I bid adieu to the shortest month of the year, to the groundhog who predicts weather, to black history month, to Valentimes Day, to Honest Abe Lincoln's birthday, to the man who cut down the apple tree, I bid adieu to smoking in cold weather, listening to my boss, washing my car, shaving and attempting to look presentable in public. Yes really i have nothing to say, i'm bored and stuck in a pill haze, so why should you read you ask? Because like Anna Nicole before me i am the train wreck waiting to happen and you want to see what will come next. Because your life is a long, string of insults and you come here, to the postmodern light bulb changer for solace, at least this fucking loser, you think, has it worse than me, and you may be right or you may be wrong for as i sit in my car in the parking lot and get stoned and sing songs and wonder what the 57 ingredients are in that magic pickle one can only speculate who lives in a worse hell, i prefer to see the day as big, frosted chocolate cupcake and mmm how i love chocolate cupcakes, if you want thought provoking shit i suggest you look towards ToxicMonday cuz here in the Asshat Lounge last call never comes and the bartender ignores you, the dealer keeps telling you he'll be there in ten minutes and it's been three hours, you feel the need to laugh and cry and belch and you might shit yourself if you're not careful but none of this means anything now does it? No darling there will be no foreplay today, only a good smack on the ass and a smile as they say at the Golden Arches, with the luck we're having the iceberg will miss the ship and we'll have to marry that fucking cocksucker now won't we, but at least there will be that beacon in the night, the neon glow of the lounge, the postmodern light bulb changer sunk into the back booth engulfed in Gitane smoke and sitting with his pastry, smirking as if he knows something, when we know he's the holy fool, the buffoon, with receding hairline and ridiculous salt and pepper beard, and yes were in the place cooling the days and the nights working up sweat, and we are not him, reading his horrendous French novels, doodling in his notebook, piss stains on his trousers and holes in his work short, at least we are not this working class hero shit, this urban lumberjack, but we would really like to know why his sly grin, why the fucking condescending smirk, why the cupcakes, the pills, the smokes, why we ask why?