Werewolves of London Road

Late last night I looked in the mirror, my hair was perfect. My face looked like the surface of Mars, but my hair was perfect. I decided to go with it and stay up all night. Why ruin a lucky break from a random Universe with bedhead? The rest of my life is fucked to hell and back, my hair's perfect. Where's Warren Zevon when you need him? Fucking dead, that's where. I should've known.

Whenever my hair is perfect, the Universe gets pissed. The last time my hair was perfect — and the time before that and the time before that — one of a number of things happened, all of them variations on a theme of Death. Call it a weather event which made landfall in this neck of the woods some moons ago, and then stalled. This thang ain't goin' nowhere anytime soon, jim. The shit just keeps piling up. And it's a BIG pile.

My hair is perfect for about twelve hours every other month. Do the math.

Fuck the Universe and its random ass, last night I wasn't taking any chances. Whatever was slouching toward my little corner of the world — again — I would add it to that ever-growing pile, but I would meet it head on. With perfect hair on that head. I adjusted the Barcalounger to open-coffin-mode, unscrewed another jar of grappa, and cued up MobWives.

Just when you think it's safe to go back in the water, another season of MobWives hits the stream. Talk about hair. And nails. And tits. And triple negatives. Having grown up on the Iron Range back in the day, I'm familiar with a watered-down version of doze girlz from Staten Island. Make that grappaed-down. I mean, who needs prescription meds? Doze douchebags calmed me right the fuck down. All night long.

Then the sun rose. Fuck.

I check the mirror — hair waning but still upright — and settle in for another day of gnawing of nails (mea culpa, girlz), smoting of breast, and gnashing of teeth. And collecting of unemployment. An entitlement from my government which I'm duty-bound to honor by agreeing to regularly look for work. Huh! I could easily replace my weekly unemployment compensation dollar-for-dollar by dumpster diving for pop cans on Tuesdays and Thursdays, weather permitting. Just saying.

Meanwhile, back at the good ol' computer, I swear off Free Cell for a few nanoseconds and open up MinnesotaWorks! to check out the job listings. 40,000!?! I need a drink. Hmmm. A pina colada might do the trick. But it's not even noon. A wee bit early, even for the likes of moi.

So I grab a cup of joe and glance at the local online paper to see if the Universe imploded or something while I was laid out in the Barcalounger. But looks like the good ol' Universe is alive and well, jim, and apparently still pissed as hell, because there they are, splashed across the screen like stray bocce balls, the mutilated bodies of a bunch of dead animals. Fucking November. Let's hear it for alla doze good ol' boyz with their wee dickz and big gunz still alive and kicking in dis necka da woodz! Which is more than youse can say for alla doze poor ol' bear and moose and deer and wolves. Huh! Add THAT to the pile.

Meanwhile, back at good ol' Facebook, the ads are running amuck.

Any fetus knows FB's ads are geared toward the demographic of the individual user. Which might explain why Calculate Your Life Expectancy websites have been filling all available space on my page these days. So I finally cave. I mean, WTF else do I have to do? On top of everything, I got canned from my job, remember? Just checking to see if my Faithful Readers are paying attention. And youse know who youse are, botha youse.

So I fill out questionnaires on fourteen websites and average the results. This takes three-and-a-half hours. By then it's almost Miller Time. Good news, I'm going to live to be 96! I'll drink to that! Bad news, I lied! I couldn't help it. There I am, some over-the-hill overeducated unemployed pierced and tattooed hasbeen from Palookaville whose face resembles the surface of Mars — perfect hair notwithstanding — I needed a pick-me-up. In addition to the usual.

Come to think of it, one of these days I should sit my over-the-hill ass down and calculate my future Social Security income. That oughtta be good. Using my method, I should be able to retire ... yesterday! Except looks like I did. Oh well.

So I'm headed back to the jobs website, honest officer, when WeatherUnderground starts flashing. It does this periodically, probably the ozone layer or something. But I have to check it out, maybe a tornado or a sinkhole or a comet or something is headed my way (given the SIZE of this pile, I'd make book on it). And sure as hell, there it is, flashing maniacally in a sidebar, plain as the nose on my Martian face: ISON! A fucking comet! A comet with a fucking name! I knew it! I just knew it!

Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter and threw up the sash, and howled into the darkening void,

"INCOMING!!"

which I repeated in that universal language,

"AHHH-WOOO!!"

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow reminds me it's Daylight Savings. Here it is, mid-afternoon, black as pitch. Hmmm. If I remember correctly, I made a commitment (as opposed to being committed) to my therapist to save my first drink until after dusk. Let the party begin!

Except looks like the party's over. For my hair at least. And my nails. Oh well. At least I made it through another fuck-youse from the Universe with only a comet to deal with this time. Piece of cake. Which is pretty much what my hair looks like. Half-eaten, the morning after, in the cold light of dawn.