In Which I Speculate Upon My Untimely Demise

Ah, home alone on a Saturday night. Is there anything more hip than sitting at a kitchen table writing a blog entry while all your friends are out having a good time? I think not. I’m of the belief that such contrarian actions (staying in as opposed to going out) are in fact the mark of someone who is so spectacularly hip that he or she has managed to transcend hipness. Remember that episode of Futurama where Fry drinks 100 cups of coffee and at the end of the episode he’s in this weird hyper-euphoric state where he perceives everything around him as standing still while he moves effortlessly at warp speed? My self-confidence in regard to staying in blogging on a Saturday night is the equivalent of that feeling. I’m no longer mortal. I am…beyond human.

Or, maybe these feelings of untouchable coolness are the result of my having eaten at Qdoba tonight for the first time in, like, six months. I guess it’s possible to confound feeling chic and superior with having eaten a disgusting and awesome fast food burrito. Whatever it is, I definitely don’t mind sitting alone in a cold apartment spinning to a bunch of Britpop records while trying to figure out how to hang newly framed posters on my walls. If somebody finds me tomorrow morning with my pants at my ankles and a belt tightened around my neck, tell my loved ones I died heroically defending the honor of an old woman against a gang of heavily-armed purse thieves. Whatever you do, don’t tell them I was so bored I accidentally asphyxiated myself. Oh, and tell them the ligature wounds were the thieves attempts to dehumanize and embarrass me. And tell them that the video of Alice In Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Fantasy on my computer was Ken’s fault. And if my mother happens to ask why the hell a gang of purse thieves would take the time to murder poor, misguided vigilante-wannabe me and then make it look like I croaked while jerking off to ’70s porn, tell her to mind her fucking business and start channeling her grief into something constructive. Tell her to knit a sweater or start the equivalent of an AIDS quilt for dudes who died fingering their dicks.

What do common people do on Saturday nights, anyway? Is Saturday Night Live still on the air? If so, why? It can’t be any good because aren’t all the funny people in the world dead now? I should start smoking pot again. Maybe then I could think of a better blog top than a cover-up for my potentially covered-up death by autoerotic asphyxia. I think for all those years I was able to cogitate more clearly when I was out of my mind. Plus aren’t drugs legal in California now? No, wait, that was just part of the plot of Sherlock: Case Of Evil. 19th Century England must have been a really great time. I would have liked to hang out and use laudanum with Thomas De Quincey, or be Jack The Ripper. Why didn’t Bill and Ted go there on their excellent adventure? Oh wait — it must have been because they couldn’t find a suitable filming location in Arizona to double as 1800s London. Fuck that movie for not even being filmed in San Dimas. I mean, really, you couldn’t find a suitable gas station in the town where the movie is supposed to take place? You had to go to a Circle K in Tempe? Oh shit. I have a Blu-Ray of Point Break I could be watching right now…if I only had a Blu-Ray player. Dammit Evan.

So, this is Saturday night…Oh well, I’m going to give up on this blog and walk down to Sunset to see if I can’t find some old ladies to help across the street. Worst case scenario is I’ll be dead tomorrow morning and my friends and family will think I died searching for a new and exciting way to ejaculate. Hey, do me a favor and make sure my epitaph includes some kind of pun about dying with my dick in my hand. Thanks.

Pulp – Common People – (Purchase From Amazon.com)