I was going to write another post about Siri.  You know why?  Because I can’t remember anything any more.  Sometimes I try to rationalize my diminishing mental capacity.  It is because life is so hectic or because I just know so many things.  Of course, this is all to keep from facing reality.  I’m on the downhill slide and the sled is picking up speed.  Anyway, did you ever wonder where Siri is?  And is there a real woman behind that haunting, mechanical voice.

I feel better now.  Happiness is gained by living in an alternate reality.  Why do you think religion does so well?  It certainly isn’t the excitement value.  Have you ever been to a church service where the pastor goes overlong on his sermon?  No one likes that.  They aren’t there to listen to some clown talk.  They just want to make sure that god knows they care.  And to be able to look down their noses at the neighbor who is too lazy to get out of bed on Sunday morning.  I heard he is a drinker.

Speaking of nostalgia, do you remember when there were dedicated drinkers?  If you went to the bar now or six months from now, they would be sitting in there spot, pounding taps of some shitty beer because it was cheap.  Those guys really knew how to live in an alternative reality.  They always had four or five songs that they played on the jukebox.  And it was an eclectic mix; Johnny Cash, Kid Rock, the Doors.  If they were really drunk, they would sing along, pounding out the beat on the bar.  Then the bartender would tell them to calm down and threaten to kick them out.  Sometimes they would stop their pounding.  Sometimes they would get tossed.  Que Sera Sera.  Doris Day sang that song.  I’ll bet there have been a few drunks who have played it on the jukebox.  It kind of lends itself to slurred accompaniment.

Those guys always had short, ordinary names.  Ralph or Toby or Buck.  Their real name may have been Ezekiel, but Skip was a hell of a lot easier to remember after sixteen Grain Belts.  Ah, memories.  What ever became of you Toby?  Have you gone to that great barstool in the sky?  And does Jesus let you play the 500 miles song?  “I’m gonna’ be the man who walks right back to youuuuuuu,” you sing after a few, your arm draped over Jesus’ shoulder in a show of camaraderie.  I don’t know if Jesus is a drinking man, but he made you that way.  So, who knows?  He at least takes a shot of wine now and then.  Maybe he will throw down a few Grain Belts on his birthday.  Wooooooo!!  2016 years old, bitches!  Pow.  Pow.  Pow.  Still going strong.  Does somebody have a dollar?  I want to tee up a little Cash.

Oh, yeah.  That’s right.  Cash is right over there.  Hey, Cash, let’s here a little music.  “I shot a man in Re-nooooo, just to watch him dieeee.  When I hear that whistle blowin’, I lay my head down and cryyyyyyy!!!!”

Tob-eeeeeeee!  Glad you died, man.  It was getting boring as hell up here.  Not that hell is boring, mind you.  I was there once, you know.  Truth is, I would have stayed longer, but Dad wouldn’t have it.  Said it looked bad.  Anyway, glad to see you.  You’re damn right we have the 500 miles song.

If you want, I could just kill those guys.  Save the dollar, get a live performance.  I think they’re Irish or something.  You know those guys like to drink.