Smile Politely

A rare week of non-drinking and bleeding

You would think that something like a significant head wound would make a person extremely aware of said head wound, but it turns out that’s not really the case with me. I sort of cut the back of my head shaving it the other day. It stung but it was not much of a bleeder. It did, however, become more of a bleeder when I raised up and banged it on a table a day later. I brilliantly opted to avoid shaving for a few days to let it heal.

Apparently, I forgot that I wasn’t going to shave for a while though, so that morning shave that wasn’t supposed to be became quite a little adventure. I was all lathered and remembered the head wound about a millisecond before the razor tore through the scab and dug even deeper into my skull. That one was a real bleeder. I am now forced to wear a bandage on my freaky little bald head.

It’s sort of cool, like Marcellus Wallace from Pulp Fiction, except that I’m not a bad ass mobster, have never been sodomized, and I actually have to use two Band-Aids to control the bleeding instead of just one. Actually, it’s not that cool at all, come to think of it. I’ll probably pass out soon from blood loss, so let’s get it on.


Some time this past Saturday afternoon, it occurred to me that something monumental was happening, not Haley’s comet monumental, but definitely Nicolas Cage putting out a movie monumental, so not every 75 years, but about three times a year. Anyways, almost unbeknownst to me, I hadn’t had any alcohol intake for an entire week. I know, I can’t believe it either. I didn’t stop by Rail to have a couple after work, which honestly, is never just a couple anyway. I didn’t pop a beer and listen to a ball game in the garage. Hell, I didn’t even accidentally guzzle a couple of drops of aftershave.

It wasn’t terrible or anything, but I did learn a few things. One of the things I learned is that I have a shitload of free time if I’m not drinking. If I’m out drinking, well then, obviously, I’m killing some time there. Oftentimes, the next day I’m a little tired so the day goes pretty fast, or at least the degree of difficulty makes it seem quicker. Sometimes there will actually be a reason to go out one day of the week, so that anticipation kind of keeps me going. You take all those sorts of things away and you’ve basically got a guy standing in his living room with his thumb up his ass wondering what the piss he’s gonna do with the next four hours.

Looking back, I feel it was far too much time for a fella like myself to be lucid. I cleaned the kitchen. There’s no joy in that. I went running a couple of times. That’s not exactly a fucking carnival either. I even went to bed at freaking 8:30 one night, but that just made me feel elegant and oddly rested. Strangely, I didn’t feel all that much better. In fact, I think the boredom sucked out any residual energy I might have created.

Of course, once I realized what was happening, I immediately went out and had three beers on Saturday night, just to get the edge off and also to make sure I didn’t get too bored and build a geodesic dome over the entire yard. It felt good to be back in the saddle again.


Along those lines, after that grueling seven days without booze, it became far too hard to make it through Sunday without something, and that something turned out to be beergaritas, classy and refreshing. Our good friend (let’s just call him Vodka Ronnie) and his lady brought them over. In case you’re detectively challenged, beergaritas are essentially beer mixed with margaritas. It may sound strange but it’s quite refreshing, and there’s nothing to keep a person from corking his bat a little bit and dropping in a little extra tequila.

There was a time when about half the town used to get pretty piss assed drunk on Sunday afternoons, and from what I can remember those were some pretty awesome get-togethers. These days were called Fuzzy Sundays. I don’t remember why they stopped, but I can only assume it was something to do with a wave of good judgment. Maybe those should be brought back, but just once a month or so. Either way, it’s pretty nice to have a few drinks on Sunday afternoon, just a little “fuck you” to the man who’s going to make you go back to work the next day.


We’ve had an iPod nano laying around for a couple of years. I know that’s sort of ridiculous but neither the wife nor myself really took to it right off the bat. Last week I finally fired it up. That makes it seem fast, but I didn’t read the directions and it took a long assed time, so let’s say I finally got it to work instead of fired it up. Either way, it initially seemed pretty swell.

I sat in a chair and listened to a couple of songs, but it soon became apparent that the iPod isn’t for sitting so I strapped it on and went outside to do some yard work. First of all, the damned little cords almost strangled me twice in the first three minutes. Second of all, I had it up pretty loud and began singing along far too loudly. Trust me, a man standing in the front yard in a sleeveless shirt with a bandana on his head covered in dirt and belting out “Hell on Wheels” by Fu Manchu is no way to increase property values in the neighborhood.


  • I really want to see that new Batman movie, but I’m just so not into being killed right now. I may just wait for the video.
  • I can’t help thinking that if my dogs had wings it would be far more difficult to keep them in the yard.
  • If you were one of those savvy investors who put all your money in Gold Bond medicated powder stock at the beginning of summer, I’m betting you’re enjoying quite a nice return about now.

Buona sera, senorina, kiss me goodnight.

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