Today I'm a meatball guy. It feels good to be back in the ball game, even if it is only for lunch.
Mom always told me I should be a baller, since Dad wasn't, and my sister had an overwhelming early predilection for guinea pigs. Only guinea pigs. Anyway, baller. What is that?
Yeah, Dad the role model. He liked to hang out in his underwear all day and pretend to be rich. So that's what I was expecting life to be like, but discovered too late that he had filled the only available niche. Too bad then, for me.
Well anyway, Dad died and Mom went to heaven, where I understand she has a hot dog cart. Not a high-status way to make a living, but it does do the job, and Dad? They stuffed him and put him on display over to the Unnatural History Museum, where he's weighting down an also-stuffed chair and being slowly consumed by cockroaches. Both of them.
OK, well, family — everyone has one and they all stink, as the saying in another context goes, some more than others. Which leaves me wondering what my own role will be, descended as I am from a long line of pointless bachelors.
Bachelorhood isn't all that glamorous, or impressive on one's resume, especially if, like me, that's about all you have to list as your accomplishments. Not as though I'm a serial killer or anything. I mean, there we're talking full-on professional league status. And me? No, no — not even close. I'm not like that at all. For me it's only a hobby. A guy's gotta have something, right? (Guinea pigs? Yuck.)
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Me? Poo. Not thinking about poo today, at all.
