Monetize this!

My Fellow Inebriates,

One of the best things about being a bear is that I don’t have to get a job. There’s probably nothing more stressful in the modern world than figuring out how to fit into the workforce. If you don’t find a niche, you flagellate yourself for being broke and unproductive, even if your kick-ass Bejeweled scores buoy your self-esteem somewhat. If somebody does hire you, you go into ass-kissing mode, trying to keep that precious money drip going, even as you turn into a robot.

So I really enjoy being an unemployable bear.

But it’s not perfect. My parents don’t purchase nearly enough alcohol, which suggests the need for an income uptick.

Monetize that!

I mentioned this to my mum, who shooed me away because the gems were mega-exploding and she needed to concentrate. Telling her we have a vodka emergency is like pissing in the wind. And my dad doesn’t even believe such a crisis is real.

When I pestered my mum (her word), she suggested I stop using my site to pine for alcohol and make some effort to monetize it. Seriously!

This sounded a bit too close to “work” for my tastes, but she pointed to the string of emails about “growing your blog” (which, hypocritically, she had subscribed to despite huge reservations about the misuse of the intransitive word “grow”). She said perhaps I should check out my stats a bit and take some interest in that stuff.

"There are lies, damned lies and statistics." - Mark Twain

I said I do look at my stats—that’s how I know someone googled “shit bear gay” and found me this morning. I said I planned to address that very subject, but I needed to clear my head with some shooters first. Then I needed to look at the People of Walmart. Then it would be naptime.

I need cachaca.

But she barred me from the computer. She was busy reading Tentblogger, Copyblogger and Problogger, not to mention some Canada Customs information that might explain why my Cachaca hasn’t arrived via UPS yet.

Sigh. Do you guys pay attention to this monetizing stuff?

The secret cure for New Year’s doldrums—Cachaca!

A zillion microbes for your child to play with

My typist abandoned me today to take the kids to an indoor play area, a filthy, sweltering sauna (she complained) that could prompt any sound atheist to conceive of purgatory as being fully possible.

The smell at the play area? Deep-fried things, not necessarily food.

The patrons? The sub-70-IQ ass-crack parade, a truck ride away from Walmart. Big hair, small vocabulary.

Their progeny? The apparent hope of our planet.

If my mum sounds like a miserable snob and potential eugenics proponent, consider that she, with her crap finances, losing snakes-and-ladders game of a career, thrashingly desperate parenting, inability to vacuum, and impending 43rd birthday, is experiencing a post-New Year’s letdown.

I can relate. Our house is officially dry—if you ignore the Malibu dregs and worm-inhabited mescale my parents insist could poison us. A blue bin of empties (which my mum forgot to put out for the collection truck) attests to the fact that we are…bereft of alcohol.

No wonder my mum is being such a drag. If she’s a fraction of the alcoholic I am, she must be suffering. My dad too—he’s watched, like, a hundred episodes of Monk.

I tried to cheer them up by reminding them about the Brazilian rum sample headed our way.

Me: Make sure you’re home for the Cachaca delivery.

To make a copacabana cosmo, you need Cachaca.

Mum: The what?

Me: C-A-C-H-A-C-A. Tropical rum. UPS. You’re welcome.

Mum: Excuse me?

Me: So you have to be home for that. And the painting. We need a frame for that too.

Mum: Why don’t you answer the door?

Me: I’m a bear. Bears are scary. The UPS driver will freak.

UPS tracking says it's in St. Paul, MN. It's getting closer. Thank you, Dan Lacey!

Mum: I’m out tomorrow, sorry, buddy.

Me: NO! You have to be home! I need that Cachaca!

Mum: You’ll live. They’ll put a sticker on the door and we’ll get it later.

Me: Noooooooo!!!!!

Mum: I doubt it’s coming anyway. Seriously, who would send you alcohol?

OMG, my parents are so harsh.