All Quiet On The Western Coast

Oh man oh man oh man oh man oh man oh man…..

Look: this isn’t a confession, and it’s certainly not an anecdote. I’m simply trying to explain the change that’s coming, and how we’ll be different for long after. This is the calm. These are the last moments of a time that doesn’t know it’s ending. The sky shows Spring, but I am in Autumn.

I got hours left, internet. The clock is tick ticking and I’m fret fretting about the compound aimlessly when I should be a driven line. How does a soldier feel before battle? Do trees smell terror? 

(This one does.)

There is nothing more to take from me. I can only listen to the bees and the lawnmowers as they buzz of peace. Okay, maybe this is merely melancholy and dismay, and the lifestyle that has borne me these many years will just have to be put on pause for 9 days. Whether I can subdue it, I know not. My face will hold an expression of calm, until the end has come. 

My mother in law arrives tomorrow for a 9 day visit.

I’m tired of smelling, of being winded walking up a flight of stairs, and of having to wash my clothes twice as often. I’m tired of the looks of disdain, the feeling of worthlessness, and the clumsy excuses. It’s time, people. It’s time to stop going on Facebook. 

I’m not quitting right out, mind you. That’s not a good idea. Sure, the swan song of the addict goes a little something like this…

"Oh, I’m not going to quit

I’m just gonna cut down.

I can control this is I want

Stop doubting me, you fucking clown.”

Actually, the official addict’s swan song has better lyrics, but I don’t have the licensing rights. 

I can’t just “quit” Facebook, because despite it’s annoyances and foibles, like non-sequitur complaints about unmentioned locations or jobs. One guy has a lot to say to his fellow “SIDs.” He can’t believe what SIDs have to deal with on a daily basis, and that most people have the nerve to think SIDs actually do something totally different. Another guy loves violence. LOVES it. He’s super proud that his home state now allows him to carry a concealed weapon, and only Facebooks videos of people getting punched on the street. Occasionally, there’s a car crash video with the subtitle, “STOOPID C$%T!” So, that guy’s balanced.

No, I can’t quit Facebook because family members see pictures of my daughter, and therefore DON’T call me every three days. That’s pretty valuable to me. So I’ve decided to pull back. I’ve deleted the app in my phone and have never really been to the webpage version, so I should be good for a bit. 

Maybe I’ll start smoking again to celebrate.

Nobody Doesn’t Do It Better

When it comes to procrastination, nobody’s like me. I’m the Kelly Rippa of putting something off and avoiding a task which, if you think about it, (don’t,) means I’m a fairly busy procrastinator. I’ll fix that sentence later.

(And that.)

Here’s the interesting part, though. HERE’s the part that’s makes me take note: I usually procrastinate by turning my attention to something else I’ve been procrastinating for even longer. Hello, blog. I’m here now. 

Right now I’m supposed to be recording something, so I starting typing. I’ll probably bounce back and forth in an attempt at miniature procrastinations. It’s the only way to hold my utterly decimated attention span.

And you know what the best part is

Welcome to Tuckerblogs.tumblr.com, Because a Domain Costs Money.

My virtual identity has been stolen by some smooth talkin’ virtual charlatan!

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While I’ve been busy doing bunk that isn’t this, which is another way of saying not caring, I had my very core taken away. Somebody ELSE bought tuckerblogs.com.That’s right.

See, Danica Patrick told me weeks ago that my contract had expired, but I didn’t really pay attention. My focus was on the Quail Farm I had recently acquired that was suffering through yet another outbreak of Beak and Tibia Disease. Anyway, I dragged my feet (which is a common side effect of BTD, incidentally) on the matter, and just got around to emailing Danicka back. Well, it turns out somebody had been waiting in the wings, presumably rubbing their hands and chuckling devilishly while I neglected to renew my ownership. Then they pounced. 

Danicka’s now telling me that Tuckerblogs.com is someone else’s property, but that person is open to the idea of letting me have it back for 1800 dollars. WTF? I’ve been scallywagged! Somebody bought the domain for the sole purpose of selling it back to me.

So….. welcome to tuckerblogs.tumblr.com. A lot of the links don’t work anymore and the internet is full of jerks.

Show Dogs, With Fucking Papers.

The dogs are breeding. Not MY dogs, mind you. Crazy talk!

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(Crazy Hilarious!)

Look, I pick up human poop, but that’s as far as it goes. Anyhoo, my landlord moved in next door, but not without her 5 dogs. They’re show dogs, and apparently popular ones. Gots us some celebrities! ‘Cept one of ‘em’s knocked up now. Now technically speaking, I have taken her by her word that these are in fact, dogs. She could have easily told me she was an eclectic pom pom maker and I’d have batted nary an eye. 

So these little confettis bark ALL the time, and it’s getting to the point where I… will do absolutely nothing. 

We live here now. The kid knows the turf, and the wife likes the flowers. So any rocking of the boat could endanger the bliss we clumsily adore, and to upset the delicate balance by upsetting Judge Judy and her judgy ways (i. e., the landlord) would be to welcome calamity. 

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(Precisely.)

There are going to be more dogs. She moved in next door, and I can’t say a thing because she’s nuts and has FIVE dogs and comments on all we do but we can’t leave because it’s a good deal… and there are going to be MORE dogs. 

And so I simmer. 

The Walls Are Closing In Around Me.

Since I’m a character on the internet, we can all assume that I rarely change. Circumstances around me may evolve, or new plot complications and threads may arrive, but overall I’m not allowed to arc. That’s for movie people. I bring this up to gloss over the fact that I still smoke cigarettes. I still smoke, but the ground is shrinking beneath my feet. 

The Walls, too. 

My current smoking lounge is an alley a thousand feet from my house filled with cats, garbage, and the occasional hobo. It’s an unpleasant walk fraught with loathsome stares from neighbors. It sucks. At night, I can usually go in the backyard, particularly when it was 90 degrees and everybody shut their windows, but not no more. 

One of my new neighbors is my landlord, and man, does she hold sway. It’s like living in a fiefdom. Law comes down from on high, and the latest decree is that she smells those late night cigarettes.

I should have retorted that I hear her 5 dogs all throughout the night, but my wife was present at the Lawgiving Ceremony, and quickly backed Duchess Van Nuys. So that’s just fucking great: now I can’t smoke in my backyard. Now I get to walk 400 paces to a dark alley at 1 in the morning. Except, no. That’s bad, too. 

Last night a noted crazy alcoholic lady in the neighborhood walked out and stood a foot away from me while I tried to look busy in my phone. “Nice shoes!” she told me. I thanked her. Then it got weird. 

"Those shoes are cutesie whootsie, and I should know! It takes one to know one!" 

"You’re a cute shoe?"

"No, but I’m a cutesie whootsie!" She isn’t. It was at this point I decided to put a little distance between us, a distance she immediately closed by putting her hands on my shoulders in an attempt to massage them. I recoiled in horror. "Relax! You’re so tense!" she explained. I walked away briskly to the soundtrack of what could only be called a Witch’s cackle of a laugh. So…. that’s the end of the late night alley smoking. I guess I have to quit now, not because I want to, or because of health concerns, but because I simply have no place to smoke. What’s next? Exercising? Eee Gads!

I’m gonna be one cranky health nut for a while.

The Land of Make Believe’s Dark Underside

As a dad I watch a lot of kid’s programming. My Netflix suggestions are indiscernible from those of “Netflix Kids,” and I’ve long ago accepted that I will regularly hum kid show themes to myself. Special Agent Oso in particular supplies half of my daily mental soundtrack.

(And this thing. I see it in my night terrors. I see it when I blink.)

Every kids show makes a half assed swipe at an educational theme, lest they lose the coveted "E/I" classification, but sometimes they tackle a topic that just doesn’t gel with their established world, like when Mickey tried to tell the clubhouse gang to think of others first, when he clearly meant think of him first. But no show has swung and missed worse than Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood. The show takes place in Mr. Roger’s Land of Make Believe, and throws away all the stuff that made the original unique and sands the edges down to curves so nobody gets hurt. So in their big lesson episode, Daniel Tiger, formerly a puppet and now animated, learns to poop in a toilet.

That’s right: kids: tigers poop just like you, but they don’t bother with toilet paper.

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Crosspromoting Facebook Rage on Other Social Medias

So this guy I know, it doesn’t matter which, just put a question up on Facebook, the place where I go to ruin good moods. It has to do with parenting, and with a rather “matter of fact” approach to it, he asks why should he put up with all of the “horrific smells” and “ear-piercing sounds” associated with children. He’s not being purposely flippant, either. He claims to honestly be asking what the benefits are that outweigh “what looks like too much work.” He wants to know what he’ll get out of the arrangement. He’s worried about the ‘psychological toll” having children can have on a couple. He then requires all answers to be ‘in paragraphs, no more than 4 sentences.” It’s like he’s writing a pamphlet on what brand lawn mower to buy, and wants some quotes for the backflap.

(Google ruins my mood, too. Searches for “crazy kids” kept bringing back some 30 year old with an eyeball in the palm of her hand.

I didn’t need all 4 sentences. I wrote, “if this is your approach to parenting, maybe it’s not for you.” So far it’s not being “liked” very much. But what the hell, I’ve got a blog that he doesn’t know about, so here are 4 more sentences to answer his stupid inquiry about whether he should pop his important self-bubble with offspring who may not constantly benefit him: 

1. A kid is not a jet ski, a toy you treat yourself with when you reach a point in your life where you have some loose cash and a few open weekends.

2. “Work” is not a proper word for raising kids, because “work” implies some sort of clocking out/complete the job outlook, which will never, ever happen in the 24/7, 365 day, “Rest of Your Life” worrisome duty you begin the day they’re born (or before.)

3. Kids will create smells and make loud noises, neither of which are anywhere near as bad as the putrid sounds an adult makes when they think the world revolves around them.

4. If your psyche and personal image are so fragile you’re worried about what a kid might do to it, like expose it’s banal braggadocio, maybe you should just get a goldfish, because even a cat will know you’re full of shit.