This is it.
One good day of life left in this world.
Here I am, consigning myself to the dustbin of Logan's Run , ten years after the due date.
Never again to know the thirty-something dawn of a new day. Never again to know what it is to eat like a thirty-something, to shower like a thirty-something, to have sex or sleep or take a crap like a thirty-something.
And how did I spend my next-to-last evening? Did I party like it was 1999? Was I out and about on the town, drinking and raising a ruckus with the Bush twins? Did I pick up a few boy toys and show them who their daddy really really is?
No, no...didn't do any of that, really. Instead, I had a nice dinner with the kids and my child-bride around me, and after that, we went to the movies. And what did we see, I hear you ask?
We interrupt Ted's latest round of overdramatic whining about his impending 40th birthday to bring you an unasked-for review of "Yours, Mine, and Ours." Good god, this was the last movie that Ted will ever see before he enters the toilet zone? It was hard to hear much of it over Corb's groans of utter disgust. In fact, the acting was so bad that Drake Bell almost looked like Lawrence Olivier in comparison to some of the others...oh, and by the way, there's the one good thing about having to write for 18 kids in a movie...it means less lines and on air time for Drake Bell! And really, as Corb pointed out, even if this all was "based on a true story," aren't you suspending disbelief by imagining that anyone would be able to stomach having sex with Dennis Quaid enough times to pump out eight kids in the first place?? We give this one two thumbs wayyy down!
Ahem. Anyway...hopefully tonight will be a bit more fun. I haven't had any calls from Josie, asking me to come over because of a backed up toilet or anything...not yet, at least...instead, Corb is taking me out to a nice restaurant...and then...before I lay me down to sleep...to wake up another day closer to experiencing the stale breath of the Grim Reaper on my face (does the Grim Reaper dress in anything other than that ugly black torn robe, at least, maybe for gay men?)... but before that, perhaps I'll find it in me to muster up one last night of passion and rub rub juice...one last evening of martinis and rumpled bedsheets...before...before...sob, I just can't bring myself to say it...
Here are the last photos taken of Ted, as he awaits the dreadful dawn of another decade of existance...
*photos courtesy of Das Corbster(TM)*