Someone Told Me They Had the Blahs
Part of being a man is that compelling notion of explaining things to others. Right at this very moment I want to stop here and carefully explain to you exactly what I meant by that opening shot, but that job will have to wait until after I explain (to my satisfaction) from where the thought originated in the first place. Nonetheless, hold on.
Then there is the procrastinating. Or is it just me? Am I really the laziest man on the planet Earth, like she said I was, or are there others out there too busy explaining their whereabouts for the last few days to give a troubled brother a hand? Fire me a flare, men. Send up smoke. I am not all that particular.
Part of being a man is having feelings of doubt. And naturally, I doubt most people even want to know this much info. Let us press on, shall we? I have no agenda on the fire, nor am I a homosexual. Care for some coffee? A scotch, perhaps? Nice shirt there, by the way.
Let’s be honest. As long as you are not a doctor, I might be able to trust you. In fact, come to think of it, the higher up the educational food chain you are, the less I will probably like you. You have a doctorate? Pff! I have had boils you could never adequately explain. You wrote a thesis once? Hah! I drove a Hudson. Match that, if you can. You went to where? Listen, I went to Juarez before it was even heard of.
It is amazing how much we forget. Ok, how much I forget. And now I forgot where this was supposed to go.
Also, I used to know a French term that would work well here, but it had more than four letters.