Getting Pooped On

This week, shit is raining down on me. Nothing seems to be in order. Instead of order, I am getting shit. On. By everyone and everything. I feel like I finally know what the dudes in Slayer must have felt like when they wrote "Raining Blood," except that I am currently being rained upon by shit, which, frankly, is much more odorous, messy, hardcore, and difficult to dodge than if it were raining blood, proving once again that Slayer is full of pansies.* To all entities dropping deuces -- insane or otherwise -- on me, I respond with a profanity-laced tirade. Fuck you. Fuck this long winter. Fuck meteorologists and their never-ending false promise of hope. Fuck work. Fuck driving to Wheaton twice in one week. Fuck not having a goddamned minute to workout or being too tired and/or lazy to workout even if I had a minute. Fuck opposing counsel who went to Illinois, who are Cubs fans, and who are Republicans. Fuck opposing counsel who are a combination of all three. Fuck being a lawyer. Fuck still being awake at 12:36 a.m. Fuck, I need a beer right now. Fuck Lent. Fuck not being able to get a good night's sleep. Fuck, wasting time writing this when I could have been in bed by now. Fuck the CTA, just because. Fuck Client #9. Fuck Mobb Deep. Fuck Biggie. Fuck Bad Boy as a staff, record label, and as a motherfucking crew. Fuck you, as well, if you sympathize with Bad Boy. Fuck you, as well, if your name is Chino XL. Fuck all you motherfuckers, as well. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.

*Before any Slayer fans start going apeshit on me, obviously Slayer is not full of pansies -- literally or figuratively. In fact, Tom Araya scares the shit out of me -- figuratively, not literally -- and I am confident that, if given the chance, he would shoulder-press me and swiftly bring me down so as to break me in half over his head. Then he would start to devour my flesh, stopping soon after because I would probably taste like shit -- literally, not figuratively.