A Week Of Cold Suppers.

The World Series is proving to be a little bit trying. For one, I am for the first time exposed to what I am told are 'political ads'. And not just the political adverts of the lunatic & the criminal running for the top pencil pusher in the land, but the local stuff as well. They were good enough not to show an ad on adult film condom referendum which I swear is on every ballot every year. They are always wanting to do something about condoms in adult films, and it ranks up there with outlawing the death penalty or legalizing recreational marijuana in apparent importance. I'm stumped.

And the Tribe, my dad's team who I am pulling for, has given up a 3-1 series lead to end up in Game 7, and it is all just a bit too much. And the Jamie Dornan looking fucker is proving a bit too bothersome. I started to watch the news once the Cubs took an early 3-0 lead. I figured if I was going to be depressed I may as well keep myself informed, then I turned the game back on just to watch the Indians load the bases for no good reason. Tyler Naquin, as delish as that face is, choked the poor dear.

Needless to say when I arrived at the office this morning and was immediately confronted with administrative and security bullshit a tee-total meltdown quite nearly ensued. I politely and subtly reminded them that I would quite literally rather be doing anything other than coming to the fucking Westside and working on their shit case, and that I literally can be doing anything other than coming to the fucking Westside and working on their shit case and that if any impediment, even ever so slight, is ever placed in my way again it will be, as the song goes, the Last Day of Our Acquaintance. Thank you Sinead.