Nervous, Nervous Roy

I am an angry man, which is one of the reasons I have resumed therapy and take four different pharmaceuticals. I wake up angry, stay angry during the day except to my dog and children, and go to bed angry at night. Most of my anger amounted to a running dialogue of abuse and self-abuse while working alone at home. But with Twitter, I now had an outlet. I used profanity, because that’s the way I talk, the perfect sentence being one in which the f-bomb appears as adverb, verb, adjective, and noun, as in, “You kind sir, go fuckly fuck yourself, you fuck of a fuckhead.” I also began to routinely apply the term “douche juice” to those I felt were sub-troglodytes. It has become my tweeting imprimatur and many Twitterites congratulated me on coining the phrase. I did not. But fuck it…I now routinely go on Twitter jags. I have indeed become a mini-blogger, somewhat ironic for someone who made an absolute idiot of himself on HBO’s “Costas Now” in 2008 by condemning sports blogs with all the grace of an elephant relieving himself.