Feed me, Seymour
It is ten minutes before 6pm, it has been dark for almost two hours now and it has been cold all day. The fat bastard was at work today (he left the house about half an hour after he was supposed to clock in, but came in more than two hours after he was supposed to clock off - and we're about ten minutes from the workplace).
He came in with absolutely nothing for the table this evening, not one thing. He's now, just now, gone back out to get the food we'll eat tonight. Why he could not have simply brought it back with him is something beyond my comprehension, and this happens as a matter of routine.
He sat down when he came in and put a DVD on, sprawled out on the floor stuck his hand down his pants and that was it for him for the afternoon. The Christmas cards to work colleagues remain unwritten, as do those to neighbours. I'll end up doing them on my own and he'll be offended because I've sealed them and not left them so that he could add his name in his own writing. This too is something that we go through every year. He's a bright man, but not bright enough to learn that he needs to get the Christmas cards done in good time if he wants them done his way.
While I'm on the subject of Christmas he almost certainly has not yet contacted his mother's sisters regarding buying the video player to complement the videos we've bought for her. When I asked him yesterday evening after getting in from work myself he gave me some garbled story of having spoken to Anne's husband who is almost deaf and couldn't understand and so on and so forth ... it sounded like one of the fat bastard's crocks and I've enough experience to know one when I hear one, so that's probably what it was.
On the other hand he has just phoned from the supermarket to ask me what I want to drink. Presumably, since he was very strapped for cash a few days ago he's tapped his mother for a top up while he was with her on Sunday and he's bringing me back some beers.
He came in with absolutely nothing for the table this evening, not one thing. He's now, just now, gone back out to get the food we'll eat tonight. Why he could not have simply brought it back with him is something beyond my comprehension, and this happens as a matter of routine.
He sat down when he came in and put a DVD on, sprawled out on the floor stuck his hand down his pants and that was it for him for the afternoon. The Christmas cards to work colleagues remain unwritten, as do those to neighbours. I'll end up doing them on my own and he'll be offended because I've sealed them and not left them so that he could add his name in his own writing. This too is something that we go through every year. He's a bright man, but not bright enough to learn that he needs to get the Christmas cards done in good time if he wants them done his way.
While I'm on the subject of Christmas he almost certainly has not yet contacted his mother's sisters regarding buying the video player to complement the videos we've bought for her. When I asked him yesterday evening after getting in from work myself he gave me some garbled story of having spoken to Anne's husband who is almost deaf and couldn't understand and so on and so forth ... it sounded like one of the fat bastard's crocks and I've enough experience to know one when I hear one, so that's probably what it was.
On the other hand he has just phoned from the supermarket to ask me what I want to drink. Presumably, since he was very strapped for cash a few days ago he's tapped his mother for a top up while he was with her on Sunday and he's bringing me back some beers.
posted by Enyo @ 5:50 pm
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