Sunday, October 10, 2004
I was thinking about washing the floor in my kitchen today, but a gallon of milk and a box of cereal seduced me into a night of Major League II and masturbation instead. But almost washing the floor did get me thinking. Well, I'm not sure if you can call it thinking, but something was going on that made the stuff behind my face hurt, and I'm pretty sure it was thinking. This story is gonna be pretty pointless, but you're probably wasting your life away already anyway. Watching Sex and the City reruns on TBS and kidding yourself into believing that you can lose weight. Anyway, back to my story. I was just remembering back to the days growing up when washing the floor wasn't voluntary, and therefore it actually happened every once in a while. Back when my dad would make me wash the crusty pubes off all the floors in the house at 4 a.m. Sunday morning while I'm hungover and televangelists are on every channel (Even BET would have some guy named Chip Harrelson that's even whiter than my ass, what's up wit dat?). I'd be there in the kitchen with nothing but two rolls of paper towels and dish soap washing behind the broken weedwacker engine that's sitting next to, but never in, the trash. And why am I using dish soap to wash the floor, you ask? Because we aren't paying for two kinds of soap. You're gonna wash the kitchen floor with the dish soap and you're gonna like it. If you get sent to the grocery store and come back with some Mr. Clean floor soap, you'd better be able to wash the dishes with that shit. You come back with that and you're gonna be washing your ass with Mr. Clean Antibacterial for the next month. That'll learn ya. This story is going nowhere. Let's just leave it at that and all go take a nap. And it had so much potential too.