I found a dead squirrel in Mom’s attic while trying to pull down 12 tons of Christmas decorations. It was dead, in a trap I had set a month ago.
And forgot about. Damn it.
That’s not what this story is about. Rather, it is about me crying in a Starbucks this morning.
As I sat there reading, writing, and scrolling the news, I saw an article about The Rock. He gave his own personal truck away to a fan at the screening of his recent movie Red Notice. I started to tear up right there in the store like a real pansy. Then an outrageously hot chick sat down across from me to wait for her coffee.
Did I talk to her? Absolutely not.
So, the Rock…
What struck me about The Rock’s Instagram story is twofold. First, he gave his own personal truck to a guy who is a Navy vet, takes care of his 75-year-old mother, is a leader at his church, helps abused women, and is a personal trainer. Clearly, the dude never sleeps and I am wasting my life.
Second, The Rock said he wanted to give the guy a Porsche from his movie Red Notice but Porsche said no.
No?
The Rock has 280 million followers on Instagram. He is the second most followed human being on earth next to the skinny soccer player from Europe.
Hell, he might be the most popular HUMAN BEING on Earth.
Porsche said no.
Great job, Porsche. Idiots.
280 million people just watched a heartbreaking story ending with a man driving away in a Ford truck.
I might give away my Ford Edge to a homeless man today and post the video on my Instagram. I might also lift weights, make movies, shave my head, start a tequila company, energy drink company, athletic wear company, earphones company, and make a rap song. Or I might not.
Back to Mom…
Right now I am sitting on the couch across from Mom taking a break from trying to organize her laundry room. It contains roughly 12,000 lightbulbs and a thousand flathead screwdrivers. There is more shit in her laundry room than every IKEA on earth. She saves plastic bags. All of them.
The National Dog Show is on and she is commenting on every breed. It could be the Percocet.
“You should get one of those,” she tells me as the announcer says the Greyhound rarely barks.
A few minutes ago Mom tried to put a 15-pound ham in the oven by herself. Let’s get past the fact that she is cooking the damn thing in the first place since we are headed to a friend’s house for food. Let’s focus on the fact that she is 80 years old and has fractured vertebrae with surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning.
I was patching drywall in the bathroom where she tried to glue the toilet paper holder back to the wall with hot glue when I heard her shriek.
She is fine now. It could be the Percocet.
I have to figure out a way to get rid of the squirrel without her knowing. If she finds out, she will cry for an hour. She saw a small bird on the side of the road a month ago and made me turn around and make sure it was ok. It was.
If you do anything today, watch The Rock’s Instagram story here or read about it here and let me know if you want a dead squirrel.
Happy Thanksgiving, folks! Now where is the wine…or Percocet.
Trey