Right in the middle of the season-fucking-finale of "Mad Men," last night, there was a goddamn tornado warning and we were right in the fucker's path. We reluctantly chose to save the spawnage over seeing what fate was in store for Don Draper, and we carried them down, a-snoozin', to the basement, or what I like to call: where-spend-every-goddamn-moment-of-my-life. We waited the requisite half hour, and then lugged them back upstairs.
We settled back in to see how the fuck Peggy gave birth to a full-term baby, when she seemed to have only had a potential gestational period of about three months, when ANOTHER fucking warning flashed across the screen. This was getting tornadiculous! We dragged the now wide-awake and lid-flipping spawnage back downstairs and decided to just have them sleep there until the morning. Miss O seemed mildly annoyed by the whole ordeal, but Mr. Z, being Mr. Z, lost his shit. It probably didn't help that the tornado sirens were going non-stop. The Old Lady and I had a very "Tell Me You Love Me" moment where were each rubbing the back of a spawnage, trying to get them to chill the fuck out, our arms cramping up as we wondered what the shit happened to our lives.
But we weren't killed by the tornado, so there's that.
By about 1:00 in the a-fucking-m, we decided that we should probably try to sleep, as well. The Old Lady had to get up early for a meeting, so I, being me, told her that she could sleep upstairs in our COMFY BED, while I would hang out in the basement and sleep in Mr. Z's sleeping bag atop the cold, hard concrete. She weighed the options for a moment -- get a good sleep but potentially die in a twister vs. sleeping in the basement -- and took me up on the offer. She got a good sleep and I... well, you read this fucking shitfuck of a post and figure it out.
I woke up at 5:30 with a neck as stiff as the neck of Dickie, the kid from the "Little Rascals," in that episode where Stymie heals his neck and says, "Oh, I just gave it a twist."
I miss Stymie. Holy crap, this is a shitty post. So, yeah, woke up all sore and shit after probably ingesting a mouthful of silverfish and earwigs all night, and started the goddamn day. And now, 12 hours later, I'm ready to take an earwig-studded dump and call it a day.
If there's another tornado tonight, I'm just gonna sleep out on the fucking roof and let it whisk me away. Maybe it'll at least give my neck a little twist.
1 comment:
We had some hellacious weather Thursday night too, and our satellite was cutting in and out during Mad Men. Did I feel the need to run to the basement? HELLS NO! I wasn't about to miss a minute of my last Sterling-Cooper fix of the year.
I knew Peggy had to be knocked up, but SHIZZ! 9 months along? Color me shocked.
BTW, I had to laugh at your earwig remark. I remember an old SNL skit (with John Larroquette, I think) about some dude who died and went to heaven. He asked an angel to tell him what the grossest thing he ever ate was. The angel told him "you can't handle knowing that. I'll tell you the 200th grossest thing you ever ate--butterscotch pudding that had an EARWIG in it."
I remember the strangest stuff. Curse my damn trivial memory!
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