The scene in the warehouse was grislier than anything Johnson had ever seen.
The bodies were hung from meat racks and crammed haphazardly into file cabinets; strung up by fishing line, for what the killer would later describe as a his marionette show; wearing clothes made of other bodies and seated at a card table.
The closet was filled with women’s lingerie, blond wigs and Groucho Marx disguises.
Laid out on an old pool table were his implements of torture: hammers; butcher knives; a broken whiskey bottle; a nail gun; a board with a nail in it; some itching powder; a stick with dog poop on the tip; and feathers, for tickling.
Now, back at the station, Johnson was staring into the eyes of pure evil. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
“You’re a real sick bastard,” he said. “Your handiwork left me a little nauseous.”
“I agree,” smirked the sick bastard. “But it’s nauseated.”
“What’d you say punk?”
“Nauseous things make us sick detective, they make us ‘nauseated’ if you will,” said the killer, bending two fingers in the air to make quotation marks. “You just said you were nauseous—which would mean you cause illness in others.”
Johnson looked at the sick bastard with contempt and walked out of the room.
Stepping into the hallway, he passed Detective Brumsworth. “How’s it going in there?” he said.
“You know,” Johnson said, “I’m starting to think that guy’s kind of a dick.”
Friday, July 9, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Overnight Celebrity
Now that I'm a celebrity, I don't have to explain myself to anyone, which is pretty great. Being drunk at a Little League game--not any particular one, maybe, but one you see from your car and say, yeah, I could gamble on that--it doesn't make you crazy, but eccentric. When I attack someone holding a camera at the zoo, pretending to shoot the funny gorillas but I know they're really a paparazzo disguised as a grandfather, people say, "Well, it must be stressful, being constantly scrutinized." What's really cool though is that even the most despicable transgression will be forgotten magically if you spend a week in rehab, which I think is some sort of secret bar for famous people.
It wasn't always this way, but then I hooked up with Jennifer Aniston and everything changed.
She looks different in person, Jennifer. Her hair is blacker, and she is much more Asian than I remember from her photos. I also thought it was weird that she kept insisting that I call her Amy but, then, I just assumed she was researching a movie role. Very aggressive, too, this Jennifer Aniston, all hands and, man when she gets on you with that 230 lb frame, there's not much you can do about it--not that you would because, damn, that's Jennifer Aniston! "It's Amy," she bellows, and you just say, "Sure it is," and wink knowingly at her face-tattoo.
When I woke up, the change was almost instant. The guy at McDonald's insisted on calling me sir, and, for no apparent reason, I treated him with utter contempt. The only acceptable excuse for my language and facial expressions and spitting was that I was famous--that's when I knew I'd finally made it.
We always knew I'd be famous when I was a kid, so I wasn't really surprised. I remember on Sunday mornings I'd be doing my impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger, and the pastor would stop what he was doing and just watch me in disbelief, before asking me to take my seat in the pew. "Okay," I'd say, "But I'll be back." Then he'd just shake his head for a while, like, "whoa, that kid is talented."
Still, it was nice for all my hard work to finally pay off. All those weekday mornings when my girlfriend would say, "Seriously, get a job or it’s over," and I'd just sit there watching television and thinking, during the commercials, about how I could be the next Matt LeBlanc; All those hours I put into perfecting my "Mowing the lawn" routine, where I'd pick up the dog's hind legs and walk him around like a lawnmower;" All those times I went out of my way to scoff at the “normal” people, with “jobs” and “families.” I was a star in the making all along, so I guess I can't really be called an "overnight celebrity."
My future is bright now, and not in the way that a college graduate’s future is bright—my future is like really bright, filled with bright people with bright teeth doing shiny drugs off of shiny strippers.
Maybe I'll go fishing with Brody Jenner, or make a quilt with Bret Michaels. Maybe I'll go windsurfing with Jack Nicholson, or shoe-shopping with that guy whose penis was cut off by his wife, both of whom will now smile when they hear my name. Maybe I’ll grab a bottle of schnapps and teach Regis Philbin the finer points of gambling on T-Ball.
When I’m honest with myself though, I know there's nothing like a torrid love affair to jumpstart one's rise to fame, so I'll probably just go back to Applebee's.
Jennifer hangs out there most nights, you know.
It wasn't always this way, but then I hooked up with Jennifer Aniston and everything changed.
She looks different in person, Jennifer. Her hair is blacker, and she is much more Asian than I remember from her photos. I also thought it was weird that she kept insisting that I call her Amy but, then, I just assumed she was researching a movie role. Very aggressive, too, this Jennifer Aniston, all hands and, man when she gets on you with that 230 lb frame, there's not much you can do about it--not that you would because, damn, that's Jennifer Aniston! "It's Amy," she bellows, and you just say, "Sure it is," and wink knowingly at her face-tattoo.
When I woke up, the change was almost instant. The guy at McDonald's insisted on calling me sir, and, for no apparent reason, I treated him with utter contempt. The only acceptable excuse for my language and facial expressions and spitting was that I was famous--that's when I knew I'd finally made it.
We always knew I'd be famous when I was a kid, so I wasn't really surprised. I remember on Sunday mornings I'd be doing my impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger, and the pastor would stop what he was doing and just watch me in disbelief, before asking me to take my seat in the pew. "Okay," I'd say, "But I'll be back." Then he'd just shake his head for a while, like, "whoa, that kid is talented."
Still, it was nice for all my hard work to finally pay off. All those weekday mornings when my girlfriend would say, "Seriously, get a job or it’s over," and I'd just sit there watching television and thinking, during the commercials, about how I could be the next Matt LeBlanc; All those hours I put into perfecting my "Mowing the lawn" routine, where I'd pick up the dog's hind legs and walk him around like a lawnmower;" All those times I went out of my way to scoff at the “normal” people, with “jobs” and “families.” I was a star in the making all along, so I guess I can't really be called an "overnight celebrity."
My future is bright now, and not in the way that a college graduate’s future is bright—my future is like really bright, filled with bright people with bright teeth doing shiny drugs off of shiny strippers.
Maybe I'll go fishing with Brody Jenner, or make a quilt with Bret Michaels. Maybe I'll go windsurfing with Jack Nicholson, or shoe-shopping with that guy whose penis was cut off by his wife, both of whom will now smile when they hear my name. Maybe I’ll grab a bottle of schnapps and teach Regis Philbin the finer points of gambling on T-Ball.
When I’m honest with myself though, I know there's nothing like a torrid love affair to jumpstart one's rise to fame, so I'll probably just go back to Applebee's.
Jennifer hangs out there most nights, you know.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Welcome To Briargrove Estates
Hello neighbor, and welcome to Briargrove Estates!
In order to smooth your transition into our community, we’ve laid out some of the finer points of life here in “The Grove”. (I’m kidding, no one calls it that.)
First, the basics: Holidays are a special time here at Briargrove, and we like to celebrate as a community!
On Easter, I (Morty Shelden) organize a neighborhood Easter egg hunt. I know what you’re thinking: what does a Jew know about Easter? Well, Mr. Anti-Semite (kidding!), I’ll have you know that I played the Easter Bunny at the Glen Mills Mall from 1992-1994, and again in 1998. Well, when the ladies in the neighborhood association heard that, you can imagine their excitement. I try my best to reward them each April, as my enthusiasm belies my disbelief in your savior.
On Halloween, we instruct each family to remain within the confines of Briargrove Estates, and we seal all entrances and exits, so as to keep outsiders where they belong—out. But in our cloister, the treating is simply the best! (You may know it as trick-or-treating, but we removed the “trick-or” part in 1999, after the residents’ organization banned tricks, on Halloween and all other days.) Mr. Purt—who should be coming over shortly to introduce himself—usually erects a haunted house each year, and the kids all think it’s the spookiest! The Creepy Cabin (what he calls the haunted house) has been gone for a few years—some sort of police investigation—but I’m glad to tell you that, as of October 2010, it’s back, as is Grabby the Ghoul (really Mr. Purt in a ghoul mask)!
Finally, on Christmas, we like to synchronize our displays, so as to be tasteful, yet festive. Mr. Robertson is in charge of the lighting initiative, and, despite an unfortunate fall, back in ‘07, he continues to roll through his duties (literally!) every winter. And there’s no need to drive to the mall to see Santa Claus anymore—Briargrove Estates has its very own! His name is actually Martin Petersen, but he has a big white beard, is morbidly obese, and wears red and white all year round! Old Mr. Petersen is very committed, nothing like those silly “mall-santas.” Why, on Christmas Eve, look out your windows and you might just see “Santa” lurking around your house with a burlap sack in hand! But, true to character, he’ll only come if he thinks you’re asleep—so you’ll have to turn off the lights and be quiet if you want a glimpse at old St. Nick.
Now that you’re familiar with us, I must inform you of a few of our community’s more colorful caveats.
First, trash pick-up is on Tuesday, rather than Monday—when the rest of the city’s garbage is removed.
Second, you’ve probably noticed the community pool. While all residents are encouraged to enjoy the pool at their leisure, we must insist that you observe the posted pool hours of 10 AM to 10 PM.
Lastly, it should be noted that Briargrove Estates was built upon a graveyard for the patients of Briargrove Asylum. As the asylum was in operation from 1859 to 1911, the methods of treatment used there were often crude and (by today’s standards, anyway) inhumane. Restraint, cold plunge baths, intimidation and blood-letting were all standard practice at Briargrove—and, as a result, these spirits are understandably perturbed. You may notice that, unlike the walls at your previous home, the walls in your new home will occasionally bleed. This is no great cause for concern, but you may want to invest in a Swiffer. If a book flies across the room, just duck and say something soothing like, “its okay, I’m not here to hurt you,” something like that.
Oh, and you may be scratched.
At any rate, I’m sure that these will be negligible hiccups in your otherwise sunny new life with us. (Which reminds me, one of the ghosts seems to have an incurable case of the hiccups.) Once again, we look forward to your addition to the community, and welcome to Briargrove Estates!
Morty Shelden
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Apathy Pants
I was in another argument at the hardware store, chiding the predictably incompetent help over their latest mistake. "No, goddamnit," I yelled, pounding my fist on the desk. "These are the wrong kind of nails. Idiots!" I stomped around with my hands raised in an indignant "V", huffing and puffing and, according to the cretinous sixteen-year-old at the counter, "making a scene."
"Sir, please," she said. "If you could just settle down, I'm sure we could help you." I stopped my march just long enough to roll my eyes and spit on the ground. "Please, sir," she said again. "Sir!"
"Fine," I finally agreed, deciding that one of us had to handle this in a mature manner. She presented me with every type of nail but the one I needed. Box nails, bright nails, casing nails, coated nails, drywall nails, helix nails, shank nails and sinker nails, and after each I groaned a little louder than before. After the sinker nails, she hung her head and picked up a railroad spike. "I'm not an idiot," I said, and she looked like she was about to cry. "They're the nails with the things around them," I finally said, drawing a circle in the air with my finger.
"You mean screws?"
"No! No! No!" I screamed.
I'd find out later that I was, in fact, looking for screws. When I went back a few weeks later to apologize to the girl and get some screws, the manager said that they hadn't seen her since she ran crying from the store that day. I must've forgotten that part though because, as I bellowed at that dumb teen for the last time, a woman would walk into the store and change my life forever. She wasn't a beautiful woman, or even a presentable woman. I forget her name, but imagine it’s something fat, like her. But that's neither here nor there. All I really know is that she must have had a great sense of humor and an eye for high fashion--because, covering her gelatinous midsection was the funniest tee-shirt I, or anyone else, will ever see. Bending at the corners, the words drooped: "Do I look like I care?"
O, was this the rhetorical question to end all rhetorical questions?
Yes, yes, it was.
It was sarcastic, and funny, and biting. The shirt, in itself, a juggernaut of haute couture, guaranteed to induce feelings of inadequacy from all those who were less apathetic--and induce knowing, reverent nods from those who were. Or maybe not--maybe all those who truly "didn't care" wouldn't care enough to acknowledge the apathy expressed on the garments of others. I thought about that for a while until my head started to hurt, and then I noticed that my corpulent muse was walking out the front door. I tore out of the store to catch up to her, which was easier than I thought it would be because, you know, she was pretty fat. I was breathing heavy when I reached her, and so was she. "Where...did...you..get..that shirt?" I asked.
"Down...at...the...dollar store," she answered, pointing to the Dollar Mart next door. Waving my thanks, I ran into the dollar store.
They only had 18 left, in various sizes, so I bought them. I drove to the Dollar Mart in Flower Mound and bought 27 more. The dollar store in North Dallas had 17, and the one in Farmers Branch had 29. All told, I went home that day with 91 of the greatest shirt ever. To the humor-pedestrian, that might have been enough, but I recognize quality humor when I see it. I ordered 200 more from the manufacturer, and submitted the shirt for a Thurber Prize. I still haven't heard back from them, but that might just be because they're laughing so hard. Or maybe they're wondering if owners of the shirt care about other owners of the shirt enough to nod at them in public. I never did find a clear answer to that one.
At any rate, I sleep on a bed of apathy shirts now and so does my TV, computer and dog. My closet has a stepladder made of apathy shirts leading to two rows of apathy shirts. I cut up a few of the apathy shirts as carefully and respectfully as I could, and made a pair of apathy pants, and an apathy parka. I had the phrase screenprinted on all my more caring clothes, including the business suit Grandpa gave me for graduation. Mom got pretty mad at me. "You ruined your clothes!" she said.
Normally, I would've had to say something back. Instead, I just scoffed and pointed to my chest.
"Sir, please," she said. "If you could just settle down, I'm sure we could help you." I stopped my march just long enough to roll my eyes and spit on the ground. "Please, sir," she said again. "Sir!"
"Fine," I finally agreed, deciding that one of us had to handle this in a mature manner. She presented me with every type of nail but the one I needed. Box nails, bright nails, casing nails, coated nails, drywall nails, helix nails, shank nails and sinker nails, and after each I groaned a little louder than before. After the sinker nails, she hung her head and picked up a railroad spike. "I'm not an idiot," I said, and she looked like she was about to cry. "They're the nails with the things around them," I finally said, drawing a circle in the air with my finger.
"You mean screws?"
"No! No! No!" I screamed.
I'd find out later that I was, in fact, looking for screws. When I went back a few weeks later to apologize to the girl and get some screws, the manager said that they hadn't seen her since she ran crying from the store that day. I must've forgotten that part though because, as I bellowed at that dumb teen for the last time, a woman would walk into the store and change my life forever. She wasn't a beautiful woman, or even a presentable woman. I forget her name, but imagine it’s something fat, like her. But that's neither here nor there. All I really know is that she must have had a great sense of humor and an eye for high fashion--because, covering her gelatinous midsection was the funniest tee-shirt I, or anyone else, will ever see. Bending at the corners, the words drooped: "Do I look like I care?"
O, was this the rhetorical question to end all rhetorical questions?
Yes, yes, it was.
It was sarcastic, and funny, and biting. The shirt, in itself, a juggernaut of haute couture, guaranteed to induce feelings of inadequacy from all those who were less apathetic--and induce knowing, reverent nods from those who were. Or maybe not--maybe all those who truly "didn't care" wouldn't care enough to acknowledge the apathy expressed on the garments of others. I thought about that for a while until my head started to hurt, and then I noticed that my corpulent muse was walking out the front door. I tore out of the store to catch up to her, which was easier than I thought it would be because, you know, she was pretty fat. I was breathing heavy when I reached her, and so was she. "Where...did...you..get..that shirt?" I asked.
"Down...at...the...dollar store," she answered, pointing to the Dollar Mart next door. Waving my thanks, I ran into the dollar store.
They only had 18 left, in various sizes, so I bought them. I drove to the Dollar Mart in Flower Mound and bought 27 more. The dollar store in North Dallas had 17, and the one in Farmers Branch had 29. All told, I went home that day with 91 of the greatest shirt ever. To the humor-pedestrian, that might have been enough, but I recognize quality humor when I see it. I ordered 200 more from the manufacturer, and submitted the shirt for a Thurber Prize. I still haven't heard back from them, but that might just be because they're laughing so hard. Or maybe they're wondering if owners of the shirt care about other owners of the shirt enough to nod at them in public. I never did find a clear answer to that one.
At any rate, I sleep on a bed of apathy shirts now and so does my TV, computer and dog. My closet has a stepladder made of apathy shirts leading to two rows of apathy shirts. I cut up a few of the apathy shirts as carefully and respectfully as I could, and made a pair of apathy pants, and an apathy parka. I had the phrase screenprinted on all my more caring clothes, including the business suit Grandpa gave me for graduation. Mom got pretty mad at me. "You ruined your clothes!" she said.
Normally, I would've had to say something back. Instead, I just scoffed and pointed to my chest.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Genghis & Me
I met Genghis in the fall of 2007, as a cocky college junior who thought he knew everything about the world.
Unbeknownst to me, I hadn’t yet learned the true meaning of the word 'friendship.'
Back then, I thought 'friendship' was the one with wings and like a tuxedo--like a bird, but unable to fly. A penguin, yeah. We'd be at the zoo and I'd say, "Look at the friendships." Then my buddies and I would laugh and laugh at their sliding, or maybe because I confused the words 'penguin' and 'friendship' again.
At any rate, I didn't know the true meaning of the word friendship until the day I saw Genghis passed out on the little patch of lawn outside our apartment, his lined, taupe face resting among hundreds of cigarette butts. It was never my way to help vagrants, but I knew there was something different about this one. And also I really liked his fur coat. I helped him into my apartment and Clay was mad, either because of Genghis, or that I accidentally vomited on his X-Box the night before.
Genghis woke up and growled something and I asked what he was majoring in. He growled again, so I just said, "Oh, yeah, cool." After some more growling, I figured he wanted some food, so I ordered a pizza and challenged Genghis to a game of Mario Kart. I would have challenged him to Madden, but, for some reason, our X-Box was covered in vomit. Genghis stared at the controller and, at first baffled, he came to the conclusion that it was a weapon. So he swung it around his head by the cord, and I took cover under the coffee table, all the while giggling about my new pal. “Oh, Genghis,” I squealed. "You smell awful."
And he did.
There was a knock at the door and Genghis leaped behind the sofa and grabbed Clay's guitar. When I realized I had no money, I asked Genghis if he could cover it. He swung the guitar at me and growled and stomped off to the door.
When Genghis hadn't come back for some time, I began to get worried, and really hungry. Right as I picked up the phone to report him missing, though, he came out of Clay's room carrying the pizza. "Stay the hell out of there, Genghis," I said. "That's not your room."
We sat down to eat, but I guess Genghis wasn't very hungry. He did seem to love the show "Coach," which was nice because I love that show, too. Oh, me and Genghis sat there all day laughing and grunting at one another. He'd get up every once in a while and go into Clay's room, and I'd scold him again, and so forth throughout the day. We must have nodded off at some point, because I woke up to a dark apartment and Clay hovering over me, angry still.
"What the fuck, dude?" he growled, like Genghis, but more intelligible.
"Is this about the X-Box?" I groaned.
"No, actually not," Clay said. "It's about the dismembered pizza guy in my bed."
Clay led me into his room and turned on the light. Sure enough, the delivery boy had been bludgeoned to death, and partially eaten. "This actually explains a lot," I said, and I reached into the corpse's front pocket.
"I'm fucking out of here," Clay said. "You can find yourself a new roommate."
"Genghis," I said sternly, after Clay had left. "Did you kill and eat the delivery guy?"
Genghis put his head down and refused to look me in the face, which betrayed his guilt immediately. "Genghis," I said again, and he jumped off the couch and hid under the coffee table. "You see what you've done--now I'm going to have to find a new roommate." Genghis pointed at himself hopefully, and I said, "I'm afraid not, Genghis. I draw the line somewhere between murder and cannibalism."
As I watched him walk through the parking lot, his club dragging behind him in a forlorn march, an airplane flew low overhead. He looked up in terror and rage at the plane as if to say, "What the fuck was that thing?" I hoped he'd be alright, and held my head to hide the tears.
We'd learn later that the pizza delivery guy, named Alonso Moore, was an aspiring writer, which explained the pocket dictionary I found in his front pocket. Alone in my apartment, I thumbed through its worn pages and found the "F" section:
Friendship
Pronunciation: \ˈfren(d)-ˌship\
Function: noun
Date: before 12th century
1 : the state of being friends
2 : the quality or state of being friendly
That's nothing like the tuxedo bird, I thought. How silly.
Unbeknownst to me, I hadn’t yet learned the true meaning of the word 'friendship.'
Back then, I thought 'friendship' was the one with wings and like a tuxedo--like a bird, but unable to fly. A penguin, yeah. We'd be at the zoo and I'd say, "Look at the friendships." Then my buddies and I would laugh and laugh at their sliding, or maybe because I confused the words 'penguin' and 'friendship' again.
At any rate, I didn't know the true meaning of the word friendship until the day I saw Genghis passed out on the little patch of lawn outside our apartment, his lined, taupe face resting among hundreds of cigarette butts. It was never my way to help vagrants, but I knew there was something different about this one. And also I really liked his fur coat. I helped him into my apartment and Clay was mad, either because of Genghis, or that I accidentally vomited on his X-Box the night before.
Genghis woke up and growled something and I asked what he was majoring in. He growled again, so I just said, "Oh, yeah, cool." After some more growling, I figured he wanted some food, so I ordered a pizza and challenged Genghis to a game of Mario Kart. I would have challenged him to Madden, but, for some reason, our X-Box was covered in vomit. Genghis stared at the controller and, at first baffled, he came to the conclusion that it was a weapon. So he swung it around his head by the cord, and I took cover under the coffee table, all the while giggling about my new pal. “Oh, Genghis,” I squealed. "You smell awful."
And he did.
There was a knock at the door and Genghis leaped behind the sofa and grabbed Clay's guitar. When I realized I had no money, I asked Genghis if he could cover it. He swung the guitar at me and growled and stomped off to the door.
When Genghis hadn't come back for some time, I began to get worried, and really hungry. Right as I picked up the phone to report him missing, though, he came out of Clay's room carrying the pizza. "Stay the hell out of there, Genghis," I said. "That's not your room."
We sat down to eat, but I guess Genghis wasn't very hungry. He did seem to love the show "Coach," which was nice because I love that show, too. Oh, me and Genghis sat there all day laughing and grunting at one another. He'd get up every once in a while and go into Clay's room, and I'd scold him again, and so forth throughout the day. We must have nodded off at some point, because I woke up to a dark apartment and Clay hovering over me, angry still.
"What the fuck, dude?" he growled, like Genghis, but more intelligible.
"Is this about the X-Box?" I groaned.
"No, actually not," Clay said. "It's about the dismembered pizza guy in my bed."
Clay led me into his room and turned on the light. Sure enough, the delivery boy had been bludgeoned to death, and partially eaten. "This actually explains a lot," I said, and I reached into the corpse's front pocket.
"I'm fucking out of here," Clay said. "You can find yourself a new roommate."
"Genghis," I said sternly, after Clay had left. "Did you kill and eat the delivery guy?"
Genghis put his head down and refused to look me in the face, which betrayed his guilt immediately. "Genghis," I said again, and he jumped off the couch and hid under the coffee table. "You see what you've done--now I'm going to have to find a new roommate." Genghis pointed at himself hopefully, and I said, "I'm afraid not, Genghis. I draw the line somewhere between murder and cannibalism."
As I watched him walk through the parking lot, his club dragging behind him in a forlorn march, an airplane flew low overhead. He looked up in terror and rage at the plane as if to say, "What the fuck was that thing?" I hoped he'd be alright, and held my head to hide the tears.
We'd learn later that the pizza delivery guy, named Alonso Moore, was an aspiring writer, which explained the pocket dictionary I found in his front pocket. Alone in my apartment, I thumbed through its worn pages and found the "F" section:
Friendship
Pronunciation: \ˈfren(d)-ˌship\
Function: noun
Date: before 12th century
1 : the state of being friends
2 : the quality or state of being friendly
That's nothing like the tuxedo bird, I thought. How silly.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Reginald Pennyfarthing's Guide To Facebook, Volume One
In my day, if one felt inclined to increase his social standing, he had to marry into a good family or kill the pretermitted heir to a large estate, and endear himself to the benefactor in question. Each of these remain as viable options for the average American, but few seem to possess the intestinal fortitude these days required for murder or sham marriages. Tis a shame indeed, but, lucky for them, one can now win the adoration and envy of the masses via Facebook, a social tool invented in 1909 by Errol Duncan to give his wife another outlet for her petty rambling.
1) Be careful what you like. This silly "like" button has turned a great deal of dandies into common louts in the eyes of the public. Take my old friend Lord Darkstone--you may remember him from his formulaic dust-ups with that churl Sherlock Holmes. Well my dear chum Darkstone got "like-"happy one day and, before you know it, he was giving the thumbs-up to swill beer, Angelina Jolie and the Ford F-150--all terribly low entities to be certain. Once, he was as urbane and dapper as Henry Charlwood; now, he's as slovenly and pitiful as "Stinky" Dick Barlow. He is required to pay prostitutes an extra six pence per visit--a sort of ugly tax, we suspect--he enjoys the films of Michael Bay and I thought it best to not invite him to my last birthday party.
Heed the lesson, lest Darkstone's descent be completely in vain.
2) Unless you're a lowly attention-strumpet, abstain from open-ended status updates. These updates-- which might read, "Nothing ever goes right for me," or "This is the worst day EVER"--are nothing more than invitations to a naif's pity party--and dandies are not pitied. Indeed, if anything, dandies would do the pitying--of course, they don't.
Sympathizing with others is one of the many curses of the working classes.
3) With regard to your profile picture, thou shalt not pull your shirt up and take a photo in the mirror with your phone. Should you find yourself without any friends to take your photograph, simply commission an artist to paint your likeness atop a gallant horse. Mine was painted by JMW Turner, after which he spent every last pound I paid him on a three-day bender through the streets of Cambridge with yours truly. As you may be unable to commission Turner--either because you are socially undecorated, or because he's been dead for 159 years--you may consider a photo from the good people at Glamour Shots. I hear they do fine work.
4) Never accept a friend request from an unworldly tyro. This is a good rule in day-to-day life as well, though it is remarkably easier to avoid the lower classes on Facebook. Should a friend of mine befriend someone who, say, wears clothes from Target, that reflects rather poorly on yours truly. A great many of my so-called friends have fallen victim to this rule, and a polite de-friending is as hopeful a conclusion possible for one who mucks up my computer screen with a gaggle of unrefined friends. In 1839, I shot my chum Stanley Jackson in a duel. What precipitated this showdown? Well, thanks to old Stanley, it was suggested that I become friends with a fellow by the name of "T-Bone." So miffed was I at this suggestion, I shot my friend in the face. Do I feel bad? Sometimes, when I'm leaving his wife's bedchamber, and have to walk by his chubby, despondent children. But you had better believe I'd do it again--because this rule is as necessary as a moustache comb or pipe tobacco.
Which is to say, it's absolutely bloody necessary.
5) Only the most buffoonish, mealy-mouthed louts intentionally misspell words. One of my many illegitimate children once wrote on my wall "Can't wait 2 c u Dad!" Lovely sentiment after my eight-year absence from his life, granted--but wholly unacceptable from the seed of Reginald Pennyfarthing. So, in turn, I beat the contractions out of him with a bag of dictionaries. The English language is not a prostitute, to be disrespected, spit on and punched in the face (Or, in the case of my old friend Jack, cut apart with surgical implements). It is a lady of the highest order, who seems at times untouchable, but will put out if you treat her right.
1) Be careful what you like. This silly "like" button has turned a great deal of dandies into common louts in the eyes of the public. Take my old friend Lord Darkstone--you may remember him from his formulaic dust-ups with that churl Sherlock Holmes. Well my dear chum Darkstone got "like-"happy one day and, before you know it, he was giving the thumbs-up to swill beer, Angelina Jolie and the Ford F-150--all terribly low entities to be certain. Once, he was as urbane and dapper as Henry Charlwood; now, he's as slovenly and pitiful as "Stinky" Dick Barlow. He is required to pay prostitutes an extra six pence per visit--a sort of ugly tax, we suspect--he enjoys the films of Michael Bay and I thought it best to not invite him to my last birthday party.
Heed the lesson, lest Darkstone's descent be completely in vain.
2) Unless you're a lowly attention-strumpet, abstain from open-ended status updates. These updates-- which might read, "Nothing ever goes right for me," or "This is the worst day EVER"--are nothing more than invitations to a naif's pity party--and dandies are not pitied. Indeed, if anything, dandies would do the pitying--of course, they don't.
Sympathizing with others is one of the many curses of the working classes.
3) With regard to your profile picture, thou shalt not pull your shirt up and take a photo in the mirror with your phone. Should you find yourself without any friends to take your photograph, simply commission an artist to paint your likeness atop a gallant horse. Mine was painted by JMW Turner, after which he spent every last pound I paid him on a three-day bender through the streets of Cambridge with yours truly. As you may be unable to commission Turner--either because you are socially undecorated, or because he's been dead for 159 years--you may consider a photo from the good people at Glamour Shots. I hear they do fine work.
4) Never accept a friend request from an unworldly tyro. This is a good rule in day-to-day life as well, though it is remarkably easier to avoid the lower classes on Facebook. Should a friend of mine befriend someone who, say, wears clothes from Target, that reflects rather poorly on yours truly. A great many of my so-called friends have fallen victim to this rule, and a polite de-friending is as hopeful a conclusion possible for one who mucks up my computer screen with a gaggle of unrefined friends. In 1839, I shot my chum Stanley Jackson in a duel. What precipitated this showdown? Well, thanks to old Stanley, it was suggested that I become friends with a fellow by the name of "T-Bone." So miffed was I at this suggestion, I shot my friend in the face. Do I feel bad? Sometimes, when I'm leaving his wife's bedchamber, and have to walk by his chubby, despondent children. But you had better believe I'd do it again--because this rule is as necessary as a moustache comb or pipe tobacco.
Which is to say, it's absolutely bloody necessary.
5) Only the most buffoonish, mealy-mouthed louts intentionally misspell words. One of my many illegitimate children once wrote on my wall "Can't wait 2 c u Dad!" Lovely sentiment after my eight-year absence from his life, granted--but wholly unacceptable from the seed of Reginald Pennyfarthing. So, in turn, I beat the contractions out of him with a bag of dictionaries. The English language is not a prostitute, to be disrespected, spit on and punched in the face (Or, in the case of my old friend Jack, cut apart with surgical implements). It is a lady of the highest order, who seems at times untouchable, but will put out if you treat her right.
Big Me: Chapter 2
You’re walking along a cool, windy beach with a cold beer in hand, when you see a dot in the distance with pink things and yellow and it is bouncing, kind of. The thing gets closer and you wish you could see what it was, but when Carol told you to go to the eye doctor, you said “Okay,” and then spent the rest of the day playing Super Mario Bros. on Super Nintendo.
Lucky for you, you found a pair of glasses on the floor of the strip club later that night, and you wear them whenever Carol’s around just to get her to shut up. You mean to call the eye doctor for real, but it’s sweeps week and you never can pry yourself from those teen vampires or sexy oncologists for long enough to do it, so the glasses are here to stay. Now your head hurts so you decide to walk down the beach to clear your throbbing head, and the pink and yellow bouncing question is presented and you throw on your new glasses just to see if it helps. It doesn’t.
But the yellow and pink bouncy blob gets closer and closer, and then you see it’s a woman with yellow hair and a pink bikini, from whence the bouncing issues so delightfully. You take your glasses off because you don’t want to look square, and your head hurts too. You aren’t sure, but you’re pretty sure she wants to have sex with you, and that’s when you wake up tied by your ankle to a bike rack outside the police station. “Nuts to this,” you say, and then you start running away, dragging a bike rack behind you. This is a rite of passage for adolescents in some part of the world, only it isn’t a bike rack they're tied to, but a bull, and they’re not tied to it, but locked in a cage with it, a knife and, for some reason, a condom made of raw cotton fibers.
You know Carol will be confused when she brings you your dinner--a wheelbarrow of Jack in the Box tacos and a few boxes of wine--but you refuse to be held on trumped up charges of indecency. This is bullshit. This is profiling. You're a giant now, kid, and it's high time you start acting like it. So instead of politely ordering your tacos from the drive-thru, you tear the roof off the place and start grabbing. Jesus, you're hungry. But you are also tied to a bike rack. The rope they used is from the ship yard so, yeah, you need to go to the shipyard.
When you get there you're out of breath. One of the seamen speaks like a pirate, and you laugh, mostly because you thought of the word "seamen." Then you find out he's only joking about the pirate thing and you're a little disappointed to hear his regular voice. He cuts your ropes off though, so you thank him and roar and throw the bike rack into the sea.
Then the police come.
You're cornered, they say, so you jump into the sea and get your leg tangled in the bars of the bike rack. "Fucking shit," you gurgle. But you're making your escape, where it'll be much better, down where it's wetter, under the sea. "Sucks to you coppers," you chuckle. Then you're running out of air and this might be tougher than you thought.
Lucky for you, you found a pair of glasses on the floor of the strip club later that night, and you wear them whenever Carol’s around just to get her to shut up. You mean to call the eye doctor for real, but it’s sweeps week and you never can pry yourself from those teen vampires or sexy oncologists for long enough to do it, so the glasses are here to stay. Now your head hurts so you decide to walk down the beach to clear your throbbing head, and the pink and yellow bouncing question is presented and you throw on your new glasses just to see if it helps. It doesn’t.
But the yellow and pink bouncy blob gets closer and closer, and then you see it’s a woman with yellow hair and a pink bikini, from whence the bouncing issues so delightfully. You take your glasses off because you don’t want to look square, and your head hurts too. You aren’t sure, but you’re pretty sure she wants to have sex with you, and that’s when you wake up tied by your ankle to a bike rack outside the police station. “Nuts to this,” you say, and then you start running away, dragging a bike rack behind you. This is a rite of passage for adolescents in some part of the world, only it isn’t a bike rack they're tied to, but a bull, and they’re not tied to it, but locked in a cage with it, a knife and, for some reason, a condom made of raw cotton fibers.
You know Carol will be confused when she brings you your dinner--a wheelbarrow of Jack in the Box tacos and a few boxes of wine--but you refuse to be held on trumped up charges of indecency. This is bullshit. This is profiling. You're a giant now, kid, and it's high time you start acting like it. So instead of politely ordering your tacos from the drive-thru, you tear the roof off the place and start grabbing. Jesus, you're hungry. But you are also tied to a bike rack. The rope they used is from the ship yard so, yeah, you need to go to the shipyard.
When you get there you're out of breath. One of the seamen speaks like a pirate, and you laugh, mostly because you thought of the word "seamen." Then you find out he's only joking about the pirate thing and you're a little disappointed to hear his regular voice. He cuts your ropes off though, so you thank him and roar and throw the bike rack into the sea.
Then the police come.
You're cornered, they say, so you jump into the sea and get your leg tangled in the bars of the bike rack. "Fucking shit," you gurgle. But you're making your escape, where it'll be much better, down where it's wetter, under the sea. "Sucks to you coppers," you chuckle. Then you're running out of air and this might be tougher than you thought.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Big Me: Chapter One
"So, uh," Carol said, "Do you need some clothes, or what?"
It was a dumb question and as I stood there towering over her, the tip of my penis dangling like mistletoe over the top of her head, I let the frustration well up in an eye-roll before suppressing it with a long breath, which shook the pictures displayed on the shelf. Of course I needed clothes. "Yeah," I said, "But I don't think Big Pete's Big & Tall will cut it.
"Where did the Incredible Hulk get those purple jean shorts?"
Carol laughed but I wasn't really joking, and I thought about pinching her. Realizing a simple pinch would snap her arm like a tortilla chip, though, I settled for glaring angrily at her. After a few short phone calls to local merchants, she shrugged her shoulders at me.
It was only because we sprung for the two-story condo with high ceilings that the public hadn't yet seen my birthday suit, which I'd been wearing since the transformation lay waste to my favorite pearl-snap shirt and the only pair of jeans that makes my package look formidable in any way. Speaking of--
My penis, I measured, was now around a foot, give or take, in length--but, taking proportion into account, it was still nothing to brag about. Brobdingnagian me hadn't lost his sense of shame, so I refused to go out and told Carol to leave and not return until she had found me something to wear. She grabbed her keys and left in a huff. I just stood in the living room trying not to bump into anything.
When Carol returned three hours later, she carried a huge flat box. "Well," I said.
"It's all I could find."
I got ready to scold Carol, and she produced a massive American flag from the box, the sort that fly outside of car dealerships. She said she had bought it from "Slick" Danny Barfield at Barfield Motors. "It'll have to do," I said,"until we find something more permanent."
Carol cut a hole in the middle of the flag, and stitched up the sides where my hips would go. It looked a little like a hospital gown when I put it on, only brighter, and more disrespectful.
With some makeshift raiment covering my shame, we decided to go into town to continue our search for proper pants. After a few unsuccessful attempts at wriggling my way through the front door, I looked at Carol. "I'm just going to have to, you know... Go through it."
Carol thought about protesting, but didn't. There was no other way.
So much to the chagrin of the folks at Valley View Condominium Homes, I got a running start and smashed my way through the front of the building--which, to be perfectly honest, felt pretty good. Almost like I was finally acting like a giant. The trip into town was a bit less vindicating.
As we walked through the streets, eyes fixed constantly to my heaving, star-spangled back, a veteran took exception to my choice of clothing and spat whiskey on my ankle. "You goddamned liberal queer!" he yelled, tilting his head dramatically from his wheelchair. "Go back to Russia." Carol tried to politely explain our situation, and when that didn't calm him, she gave him a push in the opposite direction and he rolled away, flailing his arm.
We roamed around aimlessly for a few more blocks, and as a great crowd began to form behind me, realized that neither of us knew where we were going. As we turned to go home, a throng of dead-eyed rubberneckers staring up at me with camera phones in hand, a little girl on a big wheel came barreling toward me. I stood still for fear of crushing her.
She seemed oblivious to my presence as she rode between my legs. Then, from somewhere beneath my flag-gown, I heard a dreadful, piercing scream.
I knew immediately what had happened. The first casualty of my being a grotesque leviathan was the innocence of the girl's eyes. She saw an awful, awful thing that day, and when I saw the crowd, simultaneously reaching for their cell phones, pointing and screeching about a 22-foot anti-American pervert on the loose, I felt the urge to climb a tall building. "We better go," I said, and Carol agreed. A fat man I took for the girl's father put his phone away and began frantically punching the side of my knee. "You communist pervert!" he said. "I'll kill you!" I glanced down at him, and chuckled at his threat. For a moment, I thought about kicking him, going on a real rampage. But I was tired, and his punches didn't really hurt. The sirens began to wail then and, accepting begrudgingly that I couldn't really hide, I stood silent, my knees together, hoping no one else got a good view of my crank.
This was red letter day for the police department, whose greatest responsibility, generally speaking, was keeping drivers at a reasonable speed and removing unauthorized signs--advertising garage sales, lost pets, and once a prostitute--from utility poles. The officers had dusted off their previously untouched SWAT gear and fired up the cavalry by the time they arrived, careening onto the scene to find Carol and I standing in a pond of curious onlookers. "Put up your hands, Freak Show!"
I put on a brave front for the crowd, beating my chest and doing my imitation of Chewbaca that everyone likes so much, but it was then, as I knelt in the streets listening to the cops argue over how to detain a 22-foot perp, that I knew for sure. Being a giant sucks ass.
It was a dumb question and as I stood there towering over her, the tip of my penis dangling like mistletoe over the top of her head, I let the frustration well up in an eye-roll before suppressing it with a long breath, which shook the pictures displayed on the shelf. Of course I needed clothes. "Yeah," I said, "But I don't think Big Pete's Big & Tall will cut it.
"Where did the Incredible Hulk get those purple jean shorts?"
Carol laughed but I wasn't really joking, and I thought about pinching her. Realizing a simple pinch would snap her arm like a tortilla chip, though, I settled for glaring angrily at her. After a few short phone calls to local merchants, she shrugged her shoulders at me.
It was only because we sprung for the two-story condo with high ceilings that the public hadn't yet seen my birthday suit, which I'd been wearing since the transformation lay waste to my favorite pearl-snap shirt and the only pair of jeans that makes my package look formidable in any way. Speaking of--
My penis, I measured, was now around a foot, give or take, in length--but, taking proportion into account, it was still nothing to brag about. Brobdingnagian me hadn't lost his sense of shame, so I refused to go out and told Carol to leave and not return until she had found me something to wear. She grabbed her keys and left in a huff. I just stood in the living room trying not to bump into anything.
When Carol returned three hours later, she carried a huge flat box. "Well," I said.
"It's all I could find."
I got ready to scold Carol, and she produced a massive American flag from the box, the sort that fly outside of car dealerships. She said she had bought it from "Slick" Danny Barfield at Barfield Motors. "It'll have to do," I said,"until we find something more permanent."
Carol cut a hole in the middle of the flag, and stitched up the sides where my hips would go. It looked a little like a hospital gown when I put it on, only brighter, and more disrespectful.
With some makeshift raiment covering my shame, we decided to go into town to continue our search for proper pants. After a few unsuccessful attempts at wriggling my way through the front door, I looked at Carol. "I'm just going to have to, you know... Go through it."
Carol thought about protesting, but didn't. There was no other way.
So much to the chagrin of the folks at Valley View Condominium Homes, I got a running start and smashed my way through the front of the building--which, to be perfectly honest, felt pretty good. Almost like I was finally acting like a giant. The trip into town was a bit less vindicating.
As we walked through the streets, eyes fixed constantly to my heaving, star-spangled back, a veteran took exception to my choice of clothing and spat whiskey on my ankle. "You goddamned liberal queer!" he yelled, tilting his head dramatically from his wheelchair. "Go back to Russia." Carol tried to politely explain our situation, and when that didn't calm him, she gave him a push in the opposite direction and he rolled away, flailing his arm.
We roamed around aimlessly for a few more blocks, and as a great crowd began to form behind me, realized that neither of us knew where we were going. As we turned to go home, a throng of dead-eyed rubberneckers staring up at me with camera phones in hand, a little girl on a big wheel came barreling toward me. I stood still for fear of crushing her.
She seemed oblivious to my presence as she rode between my legs. Then, from somewhere beneath my flag-gown, I heard a dreadful, piercing scream.
I knew immediately what had happened. The first casualty of my being a grotesque leviathan was the innocence of the girl's eyes. She saw an awful, awful thing that day, and when I saw the crowd, simultaneously reaching for their cell phones, pointing and screeching about a 22-foot anti-American pervert on the loose, I felt the urge to climb a tall building. "We better go," I said, and Carol agreed. A fat man I took for the girl's father put his phone away and began frantically punching the side of my knee. "You communist pervert!" he said. "I'll kill you!" I glanced down at him, and chuckled at his threat. For a moment, I thought about kicking him, going on a real rampage. But I was tired, and his punches didn't really hurt. The sirens began to wail then and, accepting begrudgingly that I couldn't really hide, I stood silent, my knees together, hoping no one else got a good view of my crank.
This was red letter day for the police department, whose greatest responsibility, generally speaking, was keeping drivers at a reasonable speed and removing unauthorized signs--advertising garage sales, lost pets, and once a prostitute--from utility poles. The officers had dusted off their previously untouched SWAT gear and fired up the cavalry by the time they arrived, careening onto the scene to find Carol and I standing in a pond of curious onlookers. "Put up your hands, Freak Show!"
I put on a brave front for the crowd, beating my chest and doing my imitation of Chewbaca that everyone likes so much, but it was then, as I knelt in the streets listening to the cops argue over how to detain a 22-foot perp, that I knew for sure. Being a giant sucks ass.
Friday, May 28, 2010
People Who Are Not Here
It was June in Dallas, the month in which the heat and the humidity announce their presence and cause elderly women to faint at Six Flags. Cars started to line up outside Buck’s West Village loft, which sat on the third floor of the trendiest building in the trendiest neighborhood in the trendiest city in Texas.
Buck had started early, like he always did in those days, and his girlfriend, Sara, sat on the couch meticulously painting her toenails the color of Barney the Dinosaur. She finished one foot and started on the other as Buck talked to no one in particular and drank from a bottle of Old Crow. The doorbell rang and Sara’s friend Rebecca walked in with a new guy.
He was named Keith, a tall, skinny kid in tall skinny jeans and a shirt that ironically declared that he was a loser. His hair was spiked in the back, and swooped in the front so as to cover one of his eyes, and he wore a bandana, for no apparent reason, on his wrist. This was Dallas.
Buck looked over Keith as the girls began talking.
“Uh, you want some whiskey?”
“Yeah,” Keith said. “Do you have any mixers?”
“We might have some Coke,” Buck said, “But it’s pretty old.”
As Buck tried to relate to Keith’s life as a club promoter, a “dope” job, Sara and Rebecca stood against a wall, discussing someone who was not there.
When Karina walked in, Sara whispered something into Rebecca’s ear to a hearty guffaw. The new girl passed by in her rounds, and Rebecca said, “I love your outfit!”
“Oh, thanks,” said Karina. “You look so cute tonight!”
Karina turned and Sara rolled her eyes. “Jesus,” she said, “She’s so fake.”
In the natural evolution of the party, Karina found herself standing in a silent circle with the two girls. Every once in a while, the girls would sip their margaritas or check their phones, but no one spoke until Monica showed up.
Monica was a petite trust fund princess from outside of Waco, who came to Dallas to be nearer to Northpark Mall. She was a lofty, too skinny brunette, and, according to Karina, a card-carrying slut--or would be, anyway, if all sluts were issued identification cards to confirm their status as such.
“You know what else,” Karina whispered, “She always talks behind people’s backs. I can’t stand people like that. I’m real, you know?”
The two-woman garrison stood down then and asserted, indeed, that they were real as well.
A new world order, built on sand.
Keith was loudly vomiting up the whiskey supplied him by Buck, who took a sip to the spectacle and, for a moment, enjoyed a feeling of superiority. Rebecca ran off to tend to her guest, and, maybe, Buck thought, hold his hair back. Buck chuckled inaudibly at his joke.
“Hey bitches,” Monica cackled, a drink held aloft, a purse the size of a doormat hanging from the crook of her arm.
“Hey,” the girls said.
“That sucks about Keith,” she said. “He never could hold his liquor.”
“Do you know him?” Karina said.
“Oh yeah,” Monica said, “I introduced the two.” Monica’s voice turned quiet and she cast a stare at the ground. “I know you’re her friend,” Monica said, cutting her eyes back up at Sara, “But seriously, what’s up with Rebecca’s hair?”
Monica and Karina laughed, then Sara joined in. “I don’t know,” she said. “I tried to tell her, but...” She let her words dry up, her mouth still open.
“I mean, I love the girl,” Monica stipulated, “But she looks like Charles Manson.”
The girls laughed a stifled laugh, and Keith emerged with Rebecca from the bathroom, looking pale.
“Hey girl,” they said when Rebecca returned.
The music had turned from Kid Cudi to Miles Davis, and only four remained in the trendiest loft in the trendiest part of the trendiest city in Texas. Keith slept sitting up as Buck sipped his whiskey dead-eyed, and Sara and Rebecca sat on the couch speaking at a slightly less frenetic pace about people who were no longer there. “I mean, Karina’s nice,” Sara said, “But...” She looked at Rebecca to smash the ball from its perch on the tee.
“She’s such a slut,” Rebecca swung, her face hinting at incredulity. “And Monica, it’s like...”
“She’s so fucking fake,” Sara deduced. “I hate that."
Buck had started early, like he always did in those days, and his girlfriend, Sara, sat on the couch meticulously painting her toenails the color of Barney the Dinosaur. She finished one foot and started on the other as Buck talked to no one in particular and drank from a bottle of Old Crow. The doorbell rang and Sara’s friend Rebecca walked in with a new guy.
He was named Keith, a tall, skinny kid in tall skinny jeans and a shirt that ironically declared that he was a loser. His hair was spiked in the back, and swooped in the front so as to cover one of his eyes, and he wore a bandana, for no apparent reason, on his wrist. This was Dallas.
Buck looked over Keith as the girls began talking.
“Uh, you want some whiskey?”
“Yeah,” Keith said. “Do you have any mixers?”
“We might have some Coke,” Buck said, “But it’s pretty old.”
As Buck tried to relate to Keith’s life as a club promoter, a “dope” job, Sara and Rebecca stood against a wall, discussing someone who was not there.
When Karina walked in, Sara whispered something into Rebecca’s ear to a hearty guffaw. The new girl passed by in her rounds, and Rebecca said, “I love your outfit!”
“Oh, thanks,” said Karina. “You look so cute tonight!”
Karina turned and Sara rolled her eyes. “Jesus,” she said, “She’s so fake.”
In the natural evolution of the party, Karina found herself standing in a silent circle with the two girls. Every once in a while, the girls would sip their margaritas or check their phones, but no one spoke until Monica showed up.
Monica was a petite trust fund princess from outside of Waco, who came to Dallas to be nearer to Northpark Mall. She was a lofty, too skinny brunette, and, according to Karina, a card-carrying slut--or would be, anyway, if all sluts were issued identification cards to confirm their status as such.
“You know what else,” Karina whispered, “She always talks behind people’s backs. I can’t stand people like that. I’m real, you know?”
The two-woman garrison stood down then and asserted, indeed, that they were real as well.
A new world order, built on sand.
Keith was loudly vomiting up the whiskey supplied him by Buck, who took a sip to the spectacle and, for a moment, enjoyed a feeling of superiority. Rebecca ran off to tend to her guest, and, maybe, Buck thought, hold his hair back. Buck chuckled inaudibly at his joke.
“Hey bitches,” Monica cackled, a drink held aloft, a purse the size of a doormat hanging from the crook of her arm.
“Hey,” the girls said.
“That sucks about Keith,” she said. “He never could hold his liquor.”
“Do you know him?” Karina said.
“Oh yeah,” Monica said, “I introduced the two.” Monica’s voice turned quiet and she cast a stare at the ground. “I know you’re her friend,” Monica said, cutting her eyes back up at Sara, “But seriously, what’s up with Rebecca’s hair?”
Monica and Karina laughed, then Sara joined in. “I don’t know,” she said. “I tried to tell her, but...” She let her words dry up, her mouth still open.
“I mean, I love the girl,” Monica stipulated, “But she looks like Charles Manson.”
The girls laughed a stifled laugh, and Keith emerged with Rebecca from the bathroom, looking pale.
“Hey girl,” they said when Rebecca returned.
The music had turned from Kid Cudi to Miles Davis, and only four remained in the trendiest loft in the trendiest part of the trendiest city in Texas. Keith slept sitting up as Buck sipped his whiskey dead-eyed, and Sara and Rebecca sat on the couch speaking at a slightly less frenetic pace about people who were no longer there. “I mean, Karina’s nice,” Sara said, “But...” She looked at Rebecca to smash the ball from its perch on the tee.
“She’s such a slut,” Rebecca swung, her face hinting at incredulity. “And Monica, it’s like...”
“She’s so fucking fake,” Sara deduced. “I hate that."
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Bathroom Break
Jason and Dave bristled in their chairs, Jason’s fingers tapping in succession down on the table. Their martinis had gone dry fifteen minutes before, but the girls from Burleson were engaged in that screeching, cackle-laden brand of conversation wont of some girls at that age, and they failed to notice.
Dave thought he heard one of them say she had a fever, but she was just talking about Justin Bieber. He cut a glance at Jason, his eyebrows raised and said, “Well, I’m going to powder my nose.”
Jason leaped from his seat and grabbed his European shoulder pouch. It was not a purse.
Jason made a beeline for the stall, while Dave checked on the thickness of his chinstrap. In the world of chinstraps, after all, vigilance is as necessary as, say, a precision trimmer, or the audacity to go into public with a chinstrap.
From his position in the stall, Jason groaned a horrible, guttural groan. “This is going terribly,” he said, speaking over the Thompson gun discharging beneath him. “A couple of dead fish out there.”
“Yeah,” Dave agreed, pulling a pair of trimmers from his European shoulder pouch, which was in no way a purse. “And did you see that girl’s eyeliner? I didn’t know we were going out with a couple of raccoons.”
“So 2004,” Jason grunted.
The Thompson gun started up again and then cut off abruptly. It was jammed, maybe. Then—it sounded like a dying bear. It smelled like a long-dead bear.
“Did you see my girl’s handbag?” Dave said, carefully disposing of rogue stubble. “It’s like, ‘the seventh grade called, it wants its taste in accessories back.’”
“You’re such a bitch,” Jason muttered, his teeth grinding audibly. “I love it, dude.”
“Are you almost done in there?” Dave said.
“Almost,” Jason said cryptically.
Dave unplugged the clippers and wrapped the cord around his hand. From inside the stall, the Thompson gun rattled fiercely for a moment or two before giving way to a Howitzer blast and, finally, silence.
Outside, the girls from Burleson were gone.
“Well,” Dave said, “I feel kind of bad. We were in there for a long time.”
Jason nodded.
“Let’s go get some ice cream!”
Dave thought he heard one of them say she had a fever, but she was just talking about Justin Bieber. He cut a glance at Jason, his eyebrows raised and said, “Well, I’m going to powder my nose.”
Jason leaped from his seat and grabbed his European shoulder pouch. It was not a purse.
Jason made a beeline for the stall, while Dave checked on the thickness of his chinstrap. In the world of chinstraps, after all, vigilance is as necessary as, say, a precision trimmer, or the audacity to go into public with a chinstrap.
From his position in the stall, Jason groaned a horrible, guttural groan. “This is going terribly,” he said, speaking over the Thompson gun discharging beneath him. “A couple of dead fish out there.”
“Yeah,” Dave agreed, pulling a pair of trimmers from his European shoulder pouch, which was in no way a purse. “And did you see that girl’s eyeliner? I didn’t know we were going out with a couple of raccoons.”
“So 2004,” Jason grunted.
The Thompson gun started up again and then cut off abruptly. It was jammed, maybe. Then—it sounded like a dying bear. It smelled like a long-dead bear.
“Did you see my girl’s handbag?” Dave said, carefully disposing of rogue stubble. “It’s like, ‘the seventh grade called, it wants its taste in accessories back.’”
“You’re such a bitch,” Jason muttered, his teeth grinding audibly. “I love it, dude.”
“Are you almost done in there?” Dave said.
“Almost,” Jason said cryptically.
Dave unplugged the clippers and wrapped the cord around his hand. From inside the stall, the Thompson gun rattled fiercely for a moment or two before giving way to a Howitzer blast and, finally, silence.
Outside, the girls from Burleson were gone.
“Well,” Dave said, “I feel kind of bad. We were in there for a long time.”
Jason nodded.
“Let’s go get some ice cream!”
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Kids These Days
Oh sure, young man, you know it all. I guess you’ve just figured everything out. You know exactly what life has to offer. Yeah, I know. I’ve been there. But let me tell you something: You don’t know a thing.
Life isn’t about Playstation and trying to feel up young women. Those are nice things, sure, but you think that’s what life is? It’s not--and I know, son. I’ve been on this earth for 23 years, and I’ve learned a thing or two. No, no, life isn’t about Full House marathons, or two-for-a dollar tacos, which seems like a great deal until you find a pubic hair. Life is all about candiru fish. Oh, never heard of it, have you? Well, that’s surprising. I imagined Miley might have covered that in one of her songs.
Yeah, of course I’m being facetious you pubescent ignoramus. I wouldn’t know in the first place, and from all I can tell, her subject matter extends about as far as semi-threatening boys in old pickup trucks--so you know they have that ever-so-charming down-home quality to them. But shut up, kid, I’m not done. I’ll leave you plenty of time to get back to that Jonas Brothers concert. And that’s another thing: Back in my day, rock stars had unprotected sex with women of ill repute, and we loved them for it. But that’s beside the point.
Hey, go get me a beer so I can get my thoughts together...
(Several minutes later)
Thanks kid. Anyway—damn, that’s good—you want a beer? You’re 12? Never stopped me, but suit yourself.
Listen here: you don’t know a thing, regardless of what your TAAS test score might have me believe. Have you ever woken up in a gorilla suit, covered in blood? No? Yeah, exactly--you don’t know a thing. Have you ever bought a woman an engagement ring and proposed as part of an elaborate April Fool’s joke? No, that’s not mean—that’s life, kid.
Have you ever spit whiskey at an active member of congress? Ha. Then what do you know? What could you possibly know about life until you’ve been tazed by a Puerto Rican ice-head in a clown suit?
Have you ever written a beautiful script—set onboard an ill-fated steam liner, of a love so strong it transcends all economic and social barriers—only to find out that Titanic came out ten fucking years ago? I didn’t think so. But that’s what life is all about, kid. Well, that, and the candiru fish.
Oh, right, the candiru fish.
If you really want to know what life is all about, consider the candiru fish. It’s a small, parasitic fish native to the Amazon. Anyhow, it’s been known to swim up your urethra when you’re taking a piss. It gets lodged in there—in your pee hole—until a doctor removes it, which sometimes takes surgery. Stop crying—you’re almost a man. Start acting like it.
So you want to know what life is? Life is hanging out in a river, taking a piss, when all of a sudden a fish with spines on its back lodges itself in your urethra. Oh, it’s never happened to me personally, but this guy I know—he had to have surgery, and when they were done with him, it looked like he had a bunch of Slim Jims hanging from his lower torso.
I’m not saying it will happen to you. I’m just saying that it could; and if it doesn’t, something equally bad will happen—the candiru is just a metaphor, you see. It could be an ex-wife who lodges herself in your urethra—or the IRS—or a maybe a pushy 12-year-old. But at some point down the line, you’ll be the candiru fish, willfully swimming up someone else’s urethra. And that, young man, is what living is all about. Do you understand? Good. Now dry those eyes. It’s time for your Little League game.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Excerpts From "The Sexiest Vampire"
Dylan and Maria lay in Maria’s bed talking about nothing in particular. The sun was going down, and Dylan felt hungry for blood. Or Taco Bell, maybe. Maria got up to go to the bathroom, and Dylan feigned sleep. He knew that if he was asleep, he might be allowed to stay the night. Humans, unlike vampires, are hesitant to wake someone when they’re asleep--a charming attribute, Dylan thought.
Behind his closed eyes, he listened as the sink ran, and he went over his game plan. She’d lie down, and maybe try to rile him awake. He’d whimper and sort of roll around a little. Eventually, she’d accept it. Then it would be groping time.
The sink stopped and he let his mouth hang agape just a bit. He tried to pull air through his nasal passages to produce a snoring sound. Through his eyelids, he could see that the sun had almost set.
Dylan heard Maria walk into her room, but she didn’t shut the door. She sat on the bed, and shook him. “Dylan,” she said, whispering at first. “Dylan.”
She shook him harder, but he remained steadfast. “Dylan--,” she finally said. “My Dad said you have to leave.”
Dylan employed phase two, and rolled over gingerly. “What?” he groaned, “Did I fall asleep?”
“I guess,” said Maria. “But, um, aren’t you a vampire?”
“Of course I am,” whimpered Dylan, still holding tight to the plan.
“I thought vampires don’t sleep at night.”
“No, yeah, I know,” Dylan said, sitting up finally. “I just thought...”
“I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” she said, pulling him toward the door.
Dylan wanted to protest, but he couldn’t.
“Man, this is bullshit,” he finally said.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing.”
Friday, April 2, 2010
Excerpts From "The Sexiest Vampire"
“Please,” said Maria. “I’m not asking you to give up your family. I’m asking you to love me.”
Dylan’s eyes stood on hers unflinching. Through her hand, he felt something virgin, something new. That rare and exhilarating feeling of going somewhere you don’t know—of watching something that you don’t quite understand.
Looking into her eyes, Maria was at a dramatic precipice. Dylan wanted to pull her back. He wanted to pull her into his arms and reassure her, protect her. But the feeling was so new, so powerful and so foreign that he balked at the idea. Is this love? he thought. Is this it?
These are the moments, the decisions, which will not be forgotten, for good or for ill. Strangely, Dylan recognized this. And as he walked away from Maria, as he saw that rare, anxious energy deflating, he held his head a little higher.
Dylan knew that it wasn’t love. No, Dylan knew that this strange feeling was not a real love for Maria, but rather a severe case of diarrhea.
Dylan hoped the kids would turn out all right. Then he started running, because it was really severe diarrhea.
Dylan’s eyes stood on hers unflinching. Through her hand, he felt something virgin, something new. That rare and exhilarating feeling of going somewhere you don’t know—of watching something that you don’t quite understand.
Looking into her eyes, Maria was at a dramatic precipice. Dylan wanted to pull her back. He wanted to pull her into his arms and reassure her, protect her. But the feeling was so new, so powerful and so foreign that he balked at the idea. Is this love? he thought. Is this it?
These are the moments, the decisions, which will not be forgotten, for good or for ill. Strangely, Dylan recognized this. And as he walked away from Maria, as he saw that rare, anxious energy deflating, he held his head a little higher.
Dylan knew that it wasn’t love. No, Dylan knew that this strange feeling was not a real love for Maria, but rather a severe case of diarrhea.
Dylan hoped the kids would turn out all right. Then he started running, because it was really severe diarrhea.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Reginald Pennyfarthing’s Golden Rules For Elegance, Success, and More Laudanum Than You Could Ever Handle
Vol. 1: Behaviour
1.Remember that being a Dandy, and thereby living a successful (if not always coherent) life, is about superiority. Do not attempt to find commonality with your underlings. Whether a Burger King employee or a savage on the island of Borneo, Reginald Pennyfarthing leaves no doubt as to who is the British gentleman and who is the very dross of society. Perhaps you shouldn’t either.
2.Treat ladies as ladies. Once, I was in a stagecoach passing through the interior of Siam, when I saw a young native woman on the side of the road. She looked rather tired and famished. Naturally, I was disgusted. However, Reginald Pennyfarthing is nothing if not a gentleman. I hit my driver with a crop whip and instructed him to halt. That he did, and for a mere three pence, I allowed the young woman to hold onto the side of our coach for most of the rest of her journey. If she wasn’t so filthy, I rather fancy I could’ve had her in my bedchamber that night. The lesson is, treat a lady like a lady.
3.Naguib Mahfouz, who I’d imagine is some sort of Indian guide, once said, “You can tell whether a man is clever by his answers. You can tell whether a man is wise by his questions.” Well, that bit rings nice, but I’m here to tell you it’s utterly untrue. Dandies aren’t dandies because they ask questions; they are dandies because they ridicule those who do. Should you be asked a question to which you don’t have the answer, chuckle in such a condescending way that all those around you will find the asker to be a dullard not fit for your company.
4.There is never a situation ill suited for a drink. A funeral, a baby shower, even an alcoholics anonymous meeting—a true dandy does not turn down a drink, unless, of course, it is offered by an underling, in which case you deride him for whatever swill he is drinking. And then take it.
5.Thou shalt wear a moustache. This is an easy one. Of course, the moustache has gone out of fashion somewhat courtesy of your Cosmopolitans and Men’s Healths of the world, which distribute anti-moustache propaganda like the very Josef Goebbels of facial hair. But this shouldn’t stop you from cultivating your moustache with all the care of a newborn. And despite what women might say, know this: They love the bristly feel of a man’s ‘tache against their face.
Next: Vol. 2: Diet
1.Remember that being a Dandy, and thereby living a successful (if not always coherent) life, is about superiority. Do not attempt to find commonality with your underlings. Whether a Burger King employee or a savage on the island of Borneo, Reginald Pennyfarthing leaves no doubt as to who is the British gentleman and who is the very dross of society. Perhaps you shouldn’t either.
2.Treat ladies as ladies. Once, I was in a stagecoach passing through the interior of Siam, when I saw a young native woman on the side of the road. She looked rather tired and famished. Naturally, I was disgusted. However, Reginald Pennyfarthing is nothing if not a gentleman. I hit my driver with a crop whip and instructed him to halt. That he did, and for a mere three pence, I allowed the young woman to hold onto the side of our coach for most of the rest of her journey. If she wasn’t so filthy, I rather fancy I could’ve had her in my bedchamber that night. The lesson is, treat a lady like a lady.
3.Naguib Mahfouz, who I’d imagine is some sort of Indian guide, once said, “You can tell whether a man is clever by his answers. You can tell whether a man is wise by his questions.” Well, that bit rings nice, but I’m here to tell you it’s utterly untrue. Dandies aren’t dandies because they ask questions; they are dandies because they ridicule those who do. Should you be asked a question to which you don’t have the answer, chuckle in such a condescending way that all those around you will find the asker to be a dullard not fit for your company.
4.There is never a situation ill suited for a drink. A funeral, a baby shower, even an alcoholics anonymous meeting—a true dandy does not turn down a drink, unless, of course, it is offered by an underling, in which case you deride him for whatever swill he is drinking. And then take it.
5.Thou shalt wear a moustache. This is an easy one. Of course, the moustache has gone out of fashion somewhat courtesy of your Cosmopolitans and Men’s Healths of the world, which distribute anti-moustache propaganda like the very Josef Goebbels of facial hair. But this shouldn’t stop you from cultivating your moustache with all the care of a newborn. And despite what women might say, know this: They love the bristly feel of a man’s ‘tache against their face.
Next: Vol. 2: Diet
Sunday, March 28, 2010
When It Rains, It Pours
“Come to the light, my son.” The baritone voice beckoned me through the little hole in the clouds. “We have an open bar, free Snuggies for all, and a beer pong tournament at 4:15.”
At this point, I can’t help but think I made it. I did it. Some sort of error on the books, and all my transgressions were overlooked. That bungee jumping accident sure sucked, but I’m headed to a land of milk and honey—if by milk I mean booze, and by honey I mean the most comfortable wearable blanket in the history of mankind.
The time I dropped the neighbor’s cat off the roof to see if they really did always land on their feet (they don’t); the time I convinced Doug Becker to start smoking; spooking the cows at Old Man McCaskey’s farm; telling those kids that Santa Claus was mauled to death by polar bears; all gone, all, as they might say on “Law & Order,” stricken from the record.
I start to wonder how this could’ve happened, but then I arrive at the gates. The man standing behind the podium has an otherworldly beard, long and white and magnificent. Then he sees my beard and says, “Hey--beard-bros,” and offers me a high five. “Come on in,” he says. “Here’s your ID badge and your Segway scooter,” because Segway scooters are the preferred mode of transportation here.
Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” is pouring from unseen speakers, and I loudly exclaim that this is the best song of all time. Then I feel bad, because Jimi Hendrix is standing right there and I think, well, this is awkward. Jimi gives me a reassuring look though, because, well, Jimi’s just that kind of guy. Then, we high five.
To our right is a buffet, like Golden Corral, only the food looks good. After the beer pong tourney, I think, I’m headed straight for the taco bar.
When the beer pong tournament began, though, so did the trouble. It seems I left my shot back on earth somewhere. After my fifth miss in a row, I yell “Goddamnit!” and brace myself for some sort of punishment. Only nothing happens.
15 minutes later, I’m on the verge of madness. I’m partnered with George Wallace, who is an adroit Beirut player—and I still haven’t made a cup. “Pull it together, dick-head,” he says, and I say, “Sorry Mr. Wallace.” And I am, but that doesn’t help my beer pong game at all. We’re eliminated after a skunking courtesy of Hendrix and Frank Sinatra. Wallace shakes his head and looks me over. “You know, I’ve never been eliminated in the first round before—thanks a lot, block-head.”
Up there, the rules are different. After losing, you’re required to do a keg stand of at least 45 seconds. I’m already full of beer, though, so I spew after 30. Then Plato calls me a pussy, and I’m really embarrassed. “Stranglehold” is still blaring, and as much as I love that song, Jesus, let’s have some variety.
Then it’s dinnertime. I’m too full to eat though, and the smell emanating from the steam trays are making me nauseous. For the 106th time that day, Nugent is saying, “Come on, come on, come on, come on baby,” and I think I’d like to leave. I drive my Segway to headquarters and ask to be shown to my room. “Are you sure we wouldn’t like to eat? We’re catered by Golden Corral,” says the man at the desk, and I say no.
It was then that I noticed that this guy was red and covered in scales, and I think of course—of course! It was Golden Corral—this can’t possibly be Heaven. And the scaly guy says, “Of course not—you didn’t honestly think you
were...” He starts laughing and tells me that the “Come to the light” bit was just something they like to do to fuck with the newcomers.
Then he starts laughing again and shows me to my room, which looks like something out of a seedy, small-town motel—the sort of place where impressionable teens come to get pregnant. The bed is covered in stains and the television shows nothing but “Tila Tequila’s Double Shot of Love” and “Carnie Wilson: Unstapled.” There’s a picture of a sad clown on the wall. “Stranglehold” is even louder in here. I’d just like to go to sleep, but that’s impossible in this cacophonous cell. So instead, I wrap myself in a Snuggie—which, I should add, is the absolute peak of practical comfort—and watch Tila Tequila, and I can’t help but wonder if true love is really what she’s after.
To top it all off, I look at my ID badge and notice that my name has been misspelled. Then I just have to laugh because, well, when it rains, it pours.
At this point, I can’t help but think I made it. I did it. Some sort of error on the books, and all my transgressions were overlooked. That bungee jumping accident sure sucked, but I’m headed to a land of milk and honey—if by milk I mean booze, and by honey I mean the most comfortable wearable blanket in the history of mankind.
The time I dropped the neighbor’s cat off the roof to see if they really did always land on their feet (they don’t); the time I convinced Doug Becker to start smoking; spooking the cows at Old Man McCaskey’s farm; telling those kids that Santa Claus was mauled to death by polar bears; all gone, all, as they might say on “Law & Order,” stricken from the record.
I start to wonder how this could’ve happened, but then I arrive at the gates. The man standing behind the podium has an otherworldly beard, long and white and magnificent. Then he sees my beard and says, “Hey--beard-bros,” and offers me a high five. “Come on in,” he says. “Here’s your ID badge and your Segway scooter,” because Segway scooters are the preferred mode of transportation here.
Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” is pouring from unseen speakers, and I loudly exclaim that this is the best song of all time. Then I feel bad, because Jimi Hendrix is standing right there and I think, well, this is awkward. Jimi gives me a reassuring look though, because, well, Jimi’s just that kind of guy. Then, we high five.
To our right is a buffet, like Golden Corral, only the food looks good. After the beer pong tourney, I think, I’m headed straight for the taco bar.
When the beer pong tournament began, though, so did the trouble. It seems I left my shot back on earth somewhere. After my fifth miss in a row, I yell “Goddamnit!” and brace myself for some sort of punishment. Only nothing happens.
15 minutes later, I’m on the verge of madness. I’m partnered with George Wallace, who is an adroit Beirut player—and I still haven’t made a cup. “Pull it together, dick-head,” he says, and I say, “Sorry Mr. Wallace.” And I am, but that doesn’t help my beer pong game at all. We’re eliminated after a skunking courtesy of Hendrix and Frank Sinatra. Wallace shakes his head and looks me over. “You know, I’ve never been eliminated in the first round before—thanks a lot, block-head.”
Up there, the rules are different. After losing, you’re required to do a keg stand of at least 45 seconds. I’m already full of beer, though, so I spew after 30. Then Plato calls me a pussy, and I’m really embarrassed. “Stranglehold” is still blaring, and as much as I love that song, Jesus, let’s have some variety.
Then it’s dinnertime. I’m too full to eat though, and the smell emanating from the steam trays are making me nauseous. For the 106th time that day, Nugent is saying, “Come on, come on, come on, come on baby,” and I think I’d like to leave. I drive my Segway to headquarters and ask to be shown to my room. “Are you sure we wouldn’t like to eat? We’re catered by Golden Corral,” says the man at the desk, and I say no.
It was then that I noticed that this guy was red and covered in scales, and I think of course—of course! It was Golden Corral—this can’t possibly be Heaven. And the scaly guy says, “Of course not—you didn’t honestly think you
were...” He starts laughing and tells me that the “Come to the light” bit was just something they like to do to fuck with the newcomers.Then he starts laughing again and shows me to my room, which looks like something out of a seedy, small-town motel—the sort of place where impressionable teens come to get pregnant. The bed is covered in stains and the television shows nothing but “Tila Tequila’s Double Shot of Love” and “Carnie Wilson: Unstapled.” There’s a picture of a sad clown on the wall. “Stranglehold” is even louder in here. I’d just like to go to sleep, but that’s impossible in this cacophonous cell. So instead, I wrap myself in a Snuggie—which, I should add, is the absolute peak of practical comfort—and watch Tila Tequila, and I can’t help but wonder if true love is really what she’s after.
To top it all off, I look at my ID badge and notice that my name has been misspelled. Then I just have to laugh because, well, when it rains, it pours.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Musings For Misers: Warm Memories
Well you see, when I was a kid, I just loved those “Weekend At Bernie’s” films. I used to lie awake at night and wish that Bernie would come over to my house, and I could party with him. So on my birthday, sure enough, up saunters a man almost identical to my hero—right down to the two goons carrying him about. So we partied for a while, and Bernie leaned to me and said, “Happy birthday, Josh.” That’s when I knew something was amiss.
Miffed, I took the knife we had used to cut the cake, and stabbed Bernie in the chest—you know, to make sure it was really him. To my surprise, he started screaming and bleeding excessively.
To answer your question, yeah, I miss my father.
Miffed, I took the knife we had used to cut the cake, and stabbed Bernie in the chest—you know, to make sure it was really him. To my surprise, he started screaming and bleeding excessively.
To answer your question, yeah, I miss my father.
The Brash Rich Kid's Guide To Surviving A Horror Film
All right guys, here’s the situation: Our truck broke down on our way to the remote cabin. I know, drag.
Luckily, we found another remote cabin just a few miles away. We found some human limbs floating around the creek that runs behind the cabin, but it should be cool. We came here to do some carefree underage drinking and sexing, and no engine trouble is going to stop us now. Nonetheless, this smacks of a horror movie all over, so let’s get organized.
First of all, we should split up. Like the old saying goes, ‘united we fall.’ Okay, so I’ll be perpetually cocky and indignant, even when one of you is hacked to bits by some mysterious something. My function is basically to taunt fate and heckle you whenever you are frightened, no matter how justified your fear may be. Slutty girl—yeah, you—you get naked at inexplicable times, but—and this is a firm rule—T&A only. We’re still gunning for the ‘R’ rating, here people, so I don’t want to see so much as a single rogue pubic hair.
I’ll bury you in double entendre, which you’ll like, because you’re the slutty girl, and then we’ll go have sex somewhere. Sound good? Good.
Okay, you—more reserved but still kind of slutty girl. You stick with the timid but handsome guy. Eventually, I’ll need you to go off alone to some seemingly peaceful place, where timid handsome guy confesses his love for you. Shortly thereafter, your new love will be put to the test, when some sort of maniac emerges from the woods with a machete and a Richard Nixon mask. That won’t be a problem, though, because timid handsome guy is unbelievably cool under pressure.
After a few of these creepy run-ins, I’ll get fed up and grab my father’s gun that timid handsome guy didn’t want me to bring in the first place. I’ll burst forth from the cabin, screaming at whoever or whatever is tormenting us. Hell, I might even fire some shots into the air, because this symbolizes my descent into a temporary state of madness. You’ll talk me down eventually, but these taunts will have a terrible, deleterious effect on our multi-ethnic camping group.
Which brings me to you, black guy. I’m going to need you to hang out alone a lot, uttering Afro-American colloquialisms that are so out of date, they will sound as though a wealthy, white screenwriter wrote them for you. You’ll be the perfect balance between timid handsome kid and me—brash, wealthy dickhead—until, that is, you are killed, somewhere around 20 minutes into the picture.
Sadly, I’m afraid only three of us will survive—me, timid-handsome-kid and more-reserved-but-still-kind-of-slutty-girl. Through our ordeal though, you two will find true love, and I’ll find a slightly less dickish perspective on life.
Oh, and my deepest condolences to you, black guy, and you, slutty girl.
Okay, if there are no questions, let’s start wandering around these strange woods aimlessly.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Love Is Like The Sasquatch
You know, love is like the Sasquatch.
You don’t believe it exists at first because only rednecks and Canadians and Canadian rednecks ever claim to have seen it. But then you go on a camping trip in East Texas and something starts throwing large rocks at your tent. Rocks that, if they could talk, might say, “Hey, goober, why don’t you get the hell out of here.” You step outside and hear a deep guttural noise, something like a garbage disposal, only hairier. Then a disheveled biped, that probably smells like a wet gorilla, makes his way across the thicket and you say “Hey man, get my video camera.”
So then Jeff gets your video camera and the result is a shaky, 24-second clip featuring a shadowy figure that could just be one of the Allman Brothers wearing a fur coat. You try to tell your friends back home, but you get the feeling they don’t believe you.
You join the Texas Bigfoot Research Center and spend most of your nights patrolling the woods for evidence. Mostly, you just find deteriorated beer cans and porno magazines, which always makes you laugh because who goes to the woods to do that? But one day, you find a large handprint on your truck and you know he was just there, possibly trying to break in, possibly in order to steal the Corn Nuts you left on the dash. Since it’s the closest you’ve come to an encounter in a while, you share a round of high fives with your new friends. The money you were saving for that engagement ring goes instead to a motion-censor camera. Then your girlfriend’s pissed but you don’t care because it’s the weekend again, and there’s research to be done.
You find some rusted cans of Schlitz and a weatherworn copy of Amateur Asses, but you also find a suspicious looking pile of branches that may or may not be used as a mating ground for Sasquatches. That video that you sent into "Monsterquest" a few months back eventually makes it to air. This is the highlight of your life as an amateur cryptozoologist thus far. Your buddies from the TBRC have a watching party where you drink too much and accidentally piss on Chet’s wife’s cat. It was only a little bit, though, so you don’t tell anyone.
When you get home, your girlfriend’s gone. In her note, she suggests that you might have sex with a Sasquatch and you think, “Oh believe me, I would if I could find the bugger.” A week later, you’re in your tent, making love to a tube of Gogurt and, again, you hear something peculiar outside. So you stop mid-coitus, unsatisfied and kind of sticky. When you go out, nothing is there, but that doesn’t stop you from deconstructing the noises in your Bigfoot Research Lab (formerly your girlfriend’s closet). The noise returns the next night, and this time, you’re prepared. You put the Gogurt away and go out with Chet to investigate. You're disappointed to find a derelict with his pants around his ankles, beating it furiously to a half-disintegrated issue of Swank. When he notices you and Chet, he asks you for some money, so he can get home to Tucson, or maybe it was Texarkana. You and Chet each claim that you don’t carry cash, but that’s not true. The homeless guy probably smells like a wet gorilla but you're not going to get close enough to find out. You bid the homeless guy adieu, and he goes back to his tattered issue of Swank.
Yeah, love is like the Sasquatch.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Musings For Misers 3-23-10
If love is the greatest gift God has given humanity, trampolines are definitely a close second.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Musings For Misers: 3-22-10
One should never look down on homeless people. Because if you make eye contact, they’ll definitely approach your car asking for money. Better to avoid looking in their general direction altogether.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Ostrich-Sized: Musings For Misers Vol. 1
One: I find that t-shirts are the least honest of all garments. Whether it’s a morbidly obese woman cruising her Hoveround in a “2 Hot 4 U” shirt, or a crater-faced teenager wearing the “National Pimps Association” shield proudly through the mall, I find myself staring at these screen-printed lies and fighting the urge to scream "Oh, bullshit."
Two: Whenever I meet someone who says, “I’ll try anything once,” I give them instructions to kill and dismember my fictional archenemy, the noble and magnanimous Don Julio Marquez. If they balk at my command, I harangue them for their flimsy life motto.
Three: Never punch a small child, no matter how irritating they may be. Now I know this seems an obvious bit of advice, but trust me, it’s much better to push them down the stairs. Accidents will happen, after all.
Four: When I die, I’d like to be taxidermied in a menacing, upright position and put in a bear's den, for decoration.
Five: One of my hobbies is dressing up in a trench coat and hanging out around the Twilight section of Barnes & Noble with my hands in my pockets—or are they?
Monday, February 1, 2010
Bitter Envy At Zuckerman's Farm: A Play In One Act
SCENE
A sun kissed pigsty at Zuckerman’s farm. A group of pigs are speaking to one another inaudibly and wallowing in their own filth. The sound of a crowd can be heard gathering at an adjacent barn and taking pictures. Enter Pete, the pig.
DOUG: Hey, how are you Pete? Where have you been?
PETE [dejected]: I was just over at Wilbur’s barn. You know what it says now?
DOUG: What’s that?
PETE [incredulous]: “Some Pig.”
DOUG: Unbelievable.
PETE: I know, right? Can you believe these people? Fooled by a spider and a pig with no loyalty to his own kind.
DOUG: Well, that’s America for you. Last week, it’s Heidi Montag and this week it’s a different pig altogether.
PETE [laughing]: Nice one, dude.
DOUG: Yeah, I thought of it this morning over slop. It might not be so funny in a couple of months though, when we’re headed to the shambles, and he’s still doing back-flips like some kind of jackass.
PETE: You know what he is—he’s a damned Uncle Tom.
[Enter the goose]
GOOSE: Well, I never—Those are the words of a racist-acist-acist. I’d have thought better of you lads.
PETE: I’m sorry Goose, but I know an Uncle Tom when I see one, and that there’s an Uncle Tom-Om-Om.
GOOSE: Oh, that’s terrible-errible, making fun of my speech impediment-ediment-ediment. I can’t wait for Zuckerman to make bacon out of the both of you pillow biters.
[Goose goes out]
PETE: What a bitch.
DOUG: Seriously.
PETE: Look at that blue ribbon up there. It’s all a damned lie. Uncle was the best pig in the county. Everybody knew it, too.
DOUG: What really chaps my ass is how he won—with the word “Humble.” Yeah, it’s easy to be humble when you have a goddamn eight-legged promoter watching your ass at every turn.
PETE: It’s a fucking travesty is what it is. Uncle’s dead and gone, and Wilbur’s dancing for the people that ate him. It’s worse than the 1988 Olympics.
DOUG: What?
PETE: You know, Roy Jones Jr. He lost to some South Korean in South Korea even though Jones beat his ass and everyone saw it.
DOUG: Oh, well that makes sense, then.
PETE: Jesus, Doug, I thought you liked sports.
DOUG: I’m more of a mixed martial arts guy.
PETE: Oh well, to each his own, I guess. The point is, that Wilbur is a bastard of a pig.
DOUG: You said it buddy.
[Enter Charlotte]
CHARLOTTE: Salutations.
PETE (sarcastically): Salutations, Charlotte.
CHARLOTTE: How are you boys on this lovely summer’s day?
[Doug looks away in disgust]
PETE: Oh, yeah, it’s pretty good there Charlotte. You know, just wallowing around in mud, hanging out, wishing I wasn’t going to be slaughtered and picked apart in a few months.
[Charlotte is taken aback. Looks at Pete quizzically]
PETE: Say, uh, Charlotte. You wouldn’t know any way I could, you know, avoid being slaughtered and picked apart for human sustenance, would you?
CHARLOTTE: I’m afraid I wouldn’t, Pete. I apologize.
PETE: Oh, no problem, it’s just that, you know, I heard...
[Doug cuts him off]
DOUG: Now, no need to--
PETE (speaking over Doug): I heard that you were doing some promotional work for Wilbur over there, saving his life, preserving the innocence of that little girl Fern, you know, all that.
CHARLOTTE (embarrassed): Oh, well, no, I’m afraid you misheard.
PETE: Oh, cut the crap Charlotte. We already know.
CHARLOTTE: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
PETE: You know, Charlotte, I’ve spent most of my life wallowing in shit, but I’ve never even heard of a load like the one you’re giving me right now. So why don’t you just level with us. We’re all adults here.
CHARLOTTE (exasperated): Okay, okay, look: When Wilbur came here, he was just a frightened runt and he was ever so cute. Anyway, the old sheep told him he was going to be killed and I had to do something to calm him down. He was just so...vulnerable. And cute.
PETE: Right, right, and we’re neither vulnerable nor cute.
CHARLOTTE: Now you’re putting words in my mouth. Let me finish. So I started weaving these webs with words we found around the barn, you know, “radiant,” “terrific,” you know, all those. And the people started showing up. I didn’t know for sure if it would work, and I certainly didn’t mean to offend you fine pigs.
PETE: Yeah, yeah, we live here too, Charlotte, or did you forget? We know the damn story about the damn radiant pig and the damn dumb-asses who flock to see him every damn weekend.
CHARLOTTE: Well I don’t see any need for hostility...or language.
PETE: Of course you don’t, you busybody. You get to live a full, natural life. We get to go to the slaughter as soon as that fat fucker Zuckerman gets hungry.
DOUG: Yeah, just because we didn’t make a show of being ‘vulnerable,’ and ‘cute.’
CHARLOTTE: Look, I said I was sorry. What do you want from me?
PETE (looks at Doug): We want the Wilbur treatment. Like, “Two Kick-Ass Pigs,” right there on top of the barn.
CHARLOTTE: I’m afraid I can’t really do that.
DOUG (shouting): Why not?
CHARLOTTE: I’m getting up there in age, and, you know...
PETE: No, and what?
CHARLOTTE: Well, if every pig at Zuckerman’s farm was “radiant,” or, in your words, “kick-ass,” the promotion might lose its intended effect a bit.
PETE: Oh, I get it. So you can’t keep us from being slaughtered because it might put Wilbur’s not being slaughtered in question. Yeah, real nice Charlotte. Thanks for being such a friend.
CHARLOTTE (ascending her web): I really am terribly sorry, boys.
PETE (yelling at Charlotte): You can take your sorry and shove it up your ass.
DOUG: What a bitch.
PETE: Yeah. And Wilbur—what an asshole.
DOUG: You said it brother.
A sun kissed pigsty at Zuckerman’s farm. A group of pigs are speaking to one another inaudibly and wallowing in their own filth. The sound of a crowd can be heard gathering at an adjacent barn and taking pictures. Enter Pete, the pig.
DOUG: Hey, how are you Pete? Where have you been?
PETE [dejected]: I was just over at Wilbur’s barn. You know what it says now?
DOUG: What’s that?
PETE [incredulous]: “Some Pig.”
DOUG: Unbelievable.
PETE: I know, right? Can you believe these people? Fooled by a spider and a pig with no loyalty to his own kind.
DOUG: Well, that’s America for you. Last week, it’s Heidi Montag and this week it’s a different pig altogether.
PETE [laughing]: Nice one, dude.
DOUG: Yeah, I thought of it this morning over slop. It might not be so funny in a couple of months though, when we’re headed to the shambles, and he’s still doing back-flips like some kind of jackass.
PETE: You know what he is—he’s a damned Uncle Tom.
[Enter the goose]
GOOSE: Well, I never—Those are the words of a racist-acist-acist. I’d have thought better of you lads.
PETE: I’m sorry Goose, but I know an Uncle Tom when I see one, and that there’s an Uncle Tom-Om-Om.
GOOSE: Oh, that’s terrible-errible, making fun of my speech impediment-ediment-ediment. I can’t wait for Zuckerman to make bacon out of the both of you pillow biters.
[Goose goes out]
PETE: What a bitch.
DOUG: Seriously.
PETE: Look at that blue ribbon up there. It’s all a damned lie. Uncle was the best pig in the county. Everybody knew it, too.
DOUG: What really chaps my ass is how he won—with the word “Humble.” Yeah, it’s easy to be humble when you have a goddamn eight-legged promoter watching your ass at every turn.
PETE: It’s a fucking travesty is what it is. Uncle’s dead and gone, and Wilbur’s dancing for the people that ate him. It’s worse than the 1988 Olympics.
DOUG: What?
PETE: You know, Roy Jones Jr. He lost to some South Korean in South Korea even though Jones beat his ass and everyone saw it.
DOUG: Oh, well that makes sense, then.
PETE: Jesus, Doug, I thought you liked sports.
DOUG: I’m more of a mixed martial arts guy.
PETE: Oh well, to each his own, I guess. The point is, that Wilbur is a bastard of a pig.
DOUG: You said it buddy.
[Enter Charlotte]
CHARLOTTE: Salutations.
PETE (sarcastically): Salutations, Charlotte.
CHARLOTTE: How are you boys on this lovely summer’s day?
[Doug looks away in disgust]
PETE: Oh, yeah, it’s pretty good there Charlotte. You know, just wallowing around in mud, hanging out, wishing I wasn’t going to be slaughtered and picked apart in a few months.
[Charlotte is taken aback. Looks at Pete quizzically]
PETE: Say, uh, Charlotte. You wouldn’t know any way I could, you know, avoid being slaughtered and picked apart for human sustenance, would you?
CHARLOTTE: I’m afraid I wouldn’t, Pete. I apologize.
PETE: Oh, no problem, it’s just that, you know, I heard...
[Doug cuts him off]
DOUG: Now, no need to--
PETE (speaking over Doug): I heard that you were doing some promotional work for Wilbur over there, saving his life, preserving the innocence of that little girl Fern, you know, all that.
CHARLOTTE (embarrassed): Oh, well, no, I’m afraid you misheard.
PETE: Oh, cut the crap Charlotte. We already know.
CHARLOTTE: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
PETE: You know, Charlotte, I’ve spent most of my life wallowing in shit, but I’ve never even heard of a load like the one you’re giving me right now. So why don’t you just level with us. We’re all adults here.
CHARLOTTE (exasperated): Okay, okay, look: When Wilbur came here, he was just a frightened runt and he was ever so cute. Anyway, the old sheep told him he was going to be killed and I had to do something to calm him down. He was just so...vulnerable. And cute.
PETE: Right, right, and we’re neither vulnerable nor cute.
CHARLOTTE: Now you’re putting words in my mouth. Let me finish. So I started weaving these webs with words we found around the barn, you know, “radiant,” “terrific,” you know, all those. And the people started showing up. I didn’t know for sure if it would work, and I certainly didn’t mean to offend you fine pigs.
PETE: Yeah, yeah, we live here too, Charlotte, or did you forget? We know the damn story about the damn radiant pig and the damn dumb-asses who flock to see him every damn weekend.
CHARLOTTE: Well I don’t see any need for hostility...or language.
PETE: Of course you don’t, you busybody. You get to live a full, natural life. We get to go to the slaughter as soon as that fat fucker Zuckerman gets hungry.
DOUG: Yeah, just because we didn’t make a show of being ‘vulnerable,’ and ‘cute.’
CHARLOTTE: Look, I said I was sorry. What do you want from me?
PETE (looks at Doug): We want the Wilbur treatment. Like, “Two Kick-Ass Pigs,” right there on top of the barn.
CHARLOTTE: I’m afraid I can’t really do that.
DOUG (shouting): Why not?
CHARLOTTE: I’m getting up there in age, and, you know...
PETE: No, and what?
CHARLOTTE: Well, if every pig at Zuckerman’s farm was “radiant,” or, in your words, “kick-ass,” the promotion might lose its intended effect a bit.
PETE: Oh, I get it. So you can’t keep us from being slaughtered because it might put Wilbur’s not being slaughtered in question. Yeah, real nice Charlotte. Thanks for being such a friend.
CHARLOTTE (ascending her web): I really am terribly sorry, boys.
PETE (yelling at Charlotte): You can take your sorry and shove it up your ass.
DOUG: What a bitch.
PETE: Yeah. And Wilbur—what an asshole.
DOUG: You said it brother.
Fin
Friday, January 15, 2010
The Zoo Jersey Letters
11/26/09
To whom it may concern--
I'd like to begin by informing you that I have been a member of the D----- Zoo for more than a decade. I have supported this institution through good (the arrival of the baby giraffes) and bad (gorilla attacks of 94-5), financially and otherwise. I have donated graciously throughout this span, and refrained from causing a fuss when my son Raymond was bitten by a goat at your petting zoo. But on my last visit (25 November, 2009), I was shocked to learn of your new "Jersey Shore" exhibit. Initially, I was confounded that a new exhibit could be erected without my knowledge. Such additions usually come to ample pomp and circumstance, and aside from that, I tend to keep my ear to the ground, so to speak, on such matters. At first glance, I understood why you would keep the news of this under tight wraps. That you are not under siege from human interest groups already is beyond me. The exhibit, which is touted as "Seaside Heights, Texas" is, alone, enough to have your director arrested for crimes against the state, as well as crimes against humanity. The seven garishly-dressed New Jerseyans (or imitation Jerseyans) were kept in a large enclosure made to look like a sort of low-rent nightclub--all except for the workout area, hair-gelling station, and walk-in closet, which seemed to be sponsored by Ed Hardy. These aren't conditions fit for any human being.
Please consider freeing the Jerseyans, and razing their insulting enclosure.
Worriedly,
Rebecca Poonstone
12/7/09
Ms. Poonstone,
While we here at the D----- Zoo appreciate your consistent support, and have taken your concerns into consideration, we must disagree with your assertion that the "Jersey Shore" exhibit is in any way offensive, or insulting. We may assure you that each of the seven Jerseyans currently staying with us are quite content with their current situation. Following is a list of amenities given the Jerseyans, of which you may not have been previously aware:
To whom it may concern--
I'd like to begin by informing you that I have been a member of the D----- Zoo for more than a decade. I have supported this institution through good (the arrival of the baby giraffes) and bad (gorilla attacks of 94-5), financially and otherwise. I have donated graciously throughout this span, and refrained from causing a fuss when my son Raymond was bitten by a goat at your petting zoo. But on my last visit (25 November, 2009), I was shocked to learn of your new "Jersey Shore" exhibit. Initially, I was confounded that a new exhibit could be erected without my knowledge. Such additions usually come to ample pomp and circumstance, and aside from that, I tend to keep my ear to the ground, so to speak, on such matters. At first glance, I understood why you would keep the news of this under tight wraps. That you are not under siege from human interest groups already is beyond me. The exhibit, which is touted as "Seaside Heights, Texas" is, alone, enough to have your director arrested for crimes against the state, as well as crimes against humanity. The seven garishly-dressed New Jerseyans (or imitation Jerseyans) were kept in a large enclosure made to look like a sort of low-rent nightclub--all except for the workout area, hair-gelling station, and walk-in closet, which seemed to be sponsored by Ed Hardy. These aren't conditions fit for any human being.
Please consider freeing the Jerseyans, and razing their insulting enclosure.
Worriedly,
Rebecca Poonstone
12/7/09
Ms. Poonstone,
While we here at the D----- Zoo appreciate your consistent support, and have taken your concerns into consideration, we must disagree with your assertion that the "Jersey Shore" exhibit is in any way offensive, or insulting. We may assure you that each of the seven Jerseyans currently staying with us are quite content with their current situation. Following is a list of amenities given the Jerseyans, of which you may not have been previously aware:
- Complimentary Italian food delivered fresh daily from Johnny Carino's.
- Complimentary Ed Hardy shirts (Yes, we have a sponsorship deal with the company).
- State of the art workout equipment, for the bros.
- Bose surround sound, and a prodigious collection of music from DJ Skribble, Enigma, and other "House" artists.
- 48 mirrors
- A 52-gallon drum of Paul Mitchell hair gel
- Garlic flavored condoms, courtesy of Trojan and Little Caesar's
- In-house barber, complete with forced black dialect
So, Ms. Poonstone, as you might guess from a quick gander at this list, the kids are quite happy indeed. Again, we appreciate your full support, and look forward to seeing you very soon.
Pacifyingly,
Dr. Robert Peckerton
P.S. I may also assure you that ours are authentic Jerseyans, plucked directly from Seaside Heights.
12/15/09
Dr. Peckerton--
Your insistence that these seven young people (read: human beings!) locked in an enclosure are somehow happy is beyond insulting, and your explanation for their happiness is both unimaginably materialistic and utterly racist. To insinuate that all Italian-Americans like tight-fitting Ed Hardy shirts and excessive amounts of hair gel roughly equates to saying that "Asian-Americans are bad drivers" or "White people are terrible dancers;" these are all stereotypes perpetuated by ignorant, closed-minded buffoons like you, Dr. Peckerton, and they have no place in our post-racial society.
I must insist that you close the exhibit in question at once. Otherwise, I will be forced to halt all membership payments, and never return to your institution. I do not want this; please trust me when I say that you don't either.
Begrudgingly,
Rebecca Poonstone
12/24/09
Ms. Poonstone,
I apologize for the lateness of my reply. With the success of the "Jersey Shore" exhibit, though, and the holiday rush, it seems that I can hardly find a spare moment for spoil-sports such as yourself. First of all, we never insinuated that all Italian-Americans like tight-fitting Ed hardy shirts--just Italian-Americans from Seaside Heights, and even then, there are exceptions to this rule. Let me draw a comparison for you.
The white tiger is a rarity. We currently do not have any with us; just normal, run-of-the-mill bengals, orange in color with black stripes. Now, are we insinuating that all tigers are orange with black stripes? Of course not. We are only insinuating that we have tigers, and most tigers are orange with black stripes; just as we have residents of Seaside Heights in tight-fitting Ed Hardy shirts. That is, we know there are exceptions to the rule--we just haven't come across any quite yet.
The tiger situation might have gotten ugly too, if there were clammy busy-bodies like yourself in the animal kingdom. Thankfully though, there are not.
Happy holidays,
Dr. Robert Peckerton
P.S. Next Friday, the young women in the exhibit will be participating in a cannoli-sucking contest. Fun for the whole family!
P.S.S. My mother was killed by an Asian-American driver going the wrong way down the highway. Draw whatever you may from that tidbit.
12/28/09
Dr. Peckerton--
It has become clear to me that you will not listen to reason. Because of this, I have spent the past couple of days alerting human interest groups across the continental United States to this atrocity. I will not be attending the "cannoli-sucking contest" which is at once sexist, racist and degrading, or, for that matter, any other exhibit in your offensive, two-bit zoo.
Judging by your letters, you are a coarse chauvinist of a man, and I expect nothing less than patronizing double-talk in your response, should I receive one. Frankly, at this point, I don't care. The aforementioned human interest groups will be knocking at your door soon. If I find their actions in any way insufficient or delayed, I will be making my final trip to your zoo, to liberate the enslaved young men and women and return them to Seaside Heights; after which I will hire a lawyer, and attempt to have you jailed for your numerous crimes against society.
For your own sake, hire a lawyer and a bodyguard.
Furiously yours,
Rebecca Poonstone
1/3/10
Ms. Poonstone,
I feel obligated to inform you that your threats come across (much like your husband, if by some miracle you have one) as quite impotent. Let's assume you make it past my armed night watchmen. Let's also assume you have the necessary information to open the enclosure in which the kids reside. Beyond that, let's assume you have a perfect escape route, a cunning manner of escaping my, ahem, two-bit zoo, in the company of seven flamboyantly-dressed Jerseyans.
Even if you had taken all necessary measures to pull off, what seems to me, the impossible, what exactly makes you think the kids would want to leave? They have everything they could possibly want or need in life and this includes the constant attention that few arenas could provide. My zoo, it's safe to say, is one of them.
Since we're catching up, I'm excited to tell you that D-Pow and "The Incident" are pregnant (!), meaning "Seaside Heights, Texas" will be getting a new arrival around November of this year. You must admit, Ms. Poonstone, this is exciting stuff!
In any case, my New Year's resolution was to cease taking hate-mail from wound-up PTA members with sticks up their asses--such as yourself. So, I'm afraid our correspondence has come to an end.
You know, I hear the aquarium has been employing illegal immigrants for astoundingly low wages. Please direct your future bitching there.
Washing my hands completely,
Dr. Robert Peckerton
1/7/10
Dr. Peckerton--
Considering the tone of your last letter, I can't be sure if you'll ever read this. I sure hope you do. Normally, I wouldn't care one way or the other. But this letter is special, because it is coated with anthrax spores. Soon, you will feel as though you're coming down with a cold. Enjoy it, because it will be your last. These cold- and flu-like symptoms are just a precursor to full respiratory collapse. Until then, I'll be scanning the obits, looking for a familiar name.
For human rights everywhere,
Rebecca Poonstone
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Who Is Reginald Pennyfarthing?
Over the past few years, several Americans have approached me, either at my flat or via telephone, to ask if I would help this or that historical society with this or that study. As a man of distinction hardly imaginable for the average American, I always declined--politely of course, and in high style. However, as my gambling debts rose and the number of suitors for my very special, very British gift for refined cultural studies fell, I was faced with an unnerving decision: to remain in Bassetlaw, waiting for ne'er-do-wells to break my thumbs and possibly, if one particularly perturbed bookies held true to his word, sodomize me with a cricket bat; or leave my beloved England for Texas, to work on a rarely-read blog for meagre pay and my thumbs (and virgin bum) in tact.
Reluctantly, I chose Texas.
In my travels, I have seen the basest of humanity, from the barbarous natives of the Australian outback to the overpriced slags in Amsterdam, and I'm not sure either could be outdone by my colleague Mr Crisp, in either boorishness or lack of culture. Operating under the millstone of paltry wages, I have taken up quarters with Crisp, an experience that, if nothing else, has proven that there is ample practical support for every negative American stereotype out there. If not swilling beer or watching Encino Man on DVD (without doubt the worst film I have ever seen), Crisp can be found engaged in the very American practice of scratching oneself while staring blankly at the ceiling. What he lacks in savoir-faire, he makes up for in a mouth fouler than most cesspools I've come across while travelling abroad. In this vein, I'd like to halt the introduction for a moment, in lieu of a plea: if you've any mercy in your heart, you will read this wretched blog if only long enough to liberate me from this abject shabbiness.
I've noticed since my arrival the attention of more than a few curious eyes, drawn, undoubtedly, by my rarely matched sense of style, and my persistent yet understated love for all things elegant. This, again, is understandable. Since birth, I have prescribed to the lost art of dandyism, a lifestyle marked by garish fashion, flamboyant gait, and an unflappable facade of leisureliness. At the age of four I was scolded by my father, a Prometheus Pennyfarthing, Esq., for joining in a neighbourhood football match (that's "soccer," for you animals). This was a rare misstep and ever since, I have refrained from engaging in such "manly" trifles as football, hunting, and heterosexual copulation, choosing instead to devote my time to the arts, fashion, and cultivating an unmistakable air of superiority. In the spirit of familiarity, here is a short list of things I rather fancy:
Reluctantly, I chose Texas.
In my travels, I have seen the basest of humanity, from the barbarous natives of the Australian outback to the overpriced slags in Amsterdam, and I'm not sure either could be outdone by my colleague Mr Crisp, in either boorishness or lack of culture. Operating under the millstone of paltry wages, I have taken up quarters with Crisp, an experience that, if nothing else, has proven that there is ample practical support for every negative American stereotype out there. If not swilling beer or watching Encino Man on DVD (without doubt the worst film I have ever seen), Crisp can be found engaged in the very American practice of scratching oneself while staring blankly at the ceiling. What he lacks in savoir-faire, he makes up for in a mouth fouler than most cesspools I've come across while travelling abroad. In this vein, I'd like to halt the introduction for a moment, in lieu of a plea: if you've any mercy in your heart, you will read this wretched blog if only long enough to liberate me from this abject shabbiness.
I've noticed since my arrival the attention of more than a few curious eyes, drawn, undoubtedly, by my rarely matched sense of style, and my persistent yet understated love for all things elegant. This, again, is understandable. Since birth, I have prescribed to the lost art of dandyism, a lifestyle marked by garish fashion, flamboyant gait, and an unflappable facade of leisureliness. At the age of four I was scolded by my father, a Prometheus Pennyfarthing, Esq., for joining in a neighbourhood football match (that's "soccer," for you animals). This was a rare misstep and ever since, I have refrained from engaging in such "manly" trifles as football, hunting, and heterosexual copulation, choosing instead to devote my time to the arts, fashion, and cultivating an unmistakable air of superiority. In the spirit of familiarity, here is a short list of things I rather fancy:
- Peacock feathers, to be worn in one's hat or front pocket
- High stockings
- Brandy
- Belittling the natives
- Tea
- Moustaches, and moustache accessories (wax, combs and the like)
- Dignified travel
Here if the reader finds himself asking, "What is dignified travel?," he may cease at once, excuse himself from the screen and go watch a Friends rerun on cable, something a bit less demanding of his undoubtedly sloping brow. Travel, by definition, can be done by anyone. Gyppos, by definition, are travellers, and if I fancied myself as having a thing in common with those mealy-mouthed savages, I would summarily turn to what the Japanese call hara-kiri. The dignified traveller is almost always an Englishman, one who upholds a sense of leisurely elegance throughout his oft-trying journeys abroad. This may mean using the natives as human furniture; it may mean shooting an endangered species and chuckling about it over tea; it almost always means deriding local customs in a journal--always leather-bound, and always carried in the breast pocket.
This brings us back to my association with the woefully undignified Mr Crisp. Commissioned by Crisp, and in a leather-bound journal kept in the front breast pocket, I took to a study of the North Texas suburb of Farmers Branch. In the coming weeks, I will be delivering a concise history of the city, as well as a sort of traveler's log, detailing the good and the bad of my experiences; it will invariably lean toward the latter. Additionally, I will review movies, critique Seppo culture and take questions from the public in an attempt to educate the reader on all matter of dandyism. In hopes of avoiding banality, I'll answer in advance some of your more inevitable, and pressing questions:
- Am I a Dandy? No, you are not.
- How might I become a Dandy? Impossible, I'm afraid. Dandies are born, not made.
- Can I take you out to dinner? Perhaps, (a) if you can afford it, and (b) if you are sufficiently attractive and stylish--doubtful in both cases.
To say I will look forward to acquainting myself with your social mores, fielding your questions and eating your food would be, beyond a betrayal of my gallant ways, a boldface lie. However, the fates have intervened--for reasons beyond my comprehension--to bring us together, and I will approach this latest and most trying portion of my life, as any true dandy, with an easy smile on my face.
Until then, may your stockings stay high, your locks hang low, and may your moustache curl delightfully at each end.
Cheerio,
Reginald T. Pennyfarthing
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