I'm staring at unemployment again at 63 without yet having decided on a career path. My first mistake was letting go after 11 months of gestation and entering this world laughing hysterically at how silly everything was, which offended the attending physician, Doctor Bizarro, and prompted him to inform my parents not to get too attached to me because I was destined to stumble through a short pain-filled existence that would bring them only grief, but still they refused to give me up for adoption, deluded by their oversized American Dream (aka adrenal) glands into believing that Doctor Bizarro could possibly be wrong, but that's another post.
The closest I came to deciding on what to do with myself (that didn't involve self-abuse or self-termination — biographers, please note my conscious decision to omit de) was in the fourth grade when Mrs. Kleinhertz asked me what I want to be when I grew up, and all I could think of was: "Cruel."
But enough about the past, which cannot be verified or validated. Instead, let's consider the present and future, two of the many meaningless stops in time where nothing I do makes any difference.
First off, I think I'm heading over to the Netherlands to be first in line to be scanned by the new screening devices that make your genitals glow and can be run through morphing and animation software for direct posting to You Tube with a royalty free electronic sound track provided by Garage Band.
I don't even need to make a joke about bringing a sock puppet bomb on board. All I need to say is I'm heading for America and my nuts will jiggle on the Internet like teabags of liberty!