Yeah, yeah, yeah, I have a blog. or so I'm told. Work has been in nightmare mode for uncountable weeks now, at least I can't count them. The holiday weekend has turned into a a long stretch of standing by to travel to the usual minor American mini-urb for work on a day trip to accomplish a mission that started getting fouled up a week ago today in the outlying rural area beyond the mini-urb, and has been getting progressively more fucked each day since, necessitating a cancellation of my weekend plans, which did not involve my in-laws Jesus and Jesusina, though my weekend certainly did, and including two fucking false starts on this day trip to do something I can't really tell you about.
So here I sit in a Bucks at the main drag corner in this mini-urb, the one where the American Revolution did not begin, waiting for a guy who's going to hand me something I can't tell you about (it's perfectly legal--I'm a government mule, not the other kind), so I can head back out to the airport and return home and do some more things I can't tell you about.
This life is the very definition of fucked up.
So yeah, there's a soccer team. I got not much to add to BFF. He's wrong about Woolard, who is a loser moron, and a comparison to Burchie is unnecessary and not particularly useful. And he didn't see The Cheater Kenny Cooper coming to a complete stop on his scecond penalty attempt, but it happened. Fortunately, the mongoloid referee realized that after making a circus of Cooper's penalties, he needed to give one back, and he did at the first legit opportunity. But fundamentally--BFF nails it all.
So that's all I got. I've sort of been saving, because Minions is now two posts from a major milestone, or millstone. I'm still convinced that I'll come up with something very special for that. But, y'know, conviction does not equal conviction. Or not. We'll see. I've got to get back to middle America now.
Update: Jesus, what a whiny post. How can you read this shit?