Crippled

Ah, Monday -- or as one Kennan Highly likes to call it, Sunday Part II. While much of the real world returned to work today, the erstwhile Kmart spent the day basking in the glory of a US Olympic hockey upset. I myself had very little to do in the way of "work"/work, but at least I wore pants for most of the afternoon.

Now here I am, a glass of pilsner within arm's reach, a Dunhill tucked between my lips, and everyone's favorite Shih Tzu by my side. It wasn't a long day, nor was it a hard one, but as it creeps to a close I find myself thankful that it's winding down. I also find myself reminiscing over

(Trouble T Roy)

the weekend that was. Via the Forbes Capacitor, let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we?

Saturday

- Folks, I'm getting fat. Blame Legs. Her goal, which she candidly expressed when we began living together in holy matrimony, is for me to weigh 75 kilograms. This I cannot abide. Sixty-nine kilograms when we first met, I've gained two kilograms -- 4.4 pounds for you metric-system-maverick Yanks -- over the past year. That might not sound like a lot, but trust me when I say that it's not my ideal weight. My belt is getting tighter in monthly increments, my already chubby cheeks are getting puffier, and, just between you and me, I'm a little concerned that I'm starting to sprout man-boobs. I love my wife like Jarobi loves phone sex, but even though I should be content in knowing she loves me and would like me to round out more, I have to feel comfortable in my own body (at least until the spacecraft following the Hale-Bopp Comet's sodium tail whisks me away), right? She's feeding me at an alarming rate, and my digestive system is putting up the same fight my conscience is. Furthermore, Legs has recently insisted that I take chlorella pills, which are supposed to keep me regular in the bowel-movement sense. They do. They also make me shit green three or four times a day. Anyway, after my morning class Legs presents me with a sandwich. Anyone who knows me, familiarly or carnally, knows that I grow weak over sandwiches like Jimmy McNulty does over Irish whiskey, but in mental and gastrointestinal protest I eat only half, complaining of a phantom stomachache.

- For the remainder of the new year, Saturday will thusly be referred to as High-Kick Day. If Chicken Wire fails to name it so, as his editor I will see it fit to invoke my editorial right and change his posts accordingly. Legs and I bum around the house for the better part of the day, taking in God's gift to Korean television.

- Marvel Team-Up has tickets for the 6:45 showing of Joe Johnston's The Wolfman. It's a werewolf movie, so as per my pact with Satan, I'm obligated to see it (I watch every werewolf movie released in theaters, Beelzebub makes sure I age imperceptibly). Before the film, 보니 and 클라이드 have dinner at a donkatsu restaurant. I lamented to a friend just last week how long it had been since I'd had a nice donkatsu meal, and now I'm eating it -- albeit of the fish variety -- for the second time in three days. Life is funny that way. Predictably, Legs admonishes me for not eating my rice. I'm taking driving tests, getting scolded for not eating my food...how old am I again?

- The Wolfman mini-review: If you're scoring at home, we still have only a paltry two-and-a-half great werewolf pictures in cinematic history. What a mess of tonal editing and pacing. Anthony Hopkins is fantastic until his evil twin is suddenly teleported into the film. In contrast, Benicio del Toro spends the entire running time looking glum and affecting a Brooklyn accent. As I mentioned to Cold-Sore Crayon (aka Chicken Wire), the transformations, of which there are four, are quite possibly my sole endorsement of the film. A remake of the 1941 Universal classic, you can't have a compelling werewolf movie without a central love story, and Johnston shits the bed incredibly here. Del Toro and Emily Blunt have about as much chemistry as I have with the exhumed corpse of Sylvia Plath. And don't get me started on the climactic, X-Menesque werewolf showdown, or the mindnumbingly poor, insanely inept pacing (either full moons occur within a matter of days -- not impossible, I'll concede -- or it takes a month to travel the English countryside). Or possibly (definitely?) the worst closing narration I've ever had the displeasure of listening to in my years as a moviegoer, something along the lines of They say it's not a sin to kill a beast, but what if that beast is also a man? 2/4 *_*

Sunday

Zut alors, I went to bed at the reasonably early hour of four a.m., and now it's ten-thirty. Legs is in the kitchen, frying an eggplant, and I'm in post-intoxication purgatory/Ilsan. After brunch, I want nothing more than to take a crap and nap, but the Winter Olympics draw me in like ants to honey, and I find myself plopped in the center of my favorite sofa, cheering on Canada's short track skaters male and female, absorbed in the spectacle of competition and praying to a deaf god that our team can topple the South Korean short-track juggernaut. Doesn't happen. At three p.m. I wrest myself from the sofa and sleep the only way losers can: uncomfortably.

- The man, the myth, Kennan Highly shows up at our place just after five o'clock. He bears gifts of ecstasy (Chili Cheese Fritos) and of sadism (salty black-licorice fish gummies). Also: Chinese cigarettes. I'm convinced China's pollution problem could be solved if only their government banned such toxic monstrosities. I feel the same way after smoking a Chinese square that I do after giving fellatio to a car's exhaust (although, admittedly, I rarely smoke Chinese cigarettes and so often perform automobile ass-to-mouth, so maybe that's a misinformed analogy).

- Psychedelic Kimchi's main contributors spend a night in Bundang doing what we do best. Food is eaten with relish (not the condiment); glasses -- not of the bifocal variety -- are drained then replenished; women swoon, and somebody loses an eye. Mr. Wire and Yours Untruthfully participate in trivia night at The Best Bar in Bundang/The Nativity Sequel, placing second because Sharkfin Boner failed to accurately guess which European city Nightcrawler was born in. (Lima is in Peru, dude.) He also took a spill of epic proportion, insuring that, heretofore, he will be known by me as "Crash." I nervously sing the sea-song from Jaws to no fanfare, Legs and her entourage of attractive women show up after it's confirmed that scores of nerdy half-men have evacuated the premises, and I proceed to murder at least ten bottles of Tsingtao.

Monday

- It's ten-thirty a.m. on a Monday morning, and we're all going to die.

It's fun to have fun.