Wisdom Is Not Universally Applicable

As you well know, in "Major League" Jake Taylor accidentally ends up in the wrong apartment, after sneakily following his ex-girlfriend home.

He thought it was hers but it turns out to be her fiance's apartment. Jake and the fiance don't get along. As you remember Jake is a marginal professional baseball player. And the fiance is a pretentious prick.

So the rich fiance draws Jake into conversation in an attempt to humiliate him. He asks "Well, Jake, what are you gonna do when your career's over? I mean you can't play baseball forever, can you?"

Jake says "Something will come up".

SOMETHING WILL COME UP! I always loved that line. So understated, so casual. That is exactly the attitude I need to have if I am going to survive much longer.

Never fucking happen.

Here's the way I work.

On the days that I work I come home feeling deep, deep, pain, shame, fear and anxiety. Even worse, on my days off I spend the entire day feeling deep, deep, pain, shame, fear and anxiety.

The obvious solution is to drink 25.3605424 ounces of Dr. Crown's Magic Elixir to comfort me. Any sane person would do this. This almost kills the pain. Comes pretty close. The shame, fear and anxiety are in a class by themselves and are relentless and invincible.

I sit in my recliner and furiously try to focus. Try to come up with conclusions. Lay out a plan. Kind of like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. Except he comes up with : "the sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side."

I come up with nothing.

So I go to bed. I fall into a deep sleep from 11:13  to 11:19. A deep sleep consumed by one long running nightmare. Hideous dreams.

Our house undergoes foreclosure and we are forced to live in the Peacemobile. I make the case for living in my car because it is roomier but Carol says "Fuck the Hyundai, my Bug has more class."

The cats agree with Carol.

Our clothes are ragged and torn, we live on cat food and we smell like putrid flesh.

I wake up screaming at the top of my lungs until my vocal cords give out. Carol, downstairs, says "Finally. Thank God. I'm trying to watch the Red Sox here."

I start pacing around the bedroom. What the fuck are we gonna do? What the fuck are we gonna do? We are 65 years old. I have flirted with serious disease. Carol has been assaulted by serious disease. We are only going to get older and sicker.

We got no fucking money. No fucking retirement. We need money and lots of it. As John Lennon said "There are no solutions. Only problems."

Fucking part time jobs ain't gonna cut it, baby. Deus ex machina. That is what we need but it ain't never gonna happen. Only happens in plays and novels. Jesus fucking Christ.

Our future is bleak. I start to pound my head against the wall. How could you be so stupid? How did you not plan ahead? Blood pours off my forehead and drips down the wall. There is a massive red black stain on the rug from previous night's reflections.

You are too smart to have put yourself in this situation. Really? Obviously not. Apparently you have the intelligence of a fucking fruit fly.

Overwhelmed by whiskey and blood loss I sink to the floor and collapse in a coma.

The alarm goes off the following morning and Carol says "Get the fuck up and go to work." To my $11/hour part time customer service nightmare.

"Something will come up" indeed.