I could make the important trips to the bars, and maybe also some trips to work.

Thanks to the stress ball of the past few weeks at work, and the past five weeks of surgeries, hospitals and nursing homes with my Dad, (Bleep) My Brain Says and I have been kind of like the old P.O.S.  I can get me started, but every time I try to put me in gear, I die.

So this post is like a can of Gumout.  Most of these are thoughts that will probably turn into future posts. I figure if I spray enough into my gunked-up carburetor thingy brain, maybe the engine will stay running.

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At one time, I must have tithed body hair, because between my ears, nose and belly I now have one hundred fold more than I ever had on my head.

Which is problematic, since razor blades are now chrome wheeled, fuel-injected and steppin’ out over the line.  I now pay more monthly to shave than I do for my cable bill.

Why are people offended by stereotypes?  They wouldn’t exist if there wasn’t some persistent truth as a foundation.  Nobody ever said, “Hey, let’s make up some wild-ass stories, like ‘asians can’t drive,’ ‘Irish people like to drink’ and ‘white people have no rhythm’ and see if it catches on!”

Racism is like natural selection to prevent overcrowding in Heaven.

If sixty is the new forty, then my first child was conceived when I was six years old.

I pretty much knew I’d reached the pinnacle of my life experiences when I got to remove my Dad’s bedpan and wipe his ass.

And while we’re on the subject…

The phrase, “Sh*it rolls downhill” by itself absolutely establishes that there is sh*t at the top of the hill.

My retirement planning includes winning a Powerball jackpot.  To prepare that kind of money, I’m going to New York City for Fleet Week.  It’s the best way to learn how to spend like a drunken sailor.

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There, maybe that will get things going.  Excuse me, I’ve gotta drop this thing into DRIVE; I’m late for the bars.