Mopping with intent to ROCK

I mop first, then enjoy a PBR and smoke while it dries, then on to the laundry.

With Red Fang playing tomorrow, there is a certain miasma of guilt that hovers about my person as my head expands and deflates with plans and schemes to leave the house as early as possible to excitedly (to the point of nervous fidgeting) prepare myself to venture out in public to see this show.  This guilt often results in me doing a few of the more noticeable chores that I have been avoiding all week.  

I am pretty good at keeping up with the laundry for some reason, not perfect by any means, but competent enough.  The rest is a crap-shoot at best.  The key chores I target before going out and leaving my family to fend for themselves, helpless, big daddy bacon strutting from the nest out into the village to stir up the shit with this week's paycheck, a fuzzy beer-buzz and my newsboy cap pulled smartly over one eye, ARE  1) sweeping and mopping ( I use a lot of whatever floor stuff is in the cupboard, so the "clean" smell lasts until morning)  2) the aforementioned laundry (at least 2 loads washed dried AND folded (most important step))  3) scrub the toilet (yellow may mellow, but orange doesn't rhyme with anything, and has got to get flushed)  4)  a load of dishes (these wait until morning for maximum attention as I do the dinner and breakfast loads together)  finally 5)  clear off and bleach the kitchen counter  (this is like a bow tie, ascot and scarf worn together to prom  i.e:  FUCKING BRILLIANT). 

 I just got a chill, good style, like an 80's song you get to hear in the car all by yourself and you belt it out the whole way home from work, all green lights, window down and you pull in and there is a new magazine in the mailbox and the kids are taking a nap, kiss your wife real good and sit in the back yard, good crossword puzzle, the sun peeks out from a cloud and you squint and your face turns hot and you die just a little bit and float up over your body and figure out the last answer to the crossword, but before you go back you float inside the house and get yourself 2 cold beers and drink one on the way back and don't tell yourself, now back in the body and you open your eyes a little, small tear streaks down, and you say:  GODDAMN RIGHT IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY.  Finish that "first" beer and get the chores done because you are going out tonight to a rock and roll show. 

Call your wife early in the evening because she doesn't give a shit what slices are left at Pie Hole at 2:50am.  See you at the show.