THE GREAT GADFLY:

Dreaming Like A Texan Girl

(And while writing that lovely intro, I caught myself in mid-sentence typing the (un)word "unmercifully" - which means I should perhaps be beaten with bonus vigor.)

Yep, I got up nice and early this morning, after making a point last night to get my laundry ready for another warsh-n-spin Sunday. Oh, sure - I bagged up all my dirties and I set the sack of dinge in my front hallway. Oh, uh-huh, I even grabbed my bottle of detergent from under the sink and placed it next to the bag. Gathered up all my stray quarters and lined them up on the kitchen counter, nice and neat. I even put together a little duffel of magazines and CDs as a laundromat survival kit. I was ready to go. Ready. To. Go. Ret-ta-geh. Raddadagoo. Rooty toot toot. Oh, yeah. Better believe it. All prep and vinegar, that was me.

It's now 4 p.m. on Sunday afternoon, and I know damn good and well that I won't be making any trips to the damn laundromat today. I've passed the safety zone of acceptable procrastination and entered the land of woulda-coulda-shoulda. I'm such a filthy bastard. A damn SLOB is what I am. A stenchy MF.

It isn't really that I needed to do laundry today. I did more than a fair share last week, and I have enough to get me through this week. It's just the principle of the matter. I would have been ahead of the dirty laundry game, had I only gotten off my fat, smelly ass and done something productive with my day off. But no. I just HAD to brew a pot of coffee this morning. Then I just HAD to watch "Meet The Press" and marvel at how much Connie Rice looks like one of those Madball toys from the early '80s. And then I just HAD to watch that thing on VH-1 about Arsenio Hall. Then I just HAD to make sure all my e-mail was nice and answered up. Then I just HAD to re-alphabetize my CD collection. Then I just HAD to sweep the living room floor. Then I just HAD to try to rearrange my stereo components, to no avail. Then I just HAD to cook up a big batch of brussels sprouts for lunch. What kind of lunch is that, anyway? My diet is like Pac Man, I just eat big green dots and go "wokka wokka wokka" all day. Damn fool.

Then I just HAD to listen to T. Rex and cut my toenails. Then I just HAD to straighten up my bookshelves. Then I just HAD to read a story about the new X-Men movie. Then I just HAD to write this damn rant, professing my ultimate FAILURE to do ONE DAMN THING.

Perhaps I'm being a tad hard on myself.

Oh, perhaps.

After all, I just started a new, fairly demanding job after a month of unemployment, during which time my workaday muscles got flabbier than they've been in years, and during which time my happy ass went flying around like some kind of brain damaged goose on crystal meth. After all, I was more wiped out after completing my first week of this new job than I was after two weeks of traveling and hiking and drinking and all my other various holiday shenanigans combined.

And after all, it's been THIS MANY degrees out today (if you could see me right now, I'd be holding up nine fingers). This winter has transformed me into an official arctic wussy poop. I was kind of a he-man about cold weather last year, and the year before, and really, every winter before that. Maybe the time has finally come for me to be a big priss about windchill factors and single digit temperatures. Isn't it enough that the dry Chicago winter air is peeling the flesh right off my shivering bones? Well, isn't it?!

The Donnas were on Saturday Night Live last night. I slept through about 80% of the show, but I think a cookie has been activated in my cranium to wake up and pay attention whenever The Donnas are on television. I'm telling you, they're everywhere and their ubiquity will not be overlooked. They're scary, those Donnas. I don't trust them. Not one bit. There is no escape from The Donnas.

Even though I slept through the majority of SNL, I did get to see enough of Mad TV to hear Debra Wilson's Oprah character say "MY BUTTHOLE IS AN ATM!!!" That was nice.

Tonight I will atone for my sloth by ironing potential work garb for the week. Irons are nice and warm. Ironing is such a calming, zen activity. Unless you're Janet Jackson on "Good Times", then irons suck. Fortunately, I am not Miss Jackson, whether I am nasty or not. Therefore, I am decidedly pro-ironing.

You know, come to think of it, I'm not a filthy bastard. By God, I earned a weekend of sloth. I guess the strange feeling for me is in letting myself feel worthy of a couple of days of inertia, after so much of the stuff was forcibly offered to me over the past month or so. Bleh.

I need to find out when the Superbowl is, so I can procure driftwood with which to board up my doors and windows for the weekend. The only good thing about the Superbowl is that MC Paul Barman once rhymed it with "pooper-hole". That was cool.

If I make one more reference to ass, today's rant is going to be the belle of the Google search ball. Oh, but I've probably already gone too far as it is. So, for all you Googleholic ass-o-philes, let's just get this over with right here and now:

ASS. BOOTY. MUDFLAPS. BUTTOCKS. JUNK IN THE TRUNK. POO POO AREA. BROWN-EYE. OCK. BAMBOO SHREDDER. CRAP CUSHIONS. PAMPER CHUTE. ANAL REGION. BACKONIA. BOOP-BOOP. THANGVILLE. SMELLPHONE. LINT MELONS. THE SKIDDY RIDE. THE OUTER LIMITS. LE TOOT. THE PLAY-DOH PASTA MAKER. DIARRHEALAND.

(Some of those I made up.)

Now I want cake.