I need to prefix this FRIGGIN AMAZING blog post by stipulating that, in weird hermit parlance, “holidays” means “holidays-at-home” – not your bourgeois bridge-and-tunnel crowd*** fancy pants sun-worshipping BOOBFESTS that I’ve heard so much about on the talky box. I heard tales of another Doubtpuppet who lived loooooong ago. It wore shorts and rubbed the lotion on its skin. It did all the shiny people things. It rode the magic birdy tube. It folded new underpants and subjected itself to haircuts. It kissed dirty girls and sucked on the chillsticks. In short it was a handsome asshole who was no stranger to your conventional holidays.
But that was before the war. That Doubtpuppet is DEAD. He lives in a freezer in the secret basement under my 2 trick basements – the ones I built in case the authorities ever come knocking.
Now we have reached an understanding on the key nomenclature in play here, please allow me to proceed with the meat and potatoes(sometimes used as a euphemism for a man’s cock and balls I believe, but in this case I assure you it couldn’t be further from the truth – here I use it to mean the real purpose of the article)(is it me or is there just too much clarification required in life?)(rhetorical)(…)(.)()
In my working life, I’ve always struggled with holidays. More precisely, I’ve always struggled with the idea of holidays versus the reality of holidays.
For some reason, and I know damn well I’m not alone in this, I put this naive utopian expectation on my holidays. I expect them to be choreographed by Gene Kelly and drawn by Disney; with long undisturbed sleeps which leave me feeling completely restored; with a curious absence of the OCD I’ve been lugging around with me for the last 35 years of my life; with a precision-engineered timetable of back-to-back achievements cunningly interleaved with fun activities and days out.
I expect to plop into the holiday an ugly duckling, then emerge after a 2 week glossy Tchaikovsky montage, a glorious ballet-dancing swan.
I do it every time, without fail. And then I act all surprised and miffed when it doesn’t pan out that way. What a fucking tool! I should’ve learned by now. And while I can happily step outside the insanity for 5 seconds and perform a public dissection of said strange phenomenon, I can absolutely guarantee you that I will instantly forget all of this once I step back inside and rejoin the war. I will continue making the same damn mistake as long as I live. It’s just one of those troubling paradoxes you can’t square away and end up having to live with. So if you came here looking for some wisdom or a resolution to this madness, well, I’m afraid you’re shit outta luck my friend!
Life is unpetitionable uncontrollable unpre-emptable CHAOS!
Hell – there’s no harm in planning for the future – not at all – we kind of have to don’t we? … just as long as we are fully prepared for those plans to be coldly wrenched from our hands, stripped, bent over backwards, and violently ass-raped by the cackling forces of cosmic chance, often helped along by a little human connivance.
And don’t even get me started on family (bites down on hand, looks away from the monitor into the abyss…).
Contrary to the utopian carrot-on-a-stick Disney holiday dream I’ve been chasing all my adult life, the reality I have experienced is that the best times come to you largely by accident, and cannot be planned, conjured, or made to order. Like slippery bars of soap, the more you try to get a grip on those little suckers, the more they get away from you and leave you clutching a handful of your dad’s pubes instead.
Put that at the end of your damn show Mr. Springer!
(yes that was a stealth song recommendation bitchiz! You’ve been SERVED!)
*** Credit to the lovely Magick Mermaid for my new favourite thing, which admittedly I have abused horribly here but fuck it!