A Painfully Long Rant to Rid Myself of whatever

Well, a nice little rush of nerves, or blood pressure has seemed to putter out already and I feel like I have nothing left to say. WHich may be true, and lucky you if it is, because all I really feel like doing is pissing all over this lovely October weather we're having in middle of May. And I mean that. I'll take whatever cold gusts of wind I can get before the air gets thick with mosquitoes and the smell of sweat from every vacationing ninny in the tri-state area.
Oh the boardwalk just ain't what it used to be, I used to like the warning signs of summer but now kicking around the seaside just seems like some sad old re-run, the soundtrack to a nightmare I keep thinking I'm going to have where I run into my seven year old self and have to force a smile through some "don't worry everything will be fine" kind of speech.
And fuck him for asking.
But no, summer doesn't hold any kind of mystery anymore, it just means it's going to get hot and the girls will be drunker and the police will be cracking down on any reports of fun breaking out. A good time to stay indoors and crank the air conditioning until the power goes out and catch up on some kind of self improving endeavor. See you in the fall.
But of course it never works out like that aye? No no no, there's always one last shot up north or trip to some club where they eye you up a little more each time: "You sure you want to come in here?"
"Well, no friend I'm not, but this is where the few people who still go out on school nights seem to be so I may as well wander through it so I can get drunk and aggravated and bitch about how much I hate places like this. Here's my $10."
Long gone are the days of Craig Porr busting my door down with bootlegged movies, pizzas, and fresh supplies of cheap beer and probably for the best, I'd probably call the police on the poor bastard if he tried that shit today.
And then there is that old California Dreamin that gets in my spine every once in a while. Those commericals where Arnold beckons you to come out and party with the movie stars. And that all sounds great, and really Arnold I do want to stop by out there but I just don't think, financially we'd be running in the same circles. No I'd probably be in the roach infested two-room that smelled like stale, leaking water, while I hid under thin sheets at night praying not be home-invaded.
We're only a few weeks away from stories of crime being on the rise, since the economy is shit. That tends to go hand in hand and I can't imagine it not becoming a story sooner or later. I'll have to start arming the house from predators, these motion detector lights won't scare them off for long. No. We're going to need some serious security measures, even here in safe old Brick Township. Don't let the coast line fool you folks, five miles inland Central Jersey might as well be North Virginia. Shooting ranges are everywhere, Gun clubs, and the recent alarming trend of bumper stickers that say "Bricktucky" I've been spotting on pick ups. Whatever the fuck that means. That's not even clever.
The box is closing in. It might be time to set the Pontiac on fire and drive west with Benny and Jets crackling through the stereo on a loop and see how far I can get before the whole thing shoots into a fireball. Pretty soon I'll be surrounded by gun nuts, home invaders and vacationing yuppies sucking up the thick summer air and taking all the parking spots while they blast their dumb sub-woofers, and I sink further into the fist-shaking, get-off-my-lawn curmudgeon I knew I'd always be.