Tangents & The Times

PEOPLE KEEP BUYING ME BEATLES SHIT.
SERIOUSLY.
NO FAIL.
EVERY FUCKING BIRTHDAY AND CHRISTMAS:
BEATLES BEATLES BEATLES.

I mean, once upon a time it made sense because I used to be sickly obsessed,
like beyond the normal obsession one should have with the Beatles, from the age of nine to twenty when I finally took acid and John Lennon personally told me I was a dick.
Don’t get me wrong, I still love the Beatles
but it’s not an all consuming religion
as it once was when I obviously didn’t have anything better to do.
So, for the past thirteen years, I’ve gotten TONS of Beatles stuff.
And it’s never like their records or actual music.
Like, I don’t have any of the imports.
That’d be an awesome gift!
BUT I DO NOT NEED AN EIGHTH BEATLES COFFEE TABLE BOOK!
I DON’T EVEN HAVE A COFFEE TABLE TO PUT THESE SHITS ON!
I HAVE READ BOOKS ON THE BEATLES SINCE I WAS IN FOURTH GRADE!
THE LAST THING I NEED IS ANOTHER ROADIE’S RETELLING OF THEIR TOUR IN HAMBURG!
IT WAS AWESOME I GET IT!
AND MY WALLS…
I DON’T HAVE ANY MORE WALLS TO PUT ALL THE POSTERS I GET ON!

And it’s not really “people”.
It’s mostly my dad’s girlfriends.

It’s like, I get it, you’re dating my dad and you’re in line at Costco Christmas shopping and in the bargain bin you see this great big book full of pictures of the Beatles and you’re like “omg I remember Dave telling me Marissa liked the Beatles!” Apparently, that’s the only thing my father seems to tell anyone about me. So, you get it for me and everything is all nice and well but the truth is, his last girlfriend already got it for me and even if she hadn’t, I’ve seen every picture of the Beatles to be seen at this point. I still don’t like you. You talk about my father & the “last eleven years” like my parents weren’t married for nine of them. There isn’t a Beatles book big enough to wipe your slate clean of the herpes you’ve spread all over my family’s good name. The only thing that could ever even make me pretend to think more of you is maybe an original pressing of Revolver but considering your shopping is limited to Steinmart and you obviously can’t use the internet since you haven’t figured out I have this blog, you probably don’t have the intellectual resources to find anything I would find impressive.

Now, I’m not saying I won’t not hate you,
but here are some gift ideas for next time
(in case you suddenly get savvy to my career in the blogosphere)
that will make me less likely to publicly humiliate you:
- A new Macbook
- Twelve cases of Charles Shaw
- A year’s supply of illegal Adderall from the UK
- Or Viccodin, that’s cool too
- A boob job and bidding/winning a charity auction date with Glenn Howerton
- A friend for Zissou, Jeff
- Landscaping my hill
- A hammock

Alright, so if my dad hasn’t dumped you in three months when my birthday tends to roll around, you have eight bona-fide ideas for presents that would reeeeally inspire me to act like I’m actually having a good time with you guys at Benihana’s.
Just trying to help.