“Just Remember This ONE thing!”

HardDrive

So, there are several things that I have “programmed to do” in my life on a weekly basis, like most people I’m sure.

I’m at the age now when I’m not SO stupid that I have to write every SINGLE thing down (and by “write”, I mean create a “Note” on my iPhone), but at the same time I’m at the age when I’m too “prideful” to make a note about many things that I probably SHOULD!

Anyway, Monday is my “Marker Day” for a number of things that I do on a weekly basis, the KEY weekly item being a weekly computer backup to my external hard drive, which I then “record” by writing the date of backup on the label that I’ve attached to said hard drive. Simple, effective system, right? “Just Remember This ONE thing!”

Rewind to last night — I’m sitting in the hot tub, unwinding from yet another busy day in the life of Dick Jones — Professional Slacker — Motto: “Every day I wake up with NOTHING to do, and by the end of the day I haven’t finished HALF of it!”

I’m staring up into the night sky, looking for the Rings Around Uranus (but that’s a whole ‘NUTHER Oprah, for a different discussion!) scratching my balls (which is what MEN do, approximately 152 times/day — and why can’t a WOMAN learn EXACTLY the “touch” that’s required to properly scratch a man’s balls, I wanna know?

I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that “the ball scratch” — that thing that EACH & EVERY man learns to PERFECTION approximately 3 seconds after ejection from the womb, right after that first “slap-on-the-ass-I’m-gonna-REMEMBER-THAT-ONE-Doc” routine — is THE most precise “touch-sensitive motion” on the planet Earth; even MORE so than the touch required for brain surgery, which is prolly why there are NO female brain surgeons on this ball o’ mud; take my word for it — I checked!), when “it” pops into my head — “Hey Stupit (the moniker that I answer to MOST often when I’m talking to myself, right behind “Hey Moron!”), don’t forget to get the hard drive out of the cabinet and plug it into your computer before you go to bed!”

Knowing myself AS I do (regrettably, I might add), I decided to make it my temporary “mantra” — so I began saying over & over “Hard drive, hard drive, hard drive…” as I scratched my balls, looked for The Rings Around Uranus, and enjoyed the steady stream of hot water shooting up my ass for 20 minutes (O.K. — just to clarify: I’m not REALLY letting the jets shoot water UP my ass — NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT!).

I get out of the tub, continuing my Hari Krishna-like chant (whatever happened to THOSE Dudes anyway?! Remember when you could NOT get through ANY airport without maneuvering through a Country Mile of those brain-snatched yucks?!), dry off, strip off my bathing suit (the towel IS wrapped around me while I do this — any male above the age of 4 knows how to do this here in SoCal without flashing the genital public), walk inside (there — THAT must have been where it happened — as I passed through “the portal” from the outside World BACK into the personal prison called “My World”) — and walk BRISKLY & DIRECTLY PAST my computer and the cabinet where my hard drive is safely ensconced, throw towel & suit in the dryer for 20 minutes, brush my teef & take a wizz, attach my Breathe-Rite Super Duper nose strip to my nose so I don’t snore like a busted chainsaw all night, and huckle up to my bride.

“Nice work, MORON — yet ANOTHER Monday goes by without backing up your confuser!”

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