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Responsibility Is For Pussies

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Bill Murray summed it up best in the American comedy classic (according to Wikipedia, your one stop source for all things official) Groundhog Day:

“It’s the same thing your whole life. Clean up your room! Stand up straight! Pick up your feet! Take it like a man! Be nice to your sister! Don’t mix beer and wine, ever! Oh yeah – don’t drive on the railroad tracks!”

The same. damn. thing. Parents, girlfriends, and that police officer who didn’t even have a warrant. All they expect out of people is well thought out behavior. Well let me tell you something, boys and girls – responsibility is as overrated as the unmentionable parts of a certified ten. Sure, they’ll get you where you’re going, but it takes a hell of a lot longer and feels a lot less satisfying than the fun, risky nether regions of that soft six who dropped out of school for a year to “find herself” tending bar in the greater Cincinnati area. Maybe you don’t want to brag about it so much, but you and your junk will be talking about it for the rest of your life.

Take five and visualize the best night of your life. Maybe talk about it in the comments with a nice message telling me to kill myself so I have something to stroke it to later. Did you keep beer tabs in your pocket to track of how much you had to drink? Did you say no to that funny smelling cigarette? Did you put your napkin in your lap like the Duchess of York to ensure a Denny’s Grand Slam didn’t stain your already beer soaked Changlers? Hell no you didn’t. That’s because, despite claiming to have your best interests at hand, that little voice in the back of your head is the same one that keeps you from going all in on an ace high straight. Sure, that’s playing it safe, but Jiminy Cricket in the corner there is costing you valuable life experiences. Shit, if your conscience really cared about you it would stop being so judgmental and fix you a grilled cheese when you’re too hungover to get off the couch.

You see, friends, responsibility is a lie. Much like the IRS, it’s just a figment of our imagination that stands between good times and your false preconception that showing up for an 8 a.m. “Intro to Eastern European Film” class with no discernible absence policy (or heading to Caracas to avoid those bullshit back-taxes) somehow has consequences. The next time you are torn between putting on a jimmie before plowing into that soft, supple, hard-to-make-eye-contact-with-so-you-hit-it-from-the-back gal who can mix a passable post-coital Manhattan, give in to your hedonistic side. Long term threats to your rock star lifestyle are certainly avoidable, but they have nothing on the immediate gratification of an untethered nut and tasty drinks. Besides, technology has come far enough that there are pills capable of going full Jackie Chan on your little swimmers. Even science wants responsibility to fuck off!

The point is, your responsible side’s path to Hell is paved with good intentions. That and the fact I did sex to some Bengals fan and now my dick itches something fierce. Still, more importantly, you’re shortchanging yourself. The guy who busts hitting on a 19 is soon forgotten, but the man who wins big doing the same is a hero. Maybe Kenny Rogers the singer had some golden pipes, but Kenny Rogers the pitcher had a mean left hand. Which one would you rather go five rounds with?

Put your inner Bill Murray first while the Poindexters rot in obscurity. Last I checked, Bill Murray was a legend and Timothy Busfield was the piece of shit brother-in-law from Field of Dreams. Mix beer and wine. Be a god damn legend. Even if it’s only on occasion, tell that responsible little twat in your head to fuck off. You, and that six at the bar, will have a lot more fun.

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Karl Karlson

Karl Karlson is TFM's self-proclaimed cartoon expert and your best buddy. He resides in Eastern NC where he spends his time roasting pigs and attempting to grow a beard. Karl enjoys drinking on elevated surfaces and rapping on podcasts.

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