In hindsight, the biggest problem of my frequent blog posts complaining about the misguided preponderance of the poop emoji in unnecessary consumer goods is the undesired side effect of friends and family thinking that I actually want to encounter more of it.

For example, this is an actual gift that I received this past Christmas:

I will protect the anonymity of which of my mother's sisters thought this would be fun for Walter, but I will tell you that it's the same one who gave me a dancing penis pickle.

For the record, please do not buy things for me with the poop emoji on them. In fact, don't buy anything for me unless I explicitly ask you to. There's too damn much crap in this world already.

Also for the record, what inspired today's post (in addition to a desire to clean out my pictures folder) was the discovery of a poop emoji mousepad at Big Lots. Who needs that? Seriously. Who uses mousepads anymore?

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I swear, you turn your back for half a minute....

I thought I saw something on the camera, so that's why I wandered out of frame for a second. You'll note that I was savvy enough to ensure the door was safely closed before I did. I'm so smart. But my poodles are smarter.

For the record, the boxes contained new couch covers to replace the ones they had destroyed earlier in the week. In hindsight, that was obviously part of their cunning escape plan. Poodles play the long con!

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I know my loyal readers probably couldn't sleep at night until they got an update to my April 12th post RE: Walter's hunt for a new cap, so here it is.

I still haven't found one.

After that first Nike hat turned up too large, I ordered another in the next size down. It was, perhaps not too surprisingly, also much too large. Oh, well. If I can ever make it to the post office before 5PM, I'll be shipping that one off to Friend Ken, who agreed to take it off my hands even if he doesn't know if it'll fit him. May you have more luck with it than I had, good sir.

Figuring that no matter what size Nike hat I ordered, they were all going to be too large — Nike sells style over substance, so it figures all their hats are designed to fall off outfielders catching routine fly balls — I decided to next order from the Official University of Georgia Bookstore a '47 brand hat that looks darn close to my previous one-size-fits-all cap. The bookstore's website took my money, then their employees emailed to inform me the hat was permanently out of stock. One of these days, they'll get around to refunding me, they promise!

Undeterred, I went to the '47 website where I discovered that they don't carry the hat anymore, either. But they do carry a different red Uga hat that might be acceptable, so I ordered that one... for $15 more than I paid for the hat I didn't get from the bookstore. Fingers crossed.

By my count, I've now spent over $170 on a baseball cap I don't yet have. The difference between obsession and stupidity is a very fine line.

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I woke up early (1PM!) to have lunch with my libertarian friend Matt, and the one thing we could agree on is that "compromise" is the dirtiest word in America.

(Actually we agree on two things: I am an asshole.)

Good to see you, Matt!

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I am having the worst time finding a replacement for my Georgia cap.

You will not be surprised to learn that I'm kind of particular. I prefer pictures of bulldogs to the traditional, elliptical Georgia "G." Elastic hat bands are passible; adjustable straps are not. Most importantly, the cap has had to be red.

For most of the past two decades, I've been able to buy a new cap for most football seasons despite my laundry list of requirements. That stopped in 2020, in part because I didn't need a hat that season. Since then, it's been hard to find any hats that fit my criteria, much less ones with art I like. The stores in my town seem don't seem to want to sell anything to me. (Does no one wear ball caps anymore?)

Last week, I threw in the towel and decided that my best bet for a non-adjustable 2023 might be an actual Nike UGA baseball hat — even though they aren't all red. So I found one in my size on the Internet and ordered it, and of course, when it arrived, it didn't fit. Too big. Apparently they run a little large.

I gave that hat to someone who still has hair, and it fits him fine. Meanwhile, my search continues. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll find something before kickoff this September.

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I have wondered in the past what it might take to get me to stop drinking Coca-Cola.

We're getting very, very close to finding out.

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Google suggested that I would like to read an online article titled "People are less satisfied with their marriage when their partner is not interested in social interactions, study finds." That's not a very interesting headline, is it? But I did click on it, if only to see if I could learn why some scientist was studying the obvious. I still don't know.

What I did learn is the term "social anhedonia," which Wikipedia defines as "a disinterest in social contact and a lack of pleasure in social situations." WebMD puts it even more plainly: "You don't want to spend time with other people." That's why I love WebMD; it's talking directly to me!

I'm sure there's a spectrum for this social anhedonia — extreme cases are apparently linked to schizophrenia, which the voices in my head tell me I don't have — but I'm certainly on it somewhere. There's a reason I'm typing this in a basement in an otherwise empty house in the middle of the night.

I do enjoy spending limited amounts of time with friends, but "limited" is a key word in that sentence. I am keenly aware of my distaste for social interaction, and that self-awareness is a key part of why I am not interested in getting married. (I also don't much care for being touched by other people, which is apparently something psychiatrists call "physical anhedonia." Who knew?)

There have been other studies that say that married people live longer. People who spend time with friends live longer. People who are awake while the sun up live longer. In other words, people unlike me live longer. But if I have to be married, spend time with people, and wake up with the sunrise, why would I want to live any longer than I have to? That's not a reward, that's punishment.

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It's 7:00 and I have to get over to CVS to pick up Dad's newest medicine before they close so that I can deliver it before he freaks out about it and the dogs have to go out before I go and its raining and I open the door for Louis... and Henry chases him outside into the downpour. And they ran and ran. And ran.

So now I have to add "wash and dry the dogs" to my list of things to do tonight.

I'm... not having a good time these days. And the boys are just making everything so much harder.

It's really starting to feel like I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.

UPDATE 3:30AM: And I just let the dogs out (one at a time!) before bed and in the 2 minutes it takes to use my electric toothbrush Henry dug a hole in the mud and now has to have another shower before bed.... Grrr. It was just two minutes, Henry!

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I was already having a bad day — Dad continues to be A) confused about what medicine to take when, and B) very resistant to any means to address that problem — and then I saw that the new Powers That Be at the recently merged mega-corporation Warner Bros Discovery have decided to axe TCM Underground, effective immediately.

Dear whoever made that decision: Fuck off.

If you weren't aware, Underground was TCM's wee-hours-of-Saturday-morning block of programming that presented... shall we say "niche" movies. The kind that were generally made by or for unconventional audiences. You know, the kind of movies film nerds traded on VHS tapes and college art professors showed to their impressionable students to stimulate creativity. (Rest in Peace, Bill Marriott!)

I'd be more disappointed than I am if I hadn't already enjoyed TCM Underground for nearly 2 decades. Everything has a natural lifespan. (As they say, "Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky.") Underground's 18 year-run was a very, very long time in the entertainment industry, which only thinks in terms of how much money it can make today. It deserves praise for its longevity more than mourning for its passing.

There were great things before Underground, and there will be great things after. It's the same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea. All we are is dust in the wind.

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*Ring, Ring*

WALTER (groggy): Dad? What's wrong?

JIM: I'm having trouble with the TV again. It won't turn to the Super Bowl. I've found the game in the guide but it won't tune in. It only wants to set a reminder.

WALTER: That's because you're looking ahead in the guide. You're looking at the future.

JIM: The clock says it's almost 5 o'clock, and kickoff is at 6:30. There must be pregame on by now.

WALTER: Go to a window and look outside. Is it dark outside?

JIM: Yes.

WALTER: That's because it's 5 in the morning!

JIM: That can't be right. I've already been waiting all day.

WALTER: You waited yesterday. You have to wait more today. The game won't even kickoff for another 13 hours.

JIM: Well.... I don't know what to say. They should play it sooner.

...

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