I have to figure out a way to keep the stress off my back. A lot of it is self imposed, self-inflicted and often, self-created. I’m a victim, except that I’m not.

When left to my own devices, I’ll invent thunderstorms and Biblical plagues to reign down upon me. I’ll steam and create and see injustice where none exists. I trust only myself and my own instincts, which more often than not, steer me to some awful conclusions.

It’s pretty cool.

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The word is out. The wife and I decided there was too much happiness here for just the two of us, so we figured the next logical step was to have us a critter.

(“We’re set to pop here, honey.”)

What I didn’t count on was the endless, endless supply of advice and parenting instructions we would be given. Some of it’s good, some of it’s ridiculous, and the only thing that can be depended on is that it will never, ever end.

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So I’m still smoking (blaa blaa WHATEVER). What can I say? I’m a man who indulges in his passions. Unfortunately, a line has been drawn in the sand, and I have lost major ground in a war I’ve been winning for years.

(Alright boys, this is it. Over the hill!)

2 days ago there came a gentle rapping, rapping at my chamber door. It was a neighbor, telling me that the cigarette smoke from my balcony was curling, curling through her upper porch door.

Quoth the neighbor, “Nevermore.”

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Yesterday I put this up. I’m a big fan of it. While a lot of you weren’t, I can’t stop thinking of other situations and articles, where “So what?” works as a fantastic response, setting up this clip yet again. Yesterday’s gif of a dancing Rodney Dangerfield caused 11 followers to run away from me, so I thought I’d draw a line in the sand and see where the rest of you choose to stand.

If dancing Rodney isn’t enjoyable to you, I don’t want you here.

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Day is done. Gone the beer. Now I am home and have decided to type a lot. This intro is written after the fact, so I caution you: it may be wise to just enjoy this picture of a Guinness and move along. Hey, there’s always fun stuff going on at Fun Brain!

If you wish to continue, know this: I was drunk, it was the end of St. Patrick’s Day, and everyone else went to bed. I decided to watch Gangs of New York….

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Welcome to March, Internet. It’s a month that makes sense. Not only does it bring with it the joys of blooming Spring, but it’s the proper and accepted length. Last month, February, is for lack of a better descriptor, total bullshit.

(February Smith, The Ice Queen and her 28 days of Doom.)

This is the 21st Century, people. We’ve almost completed Robot Butlers, we’ve got bendable TV screens in the works, and flying cars are less than 3 years away. You mean to tell me that we can’t add 2 more days to February? How many months have 31, like seven?! You’re saying that none of those bloated months can spare a single day to give to February? May, for instance. Who the hell needs a May 31st? By that point, just call it June and be done with it. Meanwhile, February is a month where we’re all cut short. It’s a shorter pay period, but EQUAL in cost for Rent and other monthly billing cycles. So we make less and pay the same, which basically translates into a higher cost of living for the entire month. And then we have to go out and celebrate “love” in the middle of it? Can you believe the balls on this month? It’s smacking us around and demanding we say, “Thank you sir, may I have another?” And what the hell is up with leap years? Every four years, February just decides to stay another day? Why do the other months put up with this bullying?

It’s March now, and I know I’m not the only one who is coasting on fumes with a large paycheck coming later, but after I’ve had to pay all of the usual collectors. February, simply put, is a shitty month. It’s still winter, but all of the Holiday lights are down and we don’t even get to enjoy pretty colors with the dreary bleakness of snow and frostbite.

Congress needs to act on this NOW. Screw trying to destroy Health Care and national education. The time for eliminating our unalienable rights because of a trumped up and falsely presented budget crisis will simply have to wait. Sorry, Republicans, but your Jihad against the EPA and endangered species (seriously, how big of jackasses can you be?) in order to preserve a tax break for the Kardashians will have to take a back seat to the “Expand or Regulate Unholy February Freedom Act for America.” 

It is time to fight back.

We stand at the doorway to greatness, Internet. For 498 Blog entries, we’ve had some good times, but it was all just funnin’. Now it gets real. My next entry will be my 500th, and that’s when it’s going to happen. That’s when I’ll get famous.

(THAT famous.)

Unfortunately, the inevitable Biography and movie about me will be incredibly dull, because unlike most famous people, I don’t have any major crutches or issues that have driven me to be famous. Sure, my life has been a constant pursuit of fortune and glory, but I haven’t yet reached the levels I always imagined. It’s probably because I lack the driving force that makes people like Madonna, Sinatra, Bowie and countless others reinvent themselves to stay relevant. Some schmuck with a couple of essays on the internet and a yearn for the spotlight is all I’ve ever been. After my next entry though, I’m gonna be HUGE. A guy with 500 essays on the internet? That’s some Burt Reynolds level fame, Internet, and I’ll have done it without the cool dramatic tale that so often excites the public about famous people. So before I step onto the World Stage and claim my title of “Awesome,” let’s take a look at some of the reasons why I haven’t been famous yet up to this point, or some of the cool story arcs that won’t be in The Tucker Blogs Story:

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The Redhead is going out of town tonight, Internet. I’m going to be home all alone. You know what that means, don’t you? It’s walking around naked time. I’m probably going to get a little paranoid and lonely. I don’t care for being alone. No sir, I don’t like it.

I never do well with being alone. Sure, during the day it’s acceptable, sometimes even preferred, which is what makes my relatively bipolar stance to solitude at night even more crippling. During the day I find it wonderful, getting to engage in any number of activities without interruption, from recording to writing to rescuing the Princess Zelda.

Night time is a different story. I don’t like being alone at night. There’s no revealing childhood trauma (or drama) that caused this, it’s just a simple fact: I don’t like being all alone overnight, and when I am I tend to experience the entire Lord of The Flies insanity arc in one evening.

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People like opinions, Internet. Actually, check that: People like their own opinions, but generally hate other people’s opinions. In fact, lots of people hate that other people even have opinions. It’s the old George Carlin chestnut: everybody on the road driving slower than you is an idiot, and everyone driving faster is a maniac. The only acceptable opinion is the one you were already thinking.

According to this article found on Digg.com, Digg has been under a attack by a Conservative “Patriot” group who’s goal is to make Digg a Conservative website. Was Digg a Liberal website to begin with? Well, a quick Google search shows that more people think it is, at least more people than the ones who think it’s Conservative. Does that prove that a Liberal bias was in place, or that users of Digg.com have stronger Liberal leanings than they do Conservative? Was this an issue that needed to be addressed? It doesn’t matter, because a group decided it did need to be addressed, and they were the ones to do the addressing. The Digg Patriots know what’s best for us.

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Working in the Salt Industry is like trying to do a crossword puzzle on a Tilt-a-Whirl. There are a multitude of twists, bumps, dips, and turns to deal with while trying to maintain a strong focus on the goal, not to mention ensuring that the whole thing is comprehensible to everyone else.

We all know Flo. Flo’s really into insurance, and people are really into Flo. (I personally prefer Esurance Erin, that saucy Pinkhead who dresses like Emma Peel and does high kicks, but that doesn’t apply here.) The Redhead’s Dad LOVES Flo. My Dad hates her with passion. However, they both consistently say one thing about her: “Why can’t [The Redhead] do commercials like Flo?” It’s difficult trying to explain a point from two sides to parents that only want happiness and security for their children. Yes, she could do commercials like Flo, but Flo will more than likely never do anything else in her acting career. She’ll also make a bazillion dollars. It’s a tough call and an easy one at the same time, from both sides. How do you explain that it’s not really what you want, but you wouldn’t exactly turn it down either? So goes a career in the Salt Industry. 

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Nathan Rabin preaches to the choir: 

I think many of us process ubiquitous songs the way my sister did Celine Dion. At first, we’re annoyed by the glossy overproduction, shamelessness, and pathological catchiness of songs that dominate entire seasons, that blare from seemingly every passing car, store, and boom-box. The kids still use boom-boxes on some Radio Raheem shit, right? With the rapping and the baggy pants and the Jell-O pudding pops?

Eventually, resistance becomes futile. We’re going to fucking hear 50 Cent’s “In Da Club” or the newest Lady Gaga song 50 million times whether we want to or not, so we might as well at least attempt to enjoy the experience.

I think for the most part I purposely avoid popular things because I hate feeling like a part of “the group.” As The Redhead can tell you, the best way to ensure I avoid something is to tell me I have to do it. Questions like, “You haven’t seen Avatar yet?” will immediately piss me off, and only for the “yet.” Don’t tell me what to do and enjoy, and don’t assume we’re all the same. We’re not. It’s from this same, twisted place in my head that I will never, EVER Facebook, because every time I get that confused look, that “you DON’T Facebook?!” stare of shock and disbelief, my conviction grows even stronger. 

I guess I have more to say on this.

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Howdy, Internet. Yes, it’s my birthday. Let’s not make a big thing out of this, okay? We all grow old; we all die. (Oooooh, deep.) Besides, I’ve already had my greatest birthday. I don’t mean to offend anybody (including The Redhead) that wasn’t present for it, it’s just that one birthday in particular may never be topped. It’s all because of what I got.

This is a 1973 Century Coronado. It’s got a Chrysler 330 HP V8 that purrs like a kitten. I got it on my 16th Birthday. Since then more joys, horrors, first experiences and “last time I swear” promises have taken place on this boat than any other location I know. It is my youth, metaphorically encapsulated in yellow.

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Today is my second to last day of work, and I’m already getting hit with the barrage of doubtful and confidence-shriveling questions I deal with every time I’m between projects.

(The Inquisition has no vision!)

First off, no, I will not become a bartender. I don’t know why this is always brought up. Sure, I know my way around a bar and a bottle, but I also know a little something about televi, pardon me, salt mining. I have a degree in it, I’ve done it since I was 12, and it has been my “official” career for almost a decade. Do Lawyers have to field these kind of questions every time a case ends? Do their mothers tell them after the verdict is read that Starbucks offers health insurance?

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