Yesterday, I was going to post about the funniest thing to hit a television since the baseball thrown by a young Barney Stinson (Neil Patrick Harris). How I met your mother. Didn’t watch it? What the hell? Best episode. I’m going to go on without you. But I got sidetracked. By sidetracked I mean ran over by a High Life truck courtesy the Shouthouse 80s night. Holy balls–I was wrecked.
According to the general terms I’ve laid out in Drain’s Guide to Drinking Irresponsibly, It’s volume three in the ‘How to Hate Yourself by Thirty’ handbook series I was thrashed. I woke up after six snoozes. This gave me plenty of time to get a shoe on, but not enough to actually dress, brush my teeth, and get to the rail. I rushed through everything somehow found time to make a sandwich and was only about ten minutes late for my usual train.
Things took a turn for the worse about three stations in I get off at the 8th; you don’t need to know that, but you’re welcome anyway. The hangover hit all at once after I was done rushing. I went pale, started to feel light-headed, and my stomach was half through a triple Salchow before I even knew what was going on. I held it together and hopped off at the crack stacks afraid I’d catch some commuter in the shoe with last night’s dinner read: apps from Kieran’s at 4.30p.
Maybe it was the cool air, being off the train, or standing in a region where mine wasn’t the native language, but for whatever reason I felt instantly better. I sat a few moments, caught the next train, and was at work for 8 hours of painful, painful work. I got home with enough energy to throw a few dart and watch television. Flight of the Concords is hilarious in it’s absurdity, The Office is probably my favorite network television show of all time, and then there’s the show I was going to mention yesterday before being knocked in the face by a beer saturated sledge.
Always Sunny in Philadelphia is comedic diamonds. It’s into its third season. I didn’t know what F.X. was until this puppy was birthed out of the womb of pure joy. It’s sarcastic, simple, and fucking great. Admittedly, I’m drawn to everything irreverent, absurd, and asshole House is my favorite show after all; Hugh Laurie as House M.D. is a demigod, so you may not feel the same, but I could give two shits.
Just the list of episode titles should be enough: the gang finds a dumpster baby, the gang gets invincible, dennis and dee’s mom is dead, the gang gets held hostage, and last night the aluminum monster vs. fatty mcgoo, and the gang solves the north korean sitaution. That’s not enough? How about October 11th’s episode? Dee is dating a retarded person. Still no? You have no business here. Pack your things and go.
For you shoppers out there, both season one and two are in one box set. That’s just one small package to buy in order to win back, prove, or earn my love. Yes, I admit the price of my love isn’t what it used to be, but it’s coming up on winter and $40 american (still almost $40 canadian) is a decent chunk for emotional devotion as far as I’m concerned.