S**t My Computer Says
I am going to branch out a bit on this blog and start making my posts about the stuff that crosses my mind; this may or may not be about social media.
And in an era of a complete lack of personal responsibility (“The bitch set me up,” and “I didn’t cheat on my wife; I am a sex addict, a victim”), I plan to blame everything on my computer. You see, it’s not me who is typing the words who is at fault, it’s clearly the computer. Hence, in honor of the book “S**t My Dad Says,” I bring you “S**t My Computer Says.”
And speaking of dads, I am sure that as these entries progress, I am ensuring that my children will be telling their psychiatrist about it in about ten years.
On my mind this morning:
- I am at the cabin this morning, fresh off of an amazing fireworks display last night. A “neighbor” (two miles down the mountain and across the river) fired off what must have been thousands of dollars in fireworks last night and accompanied the show with patriotic songs blasted through a bunch of speakers. It rivaled other fireworks I have seen put on by whole towns. Thanks for the display, guys.
- I have got to get to the gym. My ass is expanding faster than the gulf oil spill.
- My German Shepherd broke the steel cable that keeps him from dashing off yesterday when he saw a deer that had wandered onto our property. A steel freaking cable. I suppose that he has developed a taste for venison.
- It’s blazing hot around here. Gonna hit nearly 100 – and we’re in the mountains. I was sweating yesterday like a politician getting ready to take a polygraph test.
That’s it for this morning. If you like it, comment. If not, just blame this computer. It says a lot of s**t.