PICKING UP WHERE MARTHA STEWART LEFT OFF

Well, I was a regular Joe Domestic yesterday.

With the temperatures hovering around the mid-70s, I decided it was time for a little spring cleaning.

I cleaned the entire house from top to bottom ... rearranged furniture ... did laundry and dishes ... even cleaned the oven which is something I've always deferred to the lady of the house.

...And today I'm as sore as a 15 year-old's dick after stumbling across a Penthouse magazine from 1981 in a dusty box in the corner of the garage.

Yes, I speak from experience.

Sadly, the clean house couldn't last forever since the wife and son eventually had to come home and ruin everything.

Y'see ... I was raised by a fanatically obsessive mother who demanded that her house stayed clean every minute of the day in case people were to just stop by.

Then, in the event that someone did stop by, Mom would always greet them by saying "Please excuse the house, it's a mess."

Even though the house was spotless.

This was said to create the illusion that our family normally lived in a germ-free biosphere and the speck of dust that you may eventually notice on the fireplace mantle is a symbolic shock to our collective system.

Therefore, her compulsive desire to maintain a clean home was passed down to myself and my two sisters.

Susie, on the other hand, was raised by a group of wolf-like creatures who were more concerned with how much dirt they could actually bring inside the home and into their bed sheets than actually working to keep the house clean.

This flaw in our wedded union is best exemplified by our polarized stance on shoes inside the home.

I take off my shoes in the garage before I enter the house.

Susie takes her shoes off when she gets in the shower and then promptly puts them back on when she gets out and that's the only time she is sans foot apparel.

So in my twisted world of reality, I believe that every speck of dirt that enters this home is brought in by my wife and child.

Andrew is exactly in the middle of the two of us. He wears his shoes inside the house when he gets home for about a minute. Then he takes off his shoes and socks and spends the rest of the evening barefoot.

And while all of this may not mean a hill of beans to you and yours, you just spent 60 seconds reading about it.

You moron.

I've got a job interview today at 3:00.

It's a job that I don't think I'd like that much, but the money is good.

And after my DJ gig the other night, the manager of the bar informed me that I was making double what the last DJ was making and the crowd hadn't doubled so I was either looking at an eventual pay cut or to be let go altogether.

Since I really don't want to be fired twice in two months by two jobs, I feel it's time to find something a bit more stable.

Wish me luck.

Or don't.

You probably won't.

I know when people write in their diaries "Wish me luck!" and I read it, I think to myself "What good is that going to do if I wish you luck?"

How about I wish you a long distance mind meld with the person you're interviewing with and convince them through telepathy that they need to hire you?

That's better than wishing you luck.

In my opinion anyway.

Van Halen has made amends with Sammy Hagar and they're going on tour this summer.

Be still my enlarged heart.

(That was sarcasm. Sammy Hagar is 57 years old this year. I can't imagine it being the tour of the year)

Have you guys seen the most recent episode of "South Park"?

Where Cartman pretends he's retarded in order to participate in the Special Olympics and beat all the handicapped kids so he can win $1,000?

And Jimmy (the physically handicapped kid on the show) starts taking steroids to "enhance" his performance and flies into a 'roid rage, beating his mother and girlfriend up?

Yeah.

And you people think I'M offensive.