Then I stumbled across an ALBUM COVER that really hit the nail on the head.
This is an actual album of “amazing recordings of demons speaking through people who are possessed by them.” In case you missed it, the purveyors of these actual demon recordings have named their opus: Crying Demons Crying Demons Crying Demons. Sadly, I didn’t find this in my personal album collection. My favorite things about this picture include: a) the “those wacky demons!” expression on the model’s face; b) he’s trying to cross his eyes, but only the right one is cooperating; and c) the fact that he reminds me a little of Jimmie Walker from an early Good Times episode, and in the course of researching Jimmie Walker, I discovered that he actually hosted A Very Elimidate Christmas last year. This little nugget of trivia improved my day exponentially.
But I’m sure you prefer real-life evidence of my precarious mental state. So here’s a picture of me and my husband Andy Capp that was taken just last Sunday. I’m holding our pet wolverine, and as you can see, someone has deflated my head and made my face all crooked, like I just watched that fucking Ring video. Also, do you like my boots?
I have stumbled on a solution to my work-related insanity/crabbery, and that is to land a job where I live in an igloo and train baby reindeer to count with their cute little hooves and I only have to talk to other human beings once a year, when my barrels of supplies are delivered. Basically, I want a job where I never again will have to write a sentence like: “In response to the array of health and wellness challenges facing our students, we propose a multi-layered program that will put the fun back in physical activity and help students learn to plan for a lifetime of health.”
Doesn’t that sentence make you want to throw up everything you’ve eaten since 1985? I know it has that effect on me. I’d rather listen to Crying Demons Crying Demons Crying Demons on an endless loop than write more shit like that in 56 new ways.
Alas, I was not sired by Bill Gates and must work for THE MAN to maintain my freewheeling, jet-setting lifestyle and cover the cost of building my own robot army. Working for THE MAN usually entails some selling of your soul to the Crying Demons, but hey, it beats a dull stick up your nose.
Note from the author: you may have noticed more profanity in this post. This is a side effect of work-related insanity. The only known treatment is a vague, mysterious concept I have heard spoken of in hushed tones once in my lifetime: vacation time.