Stress tests slurp shit. In only six pride-obliterating minutes they reduce me to a blubbering lump of hyperventilating meat. I readily admit that I’m not a young buck, but 47 isn’t that old. Like Garth Brooks sang, “I’m much too young to feel this damn old.”
(but garth brooks is not in the sad shape we’re in.)
A bit of background, I suffered a heart attack 15 years ago. Thus my need for these yearly shamings.
Continue reading “I Fail Stress Tests”
February 1st was my 47th birftday day. Hooray! I survived another year. And… ?
I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer. “Boo-hoo. Poor me.” It’s just 47 isn’t a noteworthy year—like 21, 30, 40, 50, etc. In other words, I’m simply a year older. So what? At this point, i.e. midlife, and after a “widowmaker” heart attack at 32, survival is about as good as it gets.
(there’s going out to eat several times on other people’s dime.)
Continue reading “Happy Birftday Day, Poo Poo Pants”
”Got a sharp mouth a sharp tongue” —G. Love
My wife is the best.
Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Yeah. . . I know. Your baby’s got sauce. But your baby ain’t SUH-WEET like mine.
You’re incredulous. I get it. You’re wondering, out of all the 70 hundred million billion wifes out there, how can I make such a bold claim? Cause this happened:
I was having a bad day. Full disclouse (assuming you don’t want to read the link provided), the shituation was completely my fault. I even realized it at the time. Regardless, a shit storm’s a shit storm and as much as I’d like to be a stoic master, I am not. I went full Hulk over some minuscule entitlement that was being denied me: Popeyes was out of chicken, for the moment, and I was going to have to wait for a full 15 minutes to get a freshly made batch.
Continue reading “My Baby’s Got Sauce”