Blaaaaathalathalatha

Y'know those days when something really good happens to you and you feel all relieved and shit, and you just want to pull out a megaphone and announce to the world that you really DO have a brain and people DO listen to you and dammit, next time don't be so fucking pigheaded that you don't listen to reason the FIRST time and make me dump a cauldron of shitkicks down on ya?

Know those days?

You finally crawl your way outta some dank deserted well, probably leaving bits of your fingernails embedded in the wall ("It puts the lotion in the basket"...damn Buffalo Bill), and you finally gasp fresh air at the top, and then find the gun the bad guy dropped when he was picking up the sack of loot, and you shoot him in the left butt cheek, then the right, then you leave him sobbing just a bit before you come after him with the machete you remembered was above the fireplace?

Well, not quite like THAT, I'm really not that vindictive. Not really.

Pissed off, you seek out those in misery like you, and you band together and sneak furtive meetings in dark corners, whispering, plotting, scheming, planting a mole in the garden of their stinking flowery excuses. When the time is right, you pounce on 'em with teeth bared, menacing, so they know you mean business, then you let them come to their own conclusion to get the hell outta there.

Dammit, animal reference.

We won a battle last night. The collective 'we', as in 'It takes a village to raise a child', and the village is spared for another year.

But what pisses me off is this:

THERE'S NO PARTY!!!!

Seriously! When something great, terrific, awesome, fucking brilliant happens, I want to PARTY! I want to get totally fall-down black-out drunk, and crank up Nine Inch Nails and Daft Punk and old Soul Coughing and older Al Green! I want to shout over the other shouting, I want to smoke and cough and bash shoulders with my fellow fighters, and hug 'em all in that 'just-won-the-Super-Bowl' way and scream into the invariable camera, "I Love You, Mom!"

Instead, we nod. We smile. We exchange polite chitchat. We discuss afterwards, and look forward to smoothing out the wrinkles of our plan. And that's all fine, ya know, it's nice and grownup and businesslike.

But wha-the-fuck, we need a kegger and some bad-ass music! Show us yer tits!!! Shake dat ass!!! Fight the power, baby!!!