I have to wait until September 27th for season five of Dexter to come back on. That’s too far away. I feel like I’ve been waiting for over a decade already. I don’t have cable, either, so that means I will be getting my fix streaming episodes off Hulu.com. In other words, that means I will be spending 95 minutes trying to watch a 52 minute episode, where every four minutes is interrupted by “…BUFFERING..28%” repeatedly.
In the meantime, I’ve been trying to fill the void in my television diet with Six Feet Under. Things were going swimmingly until the show just started to get really weird.
Am I watching pornography, or Six Feet Under? Brenda just keeps sleeping with everyone she sees, spreading gonorrhea all over California and beyond, Keith keeps getting more and more annoying, less and less black, and more and more gay by the second, Claire keeps dating psychos and thinking they are her emotionally vulnerable and needy prince charmings, and Nate keeps screaming at people out of nowhere. Over and over. I need more substance than this, you guys. Mix things up. Kill somebody. Uncover somebody’s sex change. Turn somebody into a dinosaur. Surprise me!
The radio stations here in Pennsylvania are nothing short of broken records. I am not exaggerating when I say that every hour is just a repeating cycle of Ke$ha – Your Love Is My Drug, Travie McCoy – Billionaire, Eminem – Love The Way You Lie, and B.O.B – Airplanes. Over. And over.
It’s unreal. On two separate occasions yesterday I switched from 92.1 to 99.3 to escape hearing Ke$ha’s scratchy hooker voice rattle off about brushing her teeth with rum, only to find 99.3 playing the SAME song. It was a nightmare. I felt like I was in the Labyrinth. What is this, Boiling Points? Am I being Punk’d? Come out, Ashton.
In other news, after a short hiatus from the volcanic temperatures the northeast has experienced as of late, the fiery, hell-on-earth weather has returned to fry me like a slab of tilapia on a George Foreman grill. I actually became turbulently angry yesterday as I was working outside because of the escalating, blood-boiling heat that Mother Earth was smothering me with. The humidity was thicker than Lindsay Lohan’s pile of misdemeanors. I genuinely could have baked a rump roast on my doorstep. Why is this happening? What have I done to deserve this? I need to be locked inside a meat locker until October rolls around. I’m not built for this sort of climate.
Yesterday I did an inspection on a house for hail damage. After my inspection of the property, I asked the homeowner if we could go inside to discuss the damage and the insurance claim process. The overweight, white wife shot a panicky look to the fat, shirtless husband, and exchanged a concerned glance. “Uh….yeah….” she said, and slowly led me through the back door.
Once inside, I quickly realized what the hesitancy was about. I was jack-hammered in the face with the foul stench of cat urine. Boxes of miscellaneous junk were piled ceiling-high. Fur covered every inch of space. There was barely enough room for me to squeeze through the “hallway” into the living room. These people were hoarders of the worst kind. If I didn’t stink before (which I did), I certainly did now.
How do people live like this? “Excuse the mess…we’re in the middle of several…projects,” she said. Right. I know that most of the projects my family and I work on involve gallons upon gallons of cat piss, newspapers from 1992, and garbage piled so high it makes the Appalachian Mountains look like Kate Hudson’s boobs.
People with hoarding issues just need their family members to intervene by setting fire to their homes. This is really the only way to fully nip the problem in the bud, if you will. By destroying every item in their “collection” (for lack of better words) by fire, you effectively remove the emotional connection that would otherwise make it difficult for them to “let things go.” Unless their McDonald’s Mini Beanie Babies and expired canned tomatoes mean more to them than their skin, lips, and hair, there is no chance in hell that the hoarder can sprint into the fire to retrieve their worthless, space-consuming belongings, aka garbage. And if they do, just let them. They probably need to die.
Well, time to go.
Me: “These gross ugly people from high school keep requesting my friendship on Facebook, and every day I deny them. Haven’t they caught on?”
Cole: “Maybe you should include a message next time. ‘Look at my profile picture, and then look at yours. Can we really be friends. I don’t think so.’ “