Moving Sucks My Sweaty Balls

In 24 hours (presumably), we will be the fuck out of Norman and into our my wife’s gorgeous new home in the historic neighborhood of nunya dam bizniss. But until then, I will likely keel over from exhaustion and seven pints of black Jack.

There is nothing worse than moving. Well, except for a rose bush enema. Or maybe three hours of CSPAN. Or a few other things in the world …

Examples:

• Moving my ex-girlfriend
• Drunk OU daywalker
• Alfonso Soriano
• My heel callouses

Just to name a few.

We have a couple of movers coming over tomorrow and unless they are Denise Richards in a schoolgirl outfit circa 1997 and that stripper from Night Trips who ruined my Express jeans, I am guessing it won’t be a pleasant experience. No one wants some random parolee screwing with their shit, unless it’s Kitten, who blows dates felons almost exclusively.

The bright side — we’re becoming full-fledged yuppies in the very near future. But if for some reason something goes awry over the next 24 hours, and I am still stuck commuting from Norman to OKC next week, don’t expect to hear from me for about 25 to life. Because someone will die.