Tuesday, April 24, 2007

# 40

Oh my sweet merciful Bejaysus folks it looks like The Endless Ocean Of Gravy has finally stumbled, crept, and staggered upon the magnificent milestone that is......Post Number 40. In only nine months I have managed to impose upon the world the self indulgent, self referential, ribald, ramblings, of an unreconstructed man-child, a glorious 39 times. Armed with only a stupid haircut, an iMac, and a dream of one day dancing with the stars, I have achieved, with varying degrees of competence, what only mere millions have done before. In this rapidly shrinking electronic world, where no opinion is left unstated, no story left unshared, no thought unvoiced, no discomfort unuttered, we open our profiles to all, we gaily declare our status, and we request that all be our FRIENDS (when we are dead the person with the most is the winner). Well my little piscine (of, pertaining to, or resembling a fish or fishes) pals, I would like to thank you all for not only being a part of my greeny fishy swimmings, but also for letting me be a part of yours. Thank you. It takes me back...............

Only nine months ago I stepped from the hallowed halls of the St. Gretta Du Chemis Barber College And Refugee Detention Center with nothing but my degree, my neck shaver, two tins of saddle wax, a pint of Creme De Parsnip, a threatening letter to a local coffee house, a straw hat, six letters of credit from the Bulgarian Chamber of Commerce, and a fake rickshaw license in the name of Carlos McAbramms. After spending two soul searching days wandering the streets of Luxembourg in search of employment in their world renowned garment factories, it slowly dawned on me that not only was I not in Luxembourg, but they also do not have world renowned garment factories. Undeterred by this minor setback I quickly gained work at a local Starbucks, but was given my walking papers after only two hours because of accusations regarding profoundly vulgar and abusive language, a series of unexplained fires, some minor thieving, two customer assaults, a poisoning, a string of smotherings, and some vague references to waving genitalia. My time there was both instructive and profoundly spiritual. I hope that the damage I have caused, and the pain I have wrought, can one day me mitigated by the fact that I feel a deep connection with lives I shattered and the lattes I spilled. When an unfortunate series of events involving a stolen taxi, two Japanese business men, a treasure map, and bottle of Maker's Mark resulted in my brief marriage to a local female arm wrestling champion, I felt that I had truly hit bottom. I was wrong. My marriage was annulled after several attempts to consummate ended in unexplained property damage, two hysterical pregnancies, a bomb scare, nine cases of bird flu, an outbreak of bovine spongiform encephalopathy, and threats of deportation. On my own once again, I took work as a rat catcher in a high end women's shoe store. It was hard, dangerous, and highly competitive but I rose to the top quickly because of my natural predispositions toward cruelty to animals and fetishism. It was when I was fired from that job because of a baffling series of events involving a pizza delivery man, a box of ants, a trombone, two top hats, a false mustache, a piece of The True Cross, a book about squirrels, three dirty hippies, a tin of salted smelts, and a picture of Ben Vereen, that I truly hit bottom. I moved from job to job like a person who is out of work a lot because of calamitous misadventures involving a series of seemingly unrelated items with clearly serious yet oddly nonspecific consequences. It was in this capacity that I came upon the notion that the world must be hungry for the tales I could weave from the tendrils of my vast and questionable experiences. And here I am, your humble chronicler. I hope you enjoy, and continue to do so. Because I'm not stopping unless something very odd happens.