I left early and got gas at some old, run down, ugly looking Sinclair gas station this morning. The place I stopped at was somewhere between my town and my work. Middle of nowhere place. Shady looking. REALLY shady looking.
The guy working behind the counter: middle aged, balding, getting fatter and fatter, probably single or divorced, kids he probably never talks to, a face like he only owns a dull half of an old disposable razor - seriously looking like he had a Torgo in "Manos: The Hands of Fate" type of face, the type of weathered face that makes you instantly know that he smokes a LOT. He looked like the human equivalent of an old, beaten stray dog.
And the guy reeked of beer.
Let me rephrase that: the guy reeked of CHEAP beer. Mickey's, specifically. Ever had Mickey's? Green bottle, cheap, sold in a 40 ounce bottle for next to nothing. Cheap and dull tasting but effective. That is exactly what the guy smelled of, reeked of. Mickey's. It was horrible.
That, to me, is the essence of New Years. That hideous drunken guy is baby new year in my head.
I hate New Year's Eve.
See, there's an episode of 30 Rock where Liz Lemon explains how every St. Patrick's Day she hides out in her apartment all day to avoid the angry, drunken partygoers who populate the streets on that holiday. She calls it "Hurricane St. Patrick" or something to that effect.
And she is absolutely right.
That's why I do nothing on Hurricane New Year. I stay at home, put on some ratty ass pajamas, watch bad movies with my kids, and actively avoid the roads that are filled with sad, drunk, DUI-awaiting bastards.
Screw Hurricane New Year.
Just another day for me.