So today is Manniyer's birthday.And we also had our weekly meeting scheduled for today. I guess the manniyer had a meeting or something yesterday and we had to "reschedule our Standing Tuesday" to this morning. Not that I'm complaining. Seriously I am not complaining about any meeting postponement.
You know me and meetings: Oil and water; Jews and Palestinians; Kanye West and Lady GaGa get along better. I cannot stand a goddamn meeting. I'd rather go to the DMV (or MVA or whatever it's called here).
But I had an idea. It came to me during the pre-dawn dread. I told the manniyer that I was taking him "out for breakfast for his birthday to show him how much I appreciate him" and that we could "just hold our meeting over breakfast."
I txt'd him at the crack of dawn so that he'd pass on breakfast with his family.
See? I'm a genius.
So when he arrived to my home I had a birthday card ready and even offered to drive. Usually I'd walk to the diner but I wanted the manniyer to be comfy. But he drove instead and we even stopped to pick up his dry cleaning. I guess he's seen me drive. Or something.
So we went to the diner. We complained that our wives wouldn't let us eat any the Breakfast Animal Food Groups anymore. We shared stories of days-gone-by and I distracted him with tangential riff after tangential riff. And we ate several of the Breakfast Animal Food Groups.
Anyway, it only cost me about $30 to not meet with the only guy on the planet who is actually trying to make me money. Irony piles upon irony in my kingdom. But, shit, I had a western omelette and bacon. Real motherfucking eggs. Seven-grain toast. It's a birthday celebration, no egg whites at a birthday celebration. It's not like we're going to go out for a night on the town all pissin' on bushes and slap-boxing like frat boys.
Lo and behold...not an "action item" was discussed. I kept sending us down tangential pathway after tangential pathway. Dude even went back to his car for his notes. Two words to derail any conversation: Tiger Woods. Can I have a witness?
Bullets dodged! I win! It's like I'm back in the USSR.* See? I'm a genius. A goddamn super motherfuckin' genius of the highest most self-superior kind. I am the King of Leisure.
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* Leisurely Disclosure Note: "USSR" is an inside joke between Rickey Powell and I. Sorry, suckkahz.
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