The Therapeutic Effects of Weird Al's CNR

Review by Kloghole

Oh, that last shit-stained piece of toilet paper that disappears briefly after you flush before making its triumphant return, a mighty fuck you from the bottom of the bowl. There is no goddamn reason for that fucking thing to resurface other than to piss me off. That defiant, shit-encrusted scrap of paper sums up my life perfectly. There is no need, or logic, to a fucking piece of toilet paper that refuses to flush. Just another fucking minor irritation to add to the mountain of other ridiculous fucking nonsensical and statistically improbable cosmic (or karmic) harassments.

I have days where one minor fucking nonsense piles on another in a cascading torrent of inconceivable torment. It usually starts innocently enough. Something like a piece of dog treat that somehow bounces off the fucking counter and lands, of fucking course, peanut butter side down on the floor. I go to wipe it up, and I knock over some recycling. So, what the fuck, I open the door to throw out the recycling, and a goddamn boot is wedged behind the door, and the fucking door bounces back and hits me in the face. Fuck you, you goddamn fucking fucker, fuck, shit, fucker, fuck, as I throw the fucking recycling in the bin, but it grazes some goddamn thing precariously perched on a shelf, which obviously crashes to the ground. More fucking shit to clean up. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck as I now pick a fight with a wall, or a door jam, or a counter. Yey!, fucking blood to clean up now. Okay……. seventy-five fucking bandaids all too goddamn small to cover a gnat’s fucking ass. Fuck, shit, goddamn, son-of-a-bitch, shit, fuck, dammit, cock sucker, where are the goddamn human-sized bandaids? FUCK, as the miniature fucking bandaids shower the closet floor and take a bunch of other fucking shit with them. Fuck it, as I wrap my hand in tissue and fucking scotch tape. Kick the fucking closet door shut and fling myself on the bed, somehow pinching my fucking balls in some fucking ninjutsu clench in the crevice of my jeans on the way down. Beautiful fucking day.

What many of you may not be able to relate to is that this is pretty fucking typical for most of my days, especially those where I may actually have the time to relax. I get up and think, “hmmm, not too many things on my list that I should have finished weeks ago.” Try to make a cup of coffee, and it goes tits-up immediately. I think to myself, "It is just a fucking cup of goddamn coffee. It's not like I am trying break into the Vatican to fuck the pope up the ass with a fucking roto-rooter." Every goddamn day is a fucking battle with the forces of evil just to make a fucking smoothie, or put on my fucking pants in the morning. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is fucking simple. Go to brush my teeth, and, somehow, I end up with shit-laced water soaking the bathroom carpets. How the fuck did I get here in seven fucking minutes? What in THE fuck did I do in a past life to deserve this fucking bullshit on a morbidly regular basis?

This relentless fucking barrage of inane fucking bullshit has driven me fucking insane. I often think that I am like the poor bastard at the beginning of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, except without the pissing and shitting my pants in the middle of a darkened room. I am close, real fucking close on some days.

So, what drags me out of such dark depths you ask? It can only be that wizard of mirth, Weird Al Yankovic. Unfortunately for some who know me, at one point in my life, my brain was so badly battered that I fixated on a Weird Al video, forcing it upon anyone who happened to be in my vicinity. I even busted it out when I was jammed with three or four others in the back of a rental car in Portland.

I was also buoyed by this little gem. I was on a road trip and visiting a friend when she and her new partner asked me if I saw the "honey badger" video. I said no, and what followed was me nearly pissing my pants laughing for three minutes. I am not sure why it struck me, but it did.


Perhaps, it is because I can relate to sitting down to eat a bit of lunch, and being beset by a fucking swarm of bees. I do not take it as well as the honey badger, but I am getting to the point where I "don't give a shit!"

I hope you have enjoyed my pain. There is a nice bit of guilty pleasure in the humor of other people’s misery. When my Dad was recovering from a stroke in a group home, we were waylaid by another wheelchair bound resident. He, for some reason, relayed the account of how he came to this pitiable end. He was working on a water tower, and wrestling with a corroded pipe connection. Perched high above the ground, he threw his weight into the wrench, but it gave way, and he fell, landing on his back. As he lay there, he only had a brief moment to contemplate his mortality before a section of pipe that had broken loose crashed into his skull. In these moments, your own life of struggle and pain resonates with the man’s plight, but your brain also jumps into gallows’ humor mode to defend yourself against the tragedy of his, and your own, lives. We held back laughter until we got back to my Dad’s room, both of us stifling giggles through the obvious connection to Wile E. Coyote and his frequent plummets from a cliff only to be followed by his latest contraption. The man’s story was not funny generally, but in our moment of pain and struggle, we could not help ourselves. We were laughing as much at our own busted lives as we were at his comi-tragic story. Well, maybe more at him. Somehow it was a relief to find someone whose luck was shittier than ours, which is damn hard to do.

For its curative properties, Weird Al's CNR gets three sweet sticky balls, especially on a day brimming with turd nuggets.

Sweet Dreams Motherfuckers!