And while were on the subject of me getting my ass handed to me...

Internal combustion engines suck. I've been trying to start my boat for two weeks. (No spark, leading me to the conclusion that the thrill is gone between us. Unfortunately I can't recall how BB King resolved this situation in his song.) Which might be part of the problem. Real mechanics prolly consult an engine manual or some stupid thing like that. Me? I consult the Blues.

I've consulted the Blues for many of life's little problems, and have found the the Blues are a particularly worthless reference when it comes to love advice. Ask the Blues a reasonable question like "Bad bitch done me wrong, what I do now?" And you get back suggestions like "Shoot her dead." and "Jump a northbound train."

I mean like what the fuck? Don't blues artists have real jobs!?! Shoot her dead? Really? Like that's what passes for conflict resolution in the delta? And jump a train north? Hello? I have to be at work in the morning.

We need a whole new form of the blues for whiney suburban dads like me.