Hogg Coma
Saturday, when there’s no soccer to watch.
Look guys, occasionally you’ve known me to write something that actually interested you, moved you, perhaps made you laugh, even yell out in anger, or maybe yesterday wasn’t a Hogg day and you passed me with a two-second view and a single clap. I bare that person no ill will, but if you’re struck by a bus, I’ll not be sending a card.
But this post is different, in fact I can tell you that as I’m writing, my I.Q is dropping at a precarious rate. A bit like the way a thermometer drops when Jenny is pissed. And that, my friends, is pretty rapid.
I’m a bit emotional right now thinking about being in this creative coma and that’s when I cry. Okay, maybe I don’t cry exactly, but I feel pretty damned upset. Creativity is playing around, right. But I guess, with everything else, I’m in a creative coma.
Do you have days when all you can think of are bad things to say about your Medium friends, but don’t mean it. It’s because your sincerity is a little off.
Today is Saturday, there’s no premier league soccer, and Jenny has issues about where she finds my underwear. She thinks I’m too stupid to find the laundry basket. Things like this eat into my confidence. “Sorry, luv, I don’t know how they got there.” I mean, I really do not know.
Then she wants to talk to me about babysitting yesterday. My son called, stating that he didn’t find it, my daughter-in-law did. “Dad had a dump while he was looking after Camden and forgot to flush the toilet! I mean, I wouldn’t say anything about it, but Kourtney found it and she was concerned. She said to me ‘what she found wasn’t something that came out of a human arse.’” So, you all see where I’m at, right. I’ve shamed myself and my daughter-in-law thinks I’m an animal. But it’s okay, at least I’m still crapping while in a coma
My confidence is so low I think all my Medium friends are standing around drinking coffee, eating my Fig Newtons, and bringing up intimate details about me, like how I shave my pubic hair, or how my sex drive is completely wacky. Then I think about all my female friends on Medium, asking myself if they have tongue rings and does it prevent them giving head. Which is not to say I’m not having sex. Of course, I am. But it’s all kind of fuzzy, and Jenny doesn’t partake, except to turn over when asked... and not because I haven’t shaved in two weeks. That’s another thing, you see, it’s because I’m in a sexual coma.
Go ahead, have a laugh at my expense, eat my fucking Fig Newtons, and drink my coffee why don’t you.
Today, I want to hit everybody. Okay I might not want to hit everyone, but especially this one guy, the one-handed clapper, you know who you are. But I wouldn’t want to kill him. But the rest of you are not exactly safe, it can happen in an explosive moment.
Although I suspect I’d soon get over the
inevitable Fig Newton and blood loss. I wouldn’t do that, of course, it’s just because I’m in a dramatic coma.
Thinking about the political friends here on Medium, I’d rather eat shit than listen to them talking loudly and knowledgeably about the Constitution, be it left, right, or middle. I don’t even like to read newspapers. The only time I want to come close to politics are the days when I fantasize about Steffanie Ruhle, which I’m not sure is even healthy. Except it really doesn’t matter, because I’m in this deep political coma.
Well, there you go, you’ve eaten my Fig Newtons, drank my Kona coffee, and fucked off.
Well, fuck you, too.
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