I am a prolific procrastinator. Case in point, last year I did all of my Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve…at 5 pm. I have seen the hell that is the holiday isles for last minute shoppers.
There are things I wish I could unsee.
So naturally, when I realized I had procrastinated right up to a major holiday yet again, I turned to drugs.
I put together my own spring mix. It’s one part Strawberry Kush and one part Skywalker. I choose the Strawberry k because it’s pink and pink is kind of an Easter color. I choose the Skywalker because Jedi is kind of a religion. With a mighty toke, I am on my way to go Easter shopping at Target.
I choose a cart and magically get a non-squeaky one. As I walk, I admire the shiny floors…and plow my cart into a display of Hunger Games DVDs.
After a stoned apology, I am on my way. I remember to be more vigilant. It’s easy to get distracted by Target’s shiny floors. (Target, you may want to look into the liability of that. Seriously, shiny floors to stoners are like flames to moths. Someone is going to get hurt.)
I am in the grocery isle, trying to pick out a ham, but it is the hardest decision I will ever make. I suddenly feel like everything is riding on me choosing the right ham. I feel like everyone in the store is waiting for me to choose my ham. The pressure is too much.
“Would you all just give me a damn minute!” I realize that no one was looking at me until I shouted at them. Now, everyone is looking at me. Face red, I get ready to drop a random ham in my cart.
“Holy shit, when did I get so much stuff!” My cart is literally teaming. “And why do I need so many laxatives?”
“Excuse me,” an angry woman pushes past me and I realize that this is not my cart.
“Woops, sorry.” I find my cart and manage to make a few selections in the grocery isle without incident. But my trip isn’t over.
It is time to go to the very mouth of the abyss. The Holiday isle. After a bit of minor confusion that I blame on excessive floor shininess (seriously Target, look into that) I arrive at the Easter isle.
It is pure chaos. I abandon my cart outside and plunge in recklessly. People are everywhere and the shelves look like a grocery store from the Walking Dead.
Desperate to get my hands on anything, I turn towards the toys and immediately pick up a large, fluffy pink rabbit. I clutch onto it, despite the fact that my son is way too old, and probably a little too male, to want a fluffy pink rabbit. Then I realize I want it for myself. It’s so soft. I can’t stop petting it long enough to put it in my cart.
Until I realize I am absently sexually molesting a toy rabbit in front of a large group of children and again, this is not my cart.
With visions of a future on the sex offender’s registry, I plow forward bravely, snatching random things off the shelves. When I have enough items to make me feel like a good mother, I run out and dump them all in my cart.
“Motherfucker!” This is still not my cart. Shamefaced, I pull my items out and again find my cart. I make it through checkout relatively easily, thanks to a debit card, and I push my cart out the doors excitedly.
I can’t wait to get home and see what I got!
Living in an apartment comes with a couple of major benefits.
Benefit #1: I don’t have to do yard work.
Benefit #2: My yard work is done by a bunch of hot, sweaty, shirtless, muscular Hispanic men who have provided me with enough masturbation fodder to keep me aroused well into my 90s.
As much as I enjoy looking at them, I have to say, it’s pretty clear they have no idea what they’re doing. Not that I have a problem with stupid men. Hell, young, dumb and handsome is exactly how I like them. But I think a few tweaks to their work plan are in order, before my entire complex is consumed in dandelions and rose bushes that are nothing but thorns.
#1 – That thing your weed wacking is a sprinkler head.
No joke, I just watched a guy go to town on a sprinkler head with a high powered weed wacker for twenty minutes before realizing that the ‘weed’ was made of green plastic. On the upside, I now have a pretty new mini-fountain in my front yard. Hey, silver lining, right?
#2 – You just spent $40 in gas trying to move ONE leaf.
I know the term ‘leaf blower’ is confusing, because it indicates a singular leaf. However, the leaf blower is actually meant to be used on large quantities of leaves. Now, look around. What kind of trees do we have here? Palm trees. You know, the kind of tree that doesn’t drop leaves. Why the hell do you even have a leaf blower? I haven’t seen a leaf on the ground since 2009.
#3 – Just leaving the lawnmower on isn’t a clever tactic for hiding from work.
Trust me, I am the queen of avoiding doing work, and I know a thing or two about pretending to be busy when I’m not. When you sit in the shade for half an hour, with your lawnmower running but not moving while you play with your iPhone, everyone can tell you’re not doing anything.
A lawnmower makes a shitty prop, because it makes it clear to people that you aren’t working as soon as it’s not in motion. Here are some ideas for better props.
- The weed wacker – One of my friends used to do this one when he was assigned yard work in the military. He would get a weed wacker, and then he would just walk around with it. Whenever anyone looked suspicious, he pretended he was cleaning it. In the entire 6 months he was on the yard work detail, he never turned the weed wacker on once…and Fort Huachuca was nearly overrun with weeds.
- The clipboard – This was another tip from my friend. When you carry a clipboard, you always look like you’re doing something important. There is just something about a clipboard that gives you an air of authority. Plus, it’s lighter than a weed wacker.
- The ‘arms crossed while watching another group of guys who are actually working’ pose – This one is good too, because again it gives you an air of authority, without you having to do one single thing. As an added bonus, most people will just assume you’re with the government, due to the lack of efficiency in 6 supervisors watching two guys do all the work.
Look, I want you guys to stay forever. You’re fun to look at and I don’t understand what you’re calling me when you yell at me in Spanish. But it’s only a matter of time before my landlord realizes you are all nothing but very dirty eye candy. When that happens, you’re going to get shown the door and I’m going to get a new crew of significantly less attractive rednecks.
Please don’t let that happen. What we have is special and I’d hate to lose it.
Recently, I decided to run my stats, because that sounds like something successful business people do. With the exception of my ‘How to Pass a Drug Test‘ article, every one of the top articles I’ve written have been written while I was at least mildly buzzed, to heavily intoxicated.
Of course, I didn’t post when I was hammered. I never allow myself to post while drinking. I made that rule after an unfortunate occurrence where I wrote something suspiciously similar to a communist manifesto. To this day, I still have a huge socialist following…
My blog posts can be classified into three categories. The first category is my standard jokey posts, usually written sober, that skim the surface of a current complaint. The next category occurs when I’ve been drinking. The articles I write then are emotionally charged and usually cover controversial topics in an extremely controversial way.
The third category occurs when I’m really stoned. Those articles are mainly about how much I love Funyuns.
Here’s why I’m bringing this up. There is a double standard when it comes to addiction. The best you can get when you have a drinking or drug problem is to be called ‘functioning’. But what if your problem isn’t with booze or pills? What if your personal vice is betting at the track or hitting the craps tables in Vegas?
Well, then you don’t have to be an addict. Instead, you can be a professional gambler. You ever notice that gambling is a very specific addiction? It only affects those who are bad at it. If you are an incredibly good gambler, who is really lucky, you are a professional gambler. If you suck, you’re addicted to gambling.
Here’s the deal; I’m actually good at being drunk. I’m not an angry drunk or weepy drunk. I’m just a bit happier and a little less inhibited. Apparently, I’m also a better writer when I’ve had a few. I’m much more likely to break past that old “New Englanders don’t have feelings’ mentality. With a buzz, I can talk about something I’m truly passionate about, rather than waxing on for 2000 words about how different the Bible would be if it was written by Alpacas.
Anyway, I’m annoyed. If gamblers can do it, why not me? So I am taking the opportunity now to announce, I am not an alcoholic or drunk.
I am a Professional Boozehound.
***Oh, and concerned readers, resist the urge to send me pamphlets about AA. I would rather be full on sucking-my-dealers-dick-for-my-next-fix addicted than paste one of those obnoxious ‘take it easy’ bumper stickers on my car. Recognize artistic license when you see it, people.
You are never more popular than you are when you die. You get more flowers, more visitors, and more nice things said about you at one time than in your entire life combined. No matter how much of a dirt bag you were, people will stay up for hours, writing a eulogy where they try to find something nice to say about you.
God damn it, I can’t wait! I have an outfit picked out and everything! The only thing that sucks is I won’t be alive to enjoy it.
I can only imagine the crazy shit people would come up with in order to make me sound like a good person.
- Essa had a real thirst for life! (technically true, when you consider my drinking problem)
- Essa was really consistent at being inconsistent.
- Essa had great oral hygiene and flossed regularly.
People will come up with something nice to say, because it most cases, death makes you a saint.
I used to live in a small town in Maine, near Bowdoin College. While I was there, there was a homeless man that everyone called ‘CatDog”. CatDog was well into his 60s, most likely mentally ill, and had some serious drug problems.
Then CatDog died. Suddenly, CatDog was the wisest man who ever existed. He wasn’t a homeless man; he was a ‘street philosopher’. He didn’t sleep in an alley because he was addicted to huffing paint. He slept in the alley because of his ‘minimalist beliefs’. CatDog was no longer the homeless man everyone avoided. He was wise. Newspapers wrote extensive profiles on him, going into his life in detail and talking about how he’d managed to ‘survive 40 years on the streets’.
He lived so long because he was in Brunswick fucking Maine. The biggest daily danger he faced was getting patronized to death by some Liberal Arts white kid with dreadlocks.
They said all these wonderful things about this guy, with no irony at all, despite how he died. As I recall, his death was a result of passing out in a plastic bag filled with paint. When he was found, his pants were down around his ankles and he was in viewing distance of a grade school.
To me, that’s the exact opposite of wisdom. You know who never gets hired as a life coach? The guy with an addiction to paint huffing and kid diddling.
If death made CatDog a saint, imagine what it’s going to do for me! So, I’ve wanted to let you all know that I’ve decided to do something special. You know how some chicks get sick of waiting to get married and marry themselves? Well, I’m sick of waiting to get buried so I’m going to bury myself.
I present to you the Essa Alroc Pre Mortem Funeral
The itinerary is as follows. You will arrive at the funeral home. I will arrive by a horse drawn hearse in a silk lined casket made of glass so everyone can admire how pretty I am. Then, I will take a nap while every takes turns saying nice things about me and giving me flowers. I will be taken back to the hearse and we will begin the procession to the graveyard. We will take the long route, stopping as much traffic as possible along the way. We will arrive at the cemetery.
Then, as I believe the Catholic Church requires, we will all do the chicken dance. I will be brought into a Mausoleum that is a large scale replica of my face. You will all go home. Well, except one of you.
I’m gonna need someone to let me out of the Mausoleum.
Donations can be made directly to me, because it is going to be expensive as hell to pay for all this shit.
Marty McFly will return on October 21, 2015. He was expecting to land in a world filled with hover boards, flying cars and rampant gambling and prostitution.
At least the producers got the last two right.
Science, I know you try. I know you’re constantly covered in bureaucratic red tape, thanks to companies who would rather pay to treat a disease for years, rather than cure it once. I know what a bitch it is to have to apply for grant money to try out some wacky idea.
I understand how depressing it is to be an aspiring mad scientist in a world where giant lasers don’t exist.
But I’m going to need you all to up your game. Marty McFly will be returning soon and we at least want to show him we did some things right (besides the gambling and prostitution). Here are some projects I’m going to need you to start working on ASAP.
Food in pill form – and the Mexican diet pills I’m taking don’t count. As a human being who might also be part cyberborg, I find the task of eating annoying and time consuming. I live on a diet of mainly processed items in small packages, that require no cooking. When I do cook, I’m so exhausted by the time I’m done, I don’t have the energy to eat.
Unless I’m taking those Mexican diet pills. Then I cook, clean the bathroom for 6 hours and mow the lawn.
Holograms – Do you guys remember Jem and the Holograms? It’s mainly about a girl, her pet supercomputer, and a band of crime solving musicians. I loved that show and I wanted to be Jem. Unfortunately, as the use of holograms isn’t as widespread as we would expect it to be, I haven’t had the opportunity yet.
Rest assured, as soon as I can buy a hologram throwing supercomputer at Kinkos, I will be starting my own band which also solve crimes. FYI: I’m looking for a good keytar player, if anyone knows one.
Dictation software that actually works – Here’s an example of the current dictation software I have available to me.
Watch as I type this ambiance with store taught diction software.
Really? Come on Science. We can do better than that. It’s 2014. I was expecting to be able to type novels with my mind by now, and instead, you’re sticking me with software that can’t tell the difference between ‘ambiance’ and ‘sentence’. It doesn’t help that I have a slight New England drawl, which leads the computer to believe that I don’t use the letter R.
Robots – Do you guys realize the closest thing we have to artificial intelligence is Google? Seriously, we have that kind of power at our fingertips, and we use it to search for fetish porn. Where’s my maid robot, my sex robot and my gas station robot? Hell, if people who made movies based in the future want to be accurate, they shouldn’t have robots doing all the menial jobs. They have all the jobs outsourced to India.
Science, I have to say you’re doing ok. Sure, you haven’t found a cure for AIDS or cancer, but at least you can get a 90 year old’s penis hard. You might not have found a way to end pollution but you did create PooVak, the Pet Waste Vacuum Pooper Scooper. Seeing you guys really like to focus your energy on frivolous crap, I’m sure all my requests should be easy to manage.
I love holidays. I love every last one of them, right down to Arbor Day and the Jewish New Year. I just like any day that is special, and gives me an excuse to day drink.
Of course, whenever a religious holiday comes along, as a parent, it is my duty to explain these holidays to my son. While I’m great with the biggies, Christmas, Halloween, etc., I kind of blow once the story gets involved. And Easter is a bit of a convoluted story in the Catholic Church.
So I do what any good parent would do when their kid asks them questions they don’t know the answer to. I fucking wing it.
Son: Mom, what do we celebrate Easter?
Me: Because Jesus comes back.
Son: Doesn’t that mean Armageddon?
Me: No, Armageddon would only happen if Jesus came back at the same time as his evil twin, the Anti-Christ.
Son: Jesus has an evil twin?
Me: Sure, deep down, everyone has an evil twin. That’s what Easter is all about.
Son: So what’s with the eggs?
Me: Jesus is allergic. I think it’s passage Luke 24: 35, where the angel announces Jesus has risen. Right before everyone starts singing “Jesus Christ; Superstar”, the angel announces to the women at the tomb that Jesus he isn’t in the tomb anymore and gives them instructions for his return. “He is risen, just as he said…Now hide those damn eggs. Jesus can be a real diva and if he sees any eggs in his green room, we’ll hear about it from his agent.” Then, everyone does a big dance number.
Son: (a look of pure skepticism)
Son: Fine, whatever. What’s with all the flat bread?
Me: Yeast makes Jesus gassy. He actually has a large list of dietary restrictions.
Son: I should probably Google this so I don’t sound like an idiot, huh?
Me: I think that would be a wise decision.