Daily Archives: May 23rd, 2010

Video bonus: Tactical Immersion Taskforce Specialists

One of the wonderful people I follow on Twitter mentioned Jim Gaffigan. That caused me to dredge up this blast from the past. And no, it’s not about Hot Pockets. It’s still well worth a look! 🙂

Video: Tactical Immersion Taskforce Specialists

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My neighbor is parenting my kid

Pop quiz, hot shot.

Who do you think a gerbil considers to be his good friend? The parent raggin’ all the time about making choices for a better tomorrow? Or, perchance, the neighbor with the big bowl of weed who is more than willing to share?

“You just don’t understand me!” yells the gerbil on the way out the door to visit the neighbor who “understands” way better than we ever could.

Hey, gerbil. Listen up. No doubt he thinks your nose ring is great. Maybe he thinks it is awesome that you don’t have a job. Perhaps the fact that you dropped out of school impresses the ever-lovin’ shit out him. Ear lobes gauged to the limit probably turn him on. A physical appearance that makes local employers want to hurl is probably the shiznitty bomb. If that is “understanding” you then maybe I don’t fucking want to.

I have a question? Where will mister wonderful neighbor be 20 to 30 years from now? Will he even be around? Will he love you and care about your welfare the way we do? Talk about not “understanding” something. Where will your good buddy the neighbor be when the shit really hits the fan and you have no where else to turn in life? Where will he be when you face living in the gutter?

And to you, Mr. Neighbor, let me just say this: Thanks so much for everything you do for our son. Really. I can’t thank you enough. Will you be around to pick up the pieces that are left when our son finally comes face to face with reality? Where will you be when that happens? Do me a favor, will ya? Please go die and rot in hell. You’re in your 30’s now for heaven’s sake, you’ve got young kids of your own, you’re almost married (if shacking up counts) and you are playing hooky from your “manager” job at the local bank with your fake back injury. When the hell are you going to grow up? Some fine example you set for our son. You are too injured to work yet every single night at your house is party time and the beer and smokes and pot are offered up at a never-ending buffet.

Our son is lost. He’s going to have to eat the shit sandwich and come out the other end before he gets a friggin’ clue and learns to deal. But thanks for the added bonus of your help, asshole. Thanks for being there for our son.