The Freight Republic

Someone stole my “P.S. You’re Cute!” sign off my door.  Fuckers.  I suspect that either the thieving neighborhood kids or the maintenance men were getting jealous of my generous complimenting.  Jackasses.  Now I have to remember to make another one at work. 

I’m gonna have to write “P.S. You’re Cute!” on my hand with magic marker in order to remember.  This won’t make for a fun day.

I can’t believe I live around such anti-fun people.  Does mirth really bother them so much?  Now I will readily admit to being no-fun.  That’s practically a scientific fact.  You can set your clock by it.  Time spent with me is easily the dullest afternoon you’ll ever have.  I really have no problem being no-fun.  I’d prefer to be fun, but I can’t.  I get the same result from trying to speak Swahili.  I just can’t.

But anti-fun?  I certainly don’t hate those who are fun, or the state of fun-ness itself.  These are conditions I’d like to see more of, so I make signs to promote their growth.  (Or cheer me up as I open my door.)

Speaking of anti-fun, I received a update about the infamous “don’t sit on my stool” doctor.  My friend questioned the nurse about the chair, and it turns out every room in the clinic has a stool with “Don’t sit!” written on it.  It turns out that a rather obese patient once sat on it, fell over, and cracked her head on the table.  Due to her ineptitude, the stools are now off limits to the rest of us. 

It’s stories such as these that I’ll look back and reminisce about someday.  Then I’ll miss this cashier who’s name I will most likely have forgotten at that point.  But her levity will still be appreciated.

Ever walk by the guest services counter to hear them talking about giving horses hysterectomies? While there’s a three-feet long mechanical horse lying on the counter?  The look of horror on its robotic face spoke volumes.  Soon its (equally) robotic loins would be ripped from it.  With no charge left in its batteries, it wouldn’t even be able to shriek digital shrieks or cry motor oil tears. 

Such a downer.

What better way to cheer up than with newly cleaned records?

I buy these records on the cheap, and then have to wash them ‘cuz they’re always filthy.  The last thing I want to attempt is cleaning my record player.  It barely allows me near it after repeatedly playing something like The Commodores “Live!”

I now own two copies of Isaac Hayes’ Hot Buttered Soul.  ‘Cuz it’s that awesome.  Around 45 minutes long and only four songs?  It’s funny, I have many “rock” albums that claim they should be played loud.  None of them have ever been played as loud as I play this record though.  The simplisitic bass notes on “Walk on By” are hypnotizing!

I also picked up a copy of Crosby, Stills and Nash.  Every review I’ve ever read gushes about “Marrakesh Express,” and for the life of me I can’t figure out why.  The preceding “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” is totally superior.  It has to be one of the, if not the, meanest love song ever! 

Listening to it also reminds me of my mother, which certainly makes me biased.     

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