This is a story from the Tonster “Don’t You Know What the Night Can Do,” the Steve Winwood Michelob song of fame, was a cheezy piece of shit, but it reminds me of certain situations. For example, me pissing on my neighbor’s house about 5 yrs. ago after a night of partying. But there are other examples.

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when every day is the same, when it’s the weekend all week long when you don’t have a job, when – because I currently am underemployed – there are no good construction work stories to tell, when I might as well put this one on paper because I’ve been writing it in my head for the last 10 years – In other words, Gather ’round, my children, to hear the tale of the Worst Job Ever.

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when I bought the “Giant Book of Mensa Mind Challenges,” when I thought that would be a fun way to sharpen my slowly fading mental acuity, when “Quick-to-Solve BRAIN TEASERS” are anything but, when “Hard-to-Solve BRAIN TEASERS” ain’t kidding, when “Nearly Impossible BRAIN BAFFLERS” and “MIGHTY MIND BOGGLERS” ensure that I can only answer about 20 percent of the questions correctly – in other words, What was I thinking buying a book that makes me feel stupid? Oh, yeah.

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when Michelle lets me compute her taxes for her, when it’s so EZ to do the federal that it’s over in minutes, when the state makes it damn near impossible to figure out how the fuck to do it without a degree in reading tax-code gibberish so you end up just doing whatever the hell you feel like and hoping it’s right, when I really wonder what Michelle is thinking letting me do her taxes because I can’t even keep my checkbook straight (true story: a few months ago I was convinced the bank was screwing me out of money because my checkbook was almost $100 off – until Michelle went through it and found all the places I’d screwed up), when my checkbook is once again out of whack – in other words, Michelle, how would you like to be audited?

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when I’ve gotten over the shock of its sudden and unexpected end, when I’ve moved passed the no-No-NO of denial, when I’ve worked through the heart-stabbing pain and fist-clenching anger, when I’ve finally picked myself up, brushed myself off and, as hard as it has been, gotten on with my life because I know that’s what you’re supposed to do during a time of gut-wrenching crisis – in other words, I can finally accept that Brad and Jennifer are through.

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when Michelle is gone again, back to the Midwest for family and school, when doing the bachelor thing means I drank an ungodly amount of beer during the three-day New Year’s weekend, when I discovered conclusively that Busch Light is no way near as potent as Rainier Ice (5.6 percent alcohol by volume. Yes!), when I learned the hard way that trying to balance on my knees on the exercise ball Michelle got me for Christmas after drinking Rainier Ice is NOT a good idea – in other words, Do you think this needs stitches?

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when conspicuous consumerism is in overdrive, when maxing out credit cards is the national pastime, when running up that revolving debt is how you say I love you, when the jewelry companies push push push their crap almost as intensely as they do around Valentine’s Day, when just entering a mall to go shopping makes my head ache like I’ve got a big, throbbing tumor (it's not a tuma) – in other words, Where the hell’s the bar?

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when the colder temperatures outside cause my nose to run, when said running means that I blow and wipe my nose a lot (especially when that one little drop travels down to the tip of your nostril, just bugging the shit out of you there, maddening because you can’t snuffle it back up and it won’t just drop off by itself), when said wiping means that my nose gets red and sore, when little traces of dried snot get caught in my mustache so that I’m constantly scratching at it to get that crap out of there – in other words, Honey, does Land O’ Lakes have a plant in San Diego?

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the millennium when Mount St. Helens begins to rumble again, when geologists and vulcanologists and seismologist – and, hell, maybe even proctologists, for all I know – swarm the mountain like New York lawyers on a fender-bender, when I’m waiting for some company to sponsor reports on the possible eruption (“This Mount St. Helens update is brought to you by Valium. When you’re ready to blow your top, relax, take a Valium. It’ll calm you right the fuck on down.”), when little earthquakes in the crater are going off by the thousands, when Helen spouts off every so often so that we can see the gas and ash and whatever the hell it is leaking from the crater, when the scientists poking around on the mountain have absolutely no idea what will happen next – in other words, Are we stocked up on provisions, Ma?

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when I should have kept my big mouth (or e-mail) shut, when as soon as I write something about the Chiefs, they choke it off against the hated Broncos, when as soon as I mention anything about the Tigers, they lose to Troy (not State) University, when as soon as I mention when the World Series starts, the Cardinals loose three straight series, when I’m as bad as a stupid TV sports announcer acting like every time they mention something and then the opposite happens they think they’ve jinxed someone and MADE it happen – in other words, it’s time to shut up now.