King for a Day, Slacker for a Lifetime

I am the very model of a modern Major Slacker. After years of fighting the good fight, I’ve come to the conclusion that while my Gen X peers might have done plenty to dispel the slacker myth, I have somehow managed to spend an entire decade doing everything possible to validate it.

Yes, this is the story of my lazy life. Let me “bottom line” it for you:

I sleep, and I wake. I eat and I work. If the mood strikes me, I shower. Actually, I take that back – if my wife strikes me, I shower. I’m not fat yet, but trust me – I’m REALLY trying.

I’ll listen to music if it happens to be playing. If my remote control is in arms’ reach, I might even turn the TV on. I’ll do dishes, but only when they grab me and beat me into submission. Same goes for laundry. I should probably feed my dogs, because the look they’ve been giving me lately isn’t really that “man’s best friend” vibe you’re supposed to get.

In recent years, I’ve watched myself be reduced to two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth and something that seems to resemble a brain on life support. You see, the synapses aren’t quite firing on all cylinders these days. And the fact that I have a body below my neck is irrelevant, since it does little more than hold my head up for beer consumption. Actually, come to think of it, that’s a pretty noble job; a body could do worse for itself, ya know.

Now, don’t be fooled. Just because I happened to scrape my ass off of the couch long enough to barf up some random prattle doesn’t mean shiddle-dee-doo. In fact, as far as I can tell, it only means I’ve managed to invent words, like shiddle-dee-doo. That ought to turbo-charge my resume. Can you hear the recruiters now?

“Hello, Mr. Haucke? This is Justin Timberlake from Acme Recruiting. I’m calling because I understand you’ve quite the knack for dreaming up new words. Our marketing clients are dying for talent like that.”

“Justin, babe, no can do. Gates is on the other line crying about some new Mac product that’s eating up his margins. He needs me to invent a new level in Hell for Steve Jobs before Apple becomes strong enough to actually compete again. And if that isn’t enough, I’ve got George W. banging down my door looking for something to top ‘strategery.’ So I’m afraid you’ll have to tell your marketing people to ‘think outside the box’ until my schedule opens up. Oh, and give my love to Brittany.”

And this, my friends, is what I’ve been reduced to – far-fetched fantasies of actually speaking with Justin Timberlake via phone. A boy could only be so lucky.

But lest ye think I’m feeling sorry myself, let me assure you that nothing could be closer to the truth. Yes, the sad reality is I have essentially patented the art of self-pity. In fact, as a result of my efforts, self-pity is slated to become the newest event in the 2002 Winter Olympics – that and ice fishing. I’d be proud of this accomplishment, but I’m too busy moping. Besides, it looks like rain.

So what, then, is the moral of the story? Well, in true slacker fashion, I can tell you quite candidly that I’d rather play 12 hours of Pong while listening to Enya sing Creed covers than wrack my brain for a profound conclusion. After all, humor columns are supposed to be filled with everything BUT morals. Of course, humor columns are also typically filled with humor, yet that hasn’t stopped me.

My advice? In the immortal words of my hero Homer Simpson: “never try” and “sweet liquor – eases the pain.” Those, my friends, are words to slack by.