Women, it must be said, are better workers than men. That is what I was thinking last night after it began to sink in that Sonja was not as happy as she seemed on the phone when I called her when I was waiting to be touched by a motherfucking celebrity. Sonja could have taken the afternoon off and joined me and Gene Simmons at the racetrack but, being conscientious, much more conscientious than me, she completed her full week of work before going home to only a dog and a bottle of wine to keep her company.
If I was a fat cat sawmill owner I would hire women to work in it. Fuck the men. Men are too individualistic, too likely to say, "Fuck it," and go to the racetrack or go for a long motorcycle ride to nowhere in particular, instead of working. Men should not have to work, which, lucky for us, is the direction the world is headed in. I was born just a little too soon to take advantage of this libertarian trend.
Freedom is just another word for not having a job to lose.
Women, it must be said, have more of a thing for celebrities than men. Sonja missed out on a celebrity encounter yesterday. She was grieving, just a little, about what seemed like a missed opportunity. Meeting Gene Simmons and his cute as farm kittens family was like missing an opportunity to meet Barack Obama to you commies reading this.
The trouble with meeting a celebrity, with going motherfucking Hollywood, however fleetingly, is the comedown the next day. Not that my life is that much different from Gene Simmons, give or a take a few million dollars and the thousands of women he has fucked.
Today it is back to working in the garden. I bet Gene Simmons' lawn is not as green as mine. Not even close.
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