I just found out that it's been decided: I'm going to be playing Santa Claus at the Christmas party for my work. I volunteered in jest and now it's come to bite me in the ass. hard. I am not feeling jolly. I've been dealing with the actions of a heroin addict all day. I've been fighting with my bank, who mistook $2500 for $25. I've been working my ass off and trying to get my ipod fixed before I fly home.

They'll be lucky if Santa isn't crying blood.
They'll be really lucky if Santa is sober.

I was in the laundromat the other night, halfway through the dryer cycle as well as my second beer. In addition to the homeless guy who yelled at me for drinking in a laundromat and then later asked me for my empties, there were four young guys in the parking lot, wearing sleeveless t-shirts and listening to the Steve Miller Band. They were gathered around a truck that had a paintjob reminiscent of a half-finished gobstopper. There were at least 3 visible layers of paint. Did I mention that at least 2 of them were air-guitaring? to Steve Miller?
I try to ignore scenes like this, no matter how much like 1974 they might feel, but I figured sitting around listening to the xmas muzak spilling into the laundromat and reading a book about fables would be less riveting. So I watched as these guys, who were doing laundry after all, pulled a single blanket from the dryer. It was clearly not dry yet, but appeared clean enough for their standards. So they took it, dripping and all, and threw it in the back of the pickup before driving off.

So now I'm pretty convinced that they killed someone and were trying to bleach out the evidence.

Santa the testifying witness.

sigh.

$1 billion dollars missing. That's not even the fun part. I've been following the comments all evening.

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