Thursday, December 11, 2008

Shaggybob's Dance of holy moronity

After the last post here's a little update. What should one do after such a great afternoon of dumb? I'm workin' it baby, I'm dancin' tonight!

I'm making plates this evening for the Gaz, a dance that I've done for the last three years. The dance floor is a confined space that limits the movements to a stutter of steps. The choreography involves some 39 different shuffles, steps and turns that are the epitomy of efficient. I stand between two machines, one droning the sounds of the beat behind me and the other baking my junk with ultraviolet light needed to perform the functions of burning negatives onto the plates. Had I done this particular waltz naked for the last three years my bits would be tanned a nice shade of Kalahari brown. It's not the routine that bothers me, rote rehearsal and repetition are good at times. I can loose myself in my own mind and the evening flies by. I've performed the steps no less that 60times already this evening. What's eating at me is this.

While I was changing from my "out in" public clothes to my work duds I noticed a minor hole in the heal of my sock. I wasn't planning on going home tonight with a fare little creature so no harm no foul.( I wouldn't be breaking any first night rules by clothing malcontent). It was just a bit of a hole, nothing to write about. Although throughout my recital this evening I started to border on breaking a rule of life I set for myself when 18. There are 4 rules:

1. Always look good (even if it's a self inflected good)
2. Never wear quitter socks
3. Banana chips go with everything (and they do, damn it)
4. Never grow up until you stop making smiley faces with ketchup and mustard on your hamburgers. (No chance of that happening soon, I'm a friggin artist)

The last repetition of my cyclic maneuvers left a sock screaming to drop, in fact I felt the fabric of sockdom letting go to the powers of the universe, so much so that I now am wearing an ankle gaitor and the bottom portion of my sock is gently and very noticably balled up in the toe of my boot. Borderline quitter, half a quitter, the gaitor is still hugging my calf and not sliding. I imagine it as a modern day version of a Roman Greave. I'm torn. My sock is torn. Theres torning everywhich way from torn.

I could return home to change the malfunction seeing as my round trip commute is only 10 miles (a week). But I'm tempted to just deal, to modify my dance routine to compensate for holy sock ball. It feels kinda weird, but not bad per say. I'm contemplating just brewing sweaty foot and after stewing it for another 7hrs unleash holy hell back at home.

Welcome to my mind, come for the foolish, stay for the idiocy, and leave feeling just a bit retarded.

I'm a maaaaaaaaniac....... maaaaaaaaaaniac on the floor, And I dance like I've never danced before!?

1 comment:

Lints 492 said...

Thought this article would be of interest. I hadn't thought of this nuclear option - the majority of local newspapers cutting their printing by over half, by eliminating Mon- Thur deliveries.