By Grabthar's Hammer, What A Savings.

February is dead. March has arrived, and with it, the tyranny of Daylight Saving Time. Not Daylight Savings Time. That's not a real thing. It's not double coupon day down at the clock store.

We're meant to be saving daylight with this arcane practice, but it's completely fucking pointless. Nobody is saving anything. Some brainless dickhead sitting behind an expensive desk just tells us that we are. It's just an hour later than it should be right now. That's not saving shit. These assholes have stolen an hour from us, and they're laughing at our misfortune.

How can they get away with this shit? They're holding a precious hour of our lives hostage, probably at one of their FEMA death camps, posting photos on the internet of the blindfolded hour holding today's edition of The New York Times.

Your pinhead co-worker is cracking stupid jokes about how it feels earlier than it should, his rancid breath assaulting your delicate sensory apparatus as he callously laughs like a soulless clown at the saddest circus you could possibly imagine. All you want to do is wrap your shaking hands around his fat throat and strangle the prick until he's laughing at Ol' Scratch in the ninth circle, but you don't want to go to jail. The juice is not worth the squeeze, my friend.

So you bite your tongue and carry that rage with you until you can go home and scream into your tear-soaked pillow until your voice sounds like a ragged breeze passing through a windchime composed of jagged glass and asphalt. You stare at the .38 caliber pistol that rests on your nightstand like a deadly spider, and you shudder. Is tonight the night? No. That can wait until you hit rock bottom, which should be around Christmas.

You'll wait until the whole family is gathered around the dining room table, gnawing on dry turkey and pretending it's delicious as to not offend the lady of the house, who is dreaming of a better life with a bottle of Wild Turkey and a new husband with a superior wang. All you have to do is excuse yourself for a brief moment, creep into the bedroom and shove that barrel into your trembling mouth...

By the way, we have a new Pope. Rejoice!

But it gets better, right? Isn't that what everybody is saying these days? It gets better. This is all over the place. People are being bullied left and right, offing themselves because they just can't take it anymore, and a cadre of big-hearted celebrities have banded together to share this simple message with the downtrodden: IT GETS BETTER.

I'm not a complete sociopath, believe it or not. My heart goes out to those who are terrorized by the limp-dick bullies of the world. I was in their shoes all throughout my school years. Being bullied sucks. And I struggle to think of something better to say to those who are at their wit's end besides "it gets better". But it's nothing more than a platitude. You can tell people it gets better until you're blue in the face, but that doesn't necessarily make it so. The sad fact is that for some people, it just won't get any better, and this ubiquitous phrase means essentially nothing. Some people catch all the breaks, and most of us have to end up settling for much less than we want out of this life.

This brings me to the latest installment of Lies My Podcast Told Me. Entitled It Doesn't Get Better, this super-sized episode tackles the "it gets better" movement in a steady and sober-minded fashion. Also discussed: sentient sex toys, detachable horse parts, Short Circuit, tow trucks, and a callback to the glory days of BRONSON-MANIA!!!

Listen to it. It might just change your perspective on a great many things. But probably it won't:

Chapter 24: It Doesn't Get Better



The sun is setting, and I can see that it's time for us to part ways once again, Dear Imaginary Reader.

Before I go, I must address an email I received regarding my previous post, which complained about the surprise nudity at the conclusion of the text. Much like an earlier controversy which cost me an irate reader, this person is upset because he visits my blog during work hours and is concerned the sight of naked breasts on a computer screen could get him fired.

I apologize for this lapse, and promise that it will never happen again.

TIME MARCHES ON!

This nude photo of Shannon Tweed is a figment of your imagination.