As I boot up my computer, I pause to revel in the fact that it's Friday. Sure, it's the last day of the conventional work-week, the first evening hordes of hot women flock to the bar in droves, another day where horny college women will get their drink on. But that's not what's got me excited right now.
No, it's Friday, and that means it's time for another installment of Atomic Dog.
I know I won't have to wait too long. It's usually posted sometime between 11 and 1. So I surf the web, reading about political bickering, world news, and the latest snowfall in my home state. And, of course, I occasionally manage to accomplish "real" work. Every half hour or so I check back with the Nation.
Is it there? No? Damn. Well, maybe I should answer my office phone. It'll be up when I get back.
And so it goes for the next few hours.
1 o'clock rolls around. No dog. 1:30. 2:00. 2:15, 2:20, 2:21, 2:22, 2:23, 2:24 and so on, until the "Home" link on the T-Nation page, sensing my approach, shivers like a frightened bitch at the vet.
2:30. 2:31. 2:39. No Atomic Dog.
And now I have to run off to my second job, my hunger not yet sated, my desires unfulfilled.
Damn you, TC, for bringing me this addiction. For I blame you, society, and my upbringing. Screw being responsible for my own well-being, this is THE DOG we're talking about.
I shut down my computer, my body, mind, and soul in more pain than a seventeen-year-old with a pair of blue balls.
Damn you, TC, damn you.