The Toiletfire Continues: 2018 Begins


The Toiletfire Continues

The toiletfire that will define 2018 is off to a roaring start! How could it not when 2017 went out in a blaze of glory? Might as well address that we all have the Bon Jovi song in our head at this point and if one doesn’t, then one is broken. Imagine those last few days of 2017, the final moments, set to that beautiful piece of music. Now imagine the version worthy of 2017, which is covered by a band of people who don’t know how to play, except for the oboe player – who’s just fucking on point, and said band is fronted by legendary comedian Gilbert Godfrey.

We’re halfway through January, which is a mixed bag of good news, bad news. Which means it all averages out to okay news! For instance, a good chunk of people have given up on their resolutions. Treadmills sit vacant, stairwells have tumbleweeds rolling down them, facebook accounts have been reactivated, and twitter is once again brimming with A-holes.

My Resolutions

As for my new year’s resolutions, I retroactively created two. The first one was, change a tire for the first time in over thirteen years. Completed and created on new years day, in that order. Crushed it! Boy did I feel great!

The next day, still high with accomplishment coursing through my veins and seeing an exodus of people, my second resolution was created, take the stairs at work less. If stairs are generally slower than taking the elevator, then the stairs at the first of the year are even slower. There’s a zillion people – each and every one of them with good intention in their hearts – shambling up the damn stairs, moaning, groaning, and wheezing.

So much so that nutter doomsdayers and fans of The Walking Dead get all excited because they think “This is it! The big one! The day uncle granpappy trained me for!” Grabbing duffle bags and cocking the guns they picked up on their way to work, they form a defensive line at the top of the stairs flipping over couches and plugging the gap between said couches and wall with the ficas*. Triggers squeeze, hammers rear back, and then, “Oh! Hey Bill from accounting! You look great! Did you get that fitbit for Christmas?” Bill can’t answer, he took the stairs. Avoid getting shot by the guy that thinks military boots are acceptable as “everyday wear.” Take elevator. Treat yo’self!

As For Other People’s Resolutions,

From what I see on social media, the resolution of be a better person was a fairly unpopular one this year and those that did resolve to be better people inserted “at holier than thou condescension” in the middle. For an example, of use, see the previous sentence.

That Guy On Facebook

The guy that’s facebook tile says he is unemployed and studied at school of the hard knocks ought to be a red flag. If that is a rando transient hobo bot 600, then the part that says he has a great sarcastic and ironic sense of humor, yet is angry at The Onion, well, he truly is a master of irony or an idiot.

Year of the Dick

2017 was the year of the rooster and as we should all know – without having to go to thesaurus.com – another name for rooster is cock. Under the guise of a big veiny bastard, 2017 starts to make a whole lot more sense. It flopped from left to right. It was hairy, stinky, and looked dumb. Then it ballooned for absolutely no freaking reason. People tried to run, but most just got pinned to the wall and had to stay there for four hours.

Of course, if one could reach their phone, those four hours were spent arguing with someone on social media. No one could tell if they were being yelled at by fake shitheads or real ones who think the pasty German Olson twins from The Matrix Reloaded are still cool and get raging four hour car door slamming boners each time they see a “What if I told you,” meme. Hell, no one seems to know anything anymore.

The Toiletfire Continues To Continue

Fires have a tendency to spread. Toiletfires are no different. Whether that toilet be in the boonies, the suburbs, or a prison, it doesn’t really matter. A toiletfire is a toiletfire. And a toiletfire doesn’t necessarily have so much to do with the contents of the bowl, but rather the amount of flammable material found in the water supply. Flush it once, avoid the backdraft, and now all the toilets are on fire.

At the moment, I’m joking about fire water. Yet I can’t help but think, that’s an all too plausible scenario. Hell, under an administration that seemed to give a shit, Flint had rusty water. Now we have folks that don’t give a flip about the masses water supply one bit. Not wanting to wear a tinfoil hat, but it could happen.

Especially with the repeals of laws and erosion of protection for the environment.

When laws were in place to protect water, land, and animals, they weren’t hurting us. Meaning it would be better to have them around than not have them. I mean, I’m not trying to bang my step-mom on the family yacht, I don’t need impress upon her how masculine my junk looks by cramming elephant tusks up next it. I also don’t have barrels of hazardous waste just sitting around that I don’t know what to do with. Nor have I ever thought, “this national park is way too big and would be improved by the addition of some fucking condos or a Wal-Mart.”

 


Only eleven and half months to go!

*What the actual fuck is a ficas? I hear it a lot. I say it a lot. It’s a funny word, but I don’t think anyone would know what a ficas looked even if it went all The Happening and head-butted them in the no-no’s.

 

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2015… And So It Begins, I Guess.

  I am tired. I stayed up too late. For some reason I couldn’t pull my attention away from the train wreck that was Stacy “Two-Face” Fergie Ferguson and whatever show it was that she was joltingly hosting. Sloshing quickly between poses. Resembling video game animations from eight years ago. Always turning to the profile to remind the world she wasn’t wearing pants. Perhaps that meat suit just wasn’t fitting the buggy alien correctly. Either way, I hated every god damn second of it until I picked up my phone and got on twitter.

  It was the first time I had ever done the whole watch something and tweet at the same time. It diverted my attention and filled me with such joy to read that other cantankerous bastards were also hating Fergie and Jenny “I Love Polio” McCarthy. After awhile I started coming across people’s resolutions. I am going to be more happy. I am going to work less. I am going to work out. Devote more time to my kids. Use social media less. Spend less money. Vaccinate.

  You get the point. People were putting themselves on the hook to improve themselves. Which is a noble gesture and at the same time it is a great way to get set up for soul crushing failure. Three hundred and sixty five days is a long time. Especially to hold oneself to self-improvement. Resolutions are rigidly worded leaving them brittle. One misstep and the whole thing could shatter. Which leads to a why even continue, why keep trying mentality. By February, resolutions are defeatedly schlepped off to the side and forgotten. Left to be picked up next year or never attempted again.

  Relatively speaking, New Year’s is kind of like Monday. Except seemingly everyone – for some reason – seems to love New Year’s. Yet, if each week is treated as a new beginning, one can set smaller, more achievable goals. Also, if someone is being an over spending, kid neglecting, depressed ass hat in July, shouldn’t something be done then? Why wait five months?

  In years passed, I half heartedly made resolutions. I failed them all quickly. Until four or five years ago. I came up with a resolution that I have kept making year after year. Each year I succeed. Each year, I think I get a little better. What is that resolution? Don’t die. It is certainly something I don’t want to fail at. I figure, unless I party with Motley Crue, I can only fail once. Every year, when I scream Happy New Year, I know that I have once again succeeded. All I had to do was look both ways when crossing the street and stuff.