Did you get a cigar? You didn’t? Well then which would you like “It’s a boy” or It’s a girl”? Yes, I am a father. That’s right and depending on your sex you may be a mother or a father too. This occurred to me this morning as I ate my breakfast and watched an interview with that freak of a woman with the giant fake lips that had octuplets after being implanted with fertilized eggs. She was clearly not mentally stable and you probably already know she is single, doesn’t have a job, and already had six children.
So, guess what? You—the tax payer—will get to support her children and all the health problems that going along with multiple births through in vitro fertilization. I think the doctor that doctor that impregnated this lunatic should be responsible for the millions of dollars its going to cost to raise these kids.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
The Steelers Win!
This has been a very good sports year for me. I am a Phillies fan and a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. It's not very often your favorite teams win championships in one year. It happened once before but who knows it may never happen again...
Thursday, January 29, 2009
When I went out to get my recycling bin last night you can imagine how surprised I was to find a tiny little man underneath it. He tried to run but I took off my shoe and pegged him with it. He was only eight inches tall and I was sure I killed him but when I picked him up he bit my thumb. Startled, I nearly dropped him but managed to catch him by the back of his tunic.
“What in the fuck were you doing under my recycling bin?”
“It is the place I call home.”
I held him up to eye level. “Well, it’s a shitty home. You don’t have rabies do you”
He frowned. “No.”
“Good, come on I’ll take you inside and get you a snack.”
“I would most enjoy a snack. I’ve been living off what’s left in your recycling bin. The remnants of peanut butter and salsa from a jar you threw out yesterday. Too bad the garbage men took away my food supply this morning.”
I carried the little man into my home and placed him on the counter top. He sat on an upside down coffee cup and watched as I prepared a pot of boiling water. I added onion, celery, pepper, salt and garlic powder.
The little man stood and tried to peer over the top of the pot but I stood in his way. “Wait until I’m done.”
“No, no I’m hungry.”
I moved aside. “Well okay. Here let me help you. I lifted him up and he peered into the pot.”
“Hey, wait a minute.”
But of course it was too late. I grabbed him by the neck, snapped. I then removed his tunic, skin and gutted him and tossed him in the pot.
It was during the second month of the great famine of 2030—which we all know was caused by the Bush administration’s policies--and although this little man would have normally been a medical curiosity I didn’t have the luxury of passing up a meal. He tasted oddly like pork and after my dinner I cleaned my teeth with his femur.
“What in the fuck were you doing under my recycling bin?”
“It is the place I call home.”
I held him up to eye level. “Well, it’s a shitty home. You don’t have rabies do you”
He frowned. “No.”
“Good, come on I’ll take you inside and get you a snack.”
“I would most enjoy a snack. I’ve been living off what’s left in your recycling bin. The remnants of peanut butter and salsa from a jar you threw out yesterday. Too bad the garbage men took away my food supply this morning.”
I carried the little man into my home and placed him on the counter top. He sat on an upside down coffee cup and watched as I prepared a pot of boiling water. I added onion, celery, pepper, salt and garlic powder.
The little man stood and tried to peer over the top of the pot but I stood in his way. “Wait until I’m done.”
“No, no I’m hungry.”
I moved aside. “Well okay. Here let me help you. I lifted him up and he peered into the pot.”
“Hey, wait a minute.”
But of course it was too late. I grabbed him by the neck, snapped. I then removed his tunic, skin and gutted him and tossed him in the pot.
It was during the second month of the great famine of 2030—which we all know was caused by the Bush administration’s policies--and although this little man would have normally been a medical curiosity I didn’t have the luxury of passing up a meal. He tasted oddly like pork and after my dinner I cleaned my teeth with his femur.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Some people count sheep when they’re trying to sleep. I count women at the gym that I would sleep with. I usually make it up to eighty some women before I doze off. Does this make me a pig or does it simply say that I am normal? Please advise…on second thought don’t bother, I really don’t give a shit if it does…
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Okay, I was going to promise not to complain about people at the gym but its fun so I’ll keep doing it. Last night, after my workout, I went to sit at one of the tables in the gym. These tables are for eating and sitting to read and drink protein drinks and so forth. Well, since it is winter lazy people in the gym have decided to use the chairs at the tables for coat racks. This is particularly annoying when trying to find a place to eat your dinner, which is what I have to do when I’m done working out and I have clients afterwards. Anyway, I couldn’t find one open chair despite all the tables being open. So, I took a skanky old Eagles jacket off a chair and laid it on a chair next to it.
About five minutes later a 65 year old woman came up and snatched the Eagles jacket and under her breath says, “You could have put the goddamn jacket on the back of the goddamn chair.”
Now, I’m not some puny little punk. I’m not huge, but I am five feet eight inches tall and weighed 194 that day and am very lean right now so I look pretty darn big. Especially to a woman this approximately 5 foot four and weighs 90 lbs.
I get up out of my chair and walk over to where she is standing by the door. I said, “Listen, those chairs aren’t coat racks. You’re supposed to put your coat in a locker.”
She snapped at me, “Well, everyone else puts their damn jackets there!”
I so wanted to go off on her but I had to remain calm. “Well, they’re not supposed to put their jackets there. And for your information I didn’t move your jacket (I lied).”
“Well, someone moved my jacket!”
“Maybe that filthy fucking jacket has so much bacteria on it that it got up and moved itself you old bitch.”
Okay, I only thought that last line. I was smart enough to walk away despite being slightly irritable from dieting down. I want to ask: what the fuck is up with people?
About five minutes later a 65 year old woman came up and snatched the Eagles jacket and under her breath says, “You could have put the goddamn jacket on the back of the goddamn chair.”
Now, I’m not some puny little punk. I’m not huge, but I am five feet eight inches tall and weighed 194 that day and am very lean right now so I look pretty darn big. Especially to a woman this approximately 5 foot four and weighs 90 lbs.
I get up out of my chair and walk over to where she is standing by the door. I said, “Listen, those chairs aren’t coat racks. You’re supposed to put your coat in a locker.”
She snapped at me, “Well, everyone else puts their damn jackets there!”
I so wanted to go off on her but I had to remain calm. “Well, they’re not supposed to put their jackets there. And for your information I didn’t move your jacket (I lied).”
“Well, someone moved my jacket!”
“Maybe that filthy fucking jacket has so much bacteria on it that it got up and moved itself you old bitch.”
Okay, I only thought that last line. I was smart enough to walk away despite being slightly irritable from dieting down. I want to ask: what the fuck is up with people?
Next Please – For several months I lived in the basement of an abandoned building, a church to be exact. Actually, I purchased the church and was fixing up the inside and chose to live in the basement while I turned the upstairs into a place to dwell. It had gone on the market after its congregation had died off and no one was left to attend. I bought it for a dollar at auction. That’s a lot of Jesus for one buck.
I learned through neighbors that the denomination had been strange, nothing anyone had ever heard of before or since. Something made up? Or perhaps the dream of a slightly off kilter religious zealot and drunk--this devote bunch worshiped box wine. In fact the building was made of cement blocks poured into the empty boxes of wine.
No, no, they didn’t give communion in the common sense of the word, they EMBIBED quite heavily and were often said to leave the parking lot zigzagging in their Ford pickup trucks. They believed Jesus’ blood (wine) would fortify their souls against the cruel cruel world.
The neighbors also told me that the downfall of the church was no surprise, that there had been a death pool—that the local grocer Mr. Langley had won—and that it took only four years to kill off the entire congregation. It started with the liver failures which were rampant in the congregation and that some died in domestic disputes caused by the wine. Still others wrecked on their way home from the church after service and perished—of course they were completely tanked.
One day I was tearing out the altar and had wrenched it away from the wall when I noticed a secret passageway. The altar had a false side panel and this is how the person or persons must have gained access to the passageway. I got my flashlight and made my way into the passageway. I crawled for fifteen yards or so when I came upon a room. I scanned the room with my flashlight.
“Who the hell is that!”
I nearly dropped my flashlight. There amongst a mountain of boxed wine sat a little old man in religious garb.
I shined my flashlight in the little bastard’s eyes. “No, the question is who the hell are you? You are in my building.”
“Bullshit, this is my building.”
I stepped into the room. “It fucking stinks in here.”
“Well, what do you expect? I’ve been shitting and pissing in empty wine boxes for 10 years.”
“That’s fucking gross…wait, you’ve been in here ten years?”
“That’s right, when my congregation died off I used the last of the offering and bought ten thousand boxes of wine. I’ve been in here ever since drinking them down.”
“What do you eat?”
“Cardboard from the boxes. It has a lot of protein in it.”
“Cardboard doesn’t have protein in it.”
“Well, it sure does taste good with ketchup.”
“You have ketchup.”
“No, I ran out 9 years ago. Now, if you’d kindly take that flashlight out of my eyes you can leave now.”
“No way this is my church now and you’ll have to leave.”
He heaved an empty box of wine at me which landed five feet short of its mark. I laughed. He pulled out a gun but he was slow and drunk and really quite uncoordinated. I dove at him and beamed him over the head with my flashlight and killed him. Blood the color of chardonnay ran onto the floor. I hightailed it out of that place. It was creepy as hell. Also, I’d killed a guy and thought I needed to cover it up, so I covered the secret passageway with brick and never spoke of the ordeal with anyone.
After that incident there was no way I could live in that church so I changed plans. I bought a half dozen flat screen TV’s, hired a couple slutty waitresses and opened a sports bar. I figured its what the previous worshipers at the church would have wanted if they were beer drinkers and not box wine drinkers.
I learned through neighbors that the denomination had been strange, nothing anyone had ever heard of before or since. Something made up? Or perhaps the dream of a slightly off kilter religious zealot and drunk--this devote bunch worshiped box wine. In fact the building was made of cement blocks poured into the empty boxes of wine.
No, no, they didn’t give communion in the common sense of the word, they EMBIBED quite heavily and were often said to leave the parking lot zigzagging in their Ford pickup trucks. They believed Jesus’ blood (wine) would fortify their souls against the cruel cruel world.
The neighbors also told me that the downfall of the church was no surprise, that there had been a death pool—that the local grocer Mr. Langley had won—and that it took only four years to kill off the entire congregation. It started with the liver failures which were rampant in the congregation and that some died in domestic disputes caused by the wine. Still others wrecked on their way home from the church after service and perished—of course they were completely tanked.
One day I was tearing out the altar and had wrenched it away from the wall when I noticed a secret passageway. The altar had a false side panel and this is how the person or persons must have gained access to the passageway. I got my flashlight and made my way into the passageway. I crawled for fifteen yards or so when I came upon a room. I scanned the room with my flashlight.
“Who the hell is that!”
I nearly dropped my flashlight. There amongst a mountain of boxed wine sat a little old man in religious garb.
I shined my flashlight in the little bastard’s eyes. “No, the question is who the hell are you? You are in my building.”
“Bullshit, this is my building.”
I stepped into the room. “It fucking stinks in here.”
“Well, what do you expect? I’ve been shitting and pissing in empty wine boxes for 10 years.”
“That’s fucking gross…wait, you’ve been in here ten years?”
“That’s right, when my congregation died off I used the last of the offering and bought ten thousand boxes of wine. I’ve been in here ever since drinking them down.”
“What do you eat?”
“Cardboard from the boxes. It has a lot of protein in it.”
“Cardboard doesn’t have protein in it.”
“Well, it sure does taste good with ketchup.”
“You have ketchup.”
“No, I ran out 9 years ago. Now, if you’d kindly take that flashlight out of my eyes you can leave now.”
“No way this is my church now and you’ll have to leave.”
He heaved an empty box of wine at me which landed five feet short of its mark. I laughed. He pulled out a gun but he was slow and drunk and really quite uncoordinated. I dove at him and beamed him over the head with my flashlight and killed him. Blood the color of chardonnay ran onto the floor. I hightailed it out of that place. It was creepy as hell. Also, I’d killed a guy and thought I needed to cover it up, so I covered the secret passageway with brick and never spoke of the ordeal with anyone.
After that incident there was no way I could live in that church so I changed plans. I bought a half dozen flat screen TV’s, hired a couple slutty waitresses and opened a sports bar. I figured its what the previous worshipers at the church would have wanted if they were beer drinkers and not box wine drinkers.
Monday, January 26, 2009
What I do may sicken some people but I assure you I have only a patient’s best interest in mind. You see I am a plastic surgeon and I thoroughly enjoy helping to transform people. Sure, I could have chosen a profession where I “save” lives sewing up hearts or removing arrows from brains but I chose to make the world’s people beautiful, which of course makes it a better place. You have only to look at some of my patients’ before and after photos to realize how much of a better place…
So, you may ask why I am sitting in this jail cell writing to the opt ed column of my local newspaper. I assure you that none of my patients were injured or maimed and that in fact—to my knowledge—I do not have a single patient that is unhappy with the work that I performed on them. The problem lies in my desire to save the environment. Yes, of course this needs explaining and that is what I intend to do.
You see, I had become quite alarmed by all the fat that I was throwing away after doing liposuction on people in my office. So, much energy being incinerated--so many cheese burgers, cupcakes and pieces of pizza simply stored on a person’s hips, stomach or ass-- never to be used. This kept me up at night. How could I use this fat and make a difference in the world? And then it came to me. I was lying in bed one night when I remembered the movie: Fight Club. I recalled how the main character made soap out of the fat from people that had liposuction done to them. Of course this seemed like a waste to me. What else could I use the fat for? This was pure energy? Have you guessed yet? That’s right I decided to make biodiesel out of it and run my Prius on it.
So I set about researching how to make biodiesel and after several months I was producing my own fuel and helping the environment. I did this for over a year and spent almost nothing on fuel—only the cost of processing it but then one of my secretaries found out what I was doing and reported me. The DA hauled me into court and now I sit in jail.
It seems that people don’t like me using their former ass, hip and stomach fat to fuel my car. These gluttons would rather toss out perfectly good energy--energy that they selfishly stored on their bodies while others in the world starved. Was what I did such a bad thing? If I’m driving around town using your former spare tire as fuel is that a crime? Please write the DA and ask him to free me. What I did I did for you…
So, you may ask why I am sitting in this jail cell writing to the opt ed column of my local newspaper. I assure you that none of my patients were injured or maimed and that in fact—to my knowledge—I do not have a single patient that is unhappy with the work that I performed on them. The problem lies in my desire to save the environment. Yes, of course this needs explaining and that is what I intend to do.
You see, I had become quite alarmed by all the fat that I was throwing away after doing liposuction on people in my office. So, much energy being incinerated--so many cheese burgers, cupcakes and pieces of pizza simply stored on a person’s hips, stomach or ass-- never to be used. This kept me up at night. How could I use this fat and make a difference in the world? And then it came to me. I was lying in bed one night when I remembered the movie: Fight Club. I recalled how the main character made soap out of the fat from people that had liposuction done to them. Of course this seemed like a waste to me. What else could I use the fat for? This was pure energy? Have you guessed yet? That’s right I decided to make biodiesel out of it and run my Prius on it.
So I set about researching how to make biodiesel and after several months I was producing my own fuel and helping the environment. I did this for over a year and spent almost nothing on fuel—only the cost of processing it but then one of my secretaries found out what I was doing and reported me. The DA hauled me into court and now I sit in jail.
It seems that people don’t like me using their former ass, hip and stomach fat to fuel my car. These gluttons would rather toss out perfectly good energy--energy that they selfishly stored on their bodies while others in the world starved. Was what I did such a bad thing? If I’m driving around town using your former spare tire as fuel is that a crime? Please write the DA and ask him to free me. What I did I did for you…
Thursday, January 22, 2009
I was in a shitty mood today when I went to the gym. This little cocksucker trainer that I work with took all the fucking clients on the consultation list. He weights 130 pounds and looks like a rooster with a nose bigger than mine on a body 60 pounds lighter than mine. You get the picture. Anyway, he is not only a trainer but he works at the gym so everybody that walks through the door as a potential new client he takes. I don’t hate him or anything. He’s not a bad guy except for the bullshit he pulls with clients. He lives way above his means—as evidenced my his new I-Phone—and now I have to pay the price. If he were I superior trainer to me then I wouldn’t be so angry but he is pitiful and really doesn’t know what he is doing.
I am constantly learning new training techniques and am even working with a nutritionist to lose body fat and gain muscle. I am down nearly 35 pounds, have lost a crap load of fat and gained muscle. In the past I felt I had lost too much muscle when dieting down and my nutritionist’s specialty is keeping and gaining muscle while dieting. I figured I can always learn more and so I hired him. My stance is that I don’t know everything and I can always learn more to help my clients and myself. Unfortunately, some people never grow, they stagnate in many areas of life and are content with what they know which in a lot of cases isn’t much.
I would be fine with every trainer taking a person off the consultation list until all four trainers have a person but this trainer is a greedy little pig. I can’t count how many people have come up to me and complimented me on my training and disparaged his techniques. The problem is they don’t realize this until they’ve hired him and then see me training other people. So, how do I win?
I am constantly learning new training techniques and am even working with a nutritionist to lose body fat and gain muscle. I am down nearly 35 pounds, have lost a crap load of fat and gained muscle. In the past I felt I had lost too much muscle when dieting down and my nutritionist’s specialty is keeping and gaining muscle while dieting. I figured I can always learn more and so I hired him. My stance is that I don’t know everything and I can always learn more to help my clients and myself. Unfortunately, some people never grow, they stagnate in many areas of life and are content with what they know which in a lot of cases isn’t much.
I would be fine with every trainer taking a person off the consultation list until all four trainers have a person but this trainer is a greedy little pig. I can’t count how many people have come up to me and complimented me on my training and disparaged his techniques. The problem is they don’t realize this until they’ve hired him and then see me training other people. So, how do I win?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Annoyed
It is hard work—for most people—to make a significant change in their physiques and health. I know because I have successfully dieted down many times after bulking up. You see as a personal trainer I have noticed a phenomenon that is disturbing but unfortunately predictable. Most people that hire me want to see massive changes in their physiques but they don’t want to do the work to make these changes. They want me to sit them down on machines and cajole them into doing another repetition with a pathetically light weight. They believe the infomercials that tell them they only need to work out 3 times a week for 15 minutes to have a great physique. Bullshit.
You see, they want the result but are unwilling to put in the effort to make significant change and quite frankly to me as a personal trainer it is annoying as hell. Many people after leaving the gym stuff their faces with whatever crap they want. Maybe they will even make it through the week but the weekend will come and they will drink and eat like they are working for a gold medal in the calorie olympics.
On Monday they will come to the gym and not notice any changes in their physiques, which is predictable and frustrating for me. Some of them will blame me, not understanding that THEY are the ones responsible, that no matter how hard they work on the gym or how hard they think they work—which often isn’t very hard—they will not change unless they control their eating. So, what happens to these people? They eventually quit the gym and go back to eating like crap full time and drinking and believing that I failed them, when in reality I had nothing to do with their failure. These people simply want an excuse for why they aren’t what they could be. Well, I’m sorry but the truth of the matter is that many of you are just lazy. A good physique and good health take effort and if you are not willing to give this effort then have no one to blame but yourself.
You see, they want the result but are unwilling to put in the effort to make significant change and quite frankly to me as a personal trainer it is annoying as hell. Many people after leaving the gym stuff their faces with whatever crap they want. Maybe they will even make it through the week but the weekend will come and they will drink and eat like they are working for a gold medal in the calorie olympics.
On Monday they will come to the gym and not notice any changes in their physiques, which is predictable and frustrating for me. Some of them will blame me, not understanding that THEY are the ones responsible, that no matter how hard they work on the gym or how hard they think they work—which often isn’t very hard—they will not change unless they control their eating. So, what happens to these people? They eventually quit the gym and go back to eating like crap full time and drinking and believing that I failed them, when in reality I had nothing to do with their failure. These people simply want an excuse for why they aren’t what they could be. Well, I’m sorry but the truth of the matter is that many of you are just lazy. A good physique and good health take effort and if you are not willing to give this effort then have no one to blame but yourself.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
I want to love…you…and I’ve been thinking about it but the steam from the water on my brain is blinding me. So, I’ve plugged my ears with pipes--yes the PVC variety that may or may not be PC—and harvested this abundant natural resource which I will use to fuel my ambitions. For what is a person without ambition? The ambition to love for one is a worthy endeavor and I have decided it is one I will pursue. Of course this brings me full circle, right back to you. See how complicated these things can be?
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
I came to a realization yesterday. Well, to be fair, I was talking to a friend who made a suggestion. She said that my recollections were based merely on my perceptions at those moments and that perhaps there was another side to these stories. Damn, that bastard was right—some of my childhood perceptions were still my adult perceptions, some of them hadn’t grown or changed. Perhaps what I thought was undeniably true was in fact skewed, in all aspects of the word WRONG. I wondered how I could have all this time never considered an alternate possibility to these situations. With this realization more of my past anger dissipated and I found myself a step closer to the peace I have been searching for…
Friday, December 12, 2008
I drifted and for that I am eternally sorry. In that time I contemplated becoming an attorney. It worried me that I didn’t have a more secure future, that writing might not sustain me financially in my old age. Fear can drive you to do many stupid things. It can rob of you of your sanity and send you down a dark and ever narrowing tunnel that eventually swallows you up. When the tunnel closes there are no remnants of dreams that blossom into fruition, these hopes wither and are lost, there are only the grooves in the path left taken.
If I had chosen law I would have died another lawyer and that is not to say that it is not a good life to lead. Many people are very happy to devote their lives to the law and are very good at it. My mother, two sisters and brother are such people however I am not such a person. Through the meandering road that has been my life I have come to one solid conclusion; I am a writer. There is no escaping myself and though I may never reach the heights of my favorite authors—Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Robbins, Jack Kerouac, etc.--I will continue to do what I was meant to do and that is simply to put words down on paper. The dream never dies if you are living it for better or worse and that will be enough to sustain me.
If I had chosen law I would have died another lawyer and that is not to say that it is not a good life to lead. Many people are very happy to devote their lives to the law and are very good at it. My mother, two sisters and brother are such people however I am not such a person. Through the meandering road that has been my life I have come to one solid conclusion; I am a writer. There is no escaping myself and though I may never reach the heights of my favorite authors—Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Robbins, Jack Kerouac, etc.--I will continue to do what I was meant to do and that is simply to put words down on paper. The dream never dies if you are living it for better or worse and that will be enough to sustain me.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
So long kid. It’s been nice knowing you...well, actually, it wasn’t but I felt as if I had to say that to so my reputation as a nice guy wouldn’t be spoiled. Hmm, perhaps I just sullied my good guy persona by admitting to an unflattering comment. Ah, being nice is overrated anyway. So kiss my ass…Of course I mean that in the nicest possible way.
Friday, August 29, 2008
I reinvent myself and all is forgiven. There is no past and for all I know there is no future so I hedge my bets on the present and the long legged brunette in the smiling picture on my computer monitor. My weight drops and my face contorts, my mind tightens, the bags under my eyes grow. See if you recognize me or if I simply cease to exist.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Thoughts Gone Bad
I had good thoughts that I kept too long to myself and now they have gone bad. I tried to keep them fresh, tried to keep them from turning but good thoughts have a short shelf life. I could sell them at a discount but who wants to buy bad thoughts? The government? Yes, they will use the bad thoughts to scare the citizens and then the private sector can offer protection services for a fee and they will become rich beyond their wildest dreams. See bad thoughts can do good if all you care about is profit…
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Another Blind Date
There is no solace for the single man--no comfy evenings nestled in the cushions of a well worn couch, a dog bone poking him in the shoulder blade, peanut shells spread out on his chest while he watches a baseball game--but only the endless pursuit of that significant other who with each passing day and each subsequent date becomes ever more elusive.
The successive nights of bar hopping and mixed social events began to take their toll. I was aging quickly—my hair graying—and people began to take notice. It was then on occasion that well meaning friends would try to save me from an early grave and dabble in the forbidden art of match making, attempting to juke destiny by inserting into my life “the perfect woman.” If this occurs in your life I have only three words for you: RUN LIKE HELL.
* * *
My coworker Alice bit into her Ruben and chewed thoughtfully. “So, what have you been up to lately?”
“The same old.”
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way but you’re looking a little rough around the edges.”
“Good rough or bad rough.”
“I didn’t know there was a good rough.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
“I want to help you. I know the most beautiful girl. She is the daughter of a good friend of mine. I want to set you two up.”
I was only half paying attention, watching a beautiful brunette in a tight brown skirt walk across the food court. “Okay.”
“Great, I’ll call her tonight.”
I chewed and watched, chewed and watched and only after thoroughly masticating my food did the enormity of Alice’s words hit me. “What? Call who tonight?”
In a panic I looked over to where Alice had been standing at the food bar. Her tray was gone and all that remained of her presence were a few crumbs of rye bread. I looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of her getting on the escalator on the other side of the food court.
“Noooooooooooooooooo!” I cried.
Car crashes of past blind dates flew through my mind: the girl with cankles, the puker, the racist, the stripper…no, wait the stripper was okay. Panic overtook me as I raced out of the food court and towards the office.
In a full sprint I tried to call Alice’s cell phone but it went immediately to voicemail. Back at the office I found she would be in court the remainder of the day and wasn’t coming back to the office.
It was impossible for me to concentrate on my work that afternoon and not just because I was playing retro Atari games on my computer. I knew deep in my heart that this was a conspiracy aimed at getting me to go out with a “handsome” or “big-boned” girl that Alice hoped I would get drunk or perhaps suffer a momentary bout of blindness and that in my fearful or obliterated state would whisk my blind date off to Vegas to marry me. You scoff but I’ve seen it happen.
Every single blind date I had gone on turned out to be complete mismatch. Sure, I’ll concede that perhaps I was “the blind date” and the women were equally disinterested and or repulsed by me, although I would never admit this to myself. Dwelling on such a thing though would allow self-doubt to run rampant through my mind and squander whatever trace of self-esteem I still held onto.
That night I called my coworker again and again but her phone went straight to voicemail. Frantic, I left her between 20-30 voicemails. I even Googled her address and drove by her house several times around midnight but cleverly all her lights were out.
Later that night while lying in bed I thought of at least a dozen ways to get myself out of the date and was content with faking a bout of the flue. Finally I started to drift off to sleep around 2 am when a thought made my eyes pop open. What if I turned down this blind date and this was the woman of my dreams?
I had been so focused on the gloom and doom of the situation that I had failed to see the possibility in the matter. I was being a coward. How hard could one date be? I resolved to go on that date and possibly meet the woman of my dreams.
The next night I found myself waiting in a bar in downtown Harrisburg for my blind date. Alice had briefly described Matilida to me using descriptions like, “nice strong legs” and “big beautiful eyes” which meant absolutely nothing. Cows have nice strong legs and big beautiful eyes but I wouldn’t want to date a cow…
I looked at my watch. She was ten minutes late and hope welled in my heart that she might not show but just then the front doors burst open and instinctively I knew this crazed soul was her. She looked like some out of work bag lady, her hair twisted up in some type of primitive tribute to shrub art, her lips slashed a most hideous shade of Mac Truck red, her eyes outlined with what appeared to be the charcoal from a fire started in an old oil drum. Draped over her skeletal shoulders was some sort of ancient animal skin of the type preferred by the alternative sheik and obviously rescued from the moldy closet of some long lost maternal relative. .
There would be no wishing myself out of this one. I knew then that escape was my only option. I glanced left and then right. I was surrounded. There would be no escape. “Damn it.”
She extended a hand. “Hi there, you must be, Steve”.
I looked over my shoulder as if I weren’t Steve and I was looking to see whom she was addressing.
“Barbara E-mailed me a picture of you.”
Damn, I’d been had. I turned. “Yes, and you must be Matilda. It’s nice to meet you. Should we get a table?”
She ran a hand through her hair and it got stuck. I pretended not to notice. “That sounds good.”
With some effort she pulled her hand free and followed me to a table. A waitress came up and flipped open her notebook.
“I’ll have a coffee.” Matilda looked at me. “I don’t drink.”
Strike one. Damn, this was going to be even more painful than I had first suspected. I needed the booze to slow my ever-racing mind. “Oh, okay, I’ll have a coffee too.”
The coffee would have me up half the night. I never drink the stuff after noon unless I plan to be up for the duration.
“Sorry, I was late. I was at bible study.”
Strike two. She stared straight into my eyes as if looking for some infinite truth. I tried not to blink afraid she might take it as some sign from Jesus.
“Oh, really. I’ve never really studied the bible. I prefer story books with happier endings.”
“Well, Jesus’ story was a happy story in the end.”
I had to fight the compulsion to yell, “CHECK PLEASE!” It took every bit of inner-strength I could muster but I managed to apply the Zen mindset a former Buddhist monk had taught me over a game of darts at a pub in England.
I stood and pushed my chair in. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“You’re excused.”
Excused? Weird, I thought, as I hurried back to the bathroom. I was no amateur when it came to escaping blind dates and had purposely chosen that particular restaurant because I knew the layout and could call friends who could be there in a matter of minutes if I needed backup.
I ran into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I quickly got out my cell phone and began to punch keys madly. And then something awful happened. The phone slipped from my hands and landed in the toilet. If that wasn’t bad enough the toilet was also clogged with what appeared to be a five-course meal and three rolls of toilet paper.
“Goddamn piece of shit.”
I looked around for something to fish the phone out with but there was nothing available. Frustrated, I exited the bathroom and searched around for something to fish the phone out with. I saw nothing until I passed the buffet table where I spied a set of salad tongs. I quickly grabbed them and headed back to the bathroom.
It was going to be disgusting work but I needed that phone. There were over five years of contacts on it, numbers I could never replace.
I rolled up my sleeves and began prodding. The water became cloudy and I couldn’t see my phone. I fished for ten or fifteen minutes. Several time I had the phone out of the water but it slipped out of the tongs.
I finally grabbed hold of the phone and pulled it out of the water and held it up triumphantly only it wasn’t my phone.
The bathroom stall door burst open. “There he is. The bastard is using the salad tongs to unclog the toilet.”
I turned to see two restaurant workers standing in the doorway. A police officer came up behind them.
“I didn’t clog the toilet. Someone did that before I came in here.”
The officer took out his taser. “Sure, I’ve seen it a thousand times before. People clog the toilet in a restaurant and then they panic, try to do anything in their power to unclog it before anyone finds out. They become desperate and crazy. I know you’re not in your right mind. You were probably going to put those salad tongs back on the salad bar. Now, slowly drop the excrement in the toilet and lay the tongs on the ground and turn your back towards me.”
“Listen, this is ridiculous. I—.”
The officer held his taser at chest level. “I said, drop the salad tongs, drop the excrement, turn around and place your hands behind your back…I have to admit I’ve never seen anyone hold a turd up like a prize before. You’re a new kind of weird.”
I complied and as soon as I turned around the officer rushed and handcuffed me. He roughly turned me around towards the door. Matilda was standing there.
“I’m sorry, Steve. I had to turn you in. Stealing is wrong and clogging a toilet is really disgusting.”
“I didn’t clog the toilet.”
The police officer jammed me in the ribs with his nightstick to prod me along. “Tell that to the judge. Your fingerprints are all over those tongs and I’m sure there will be fecal matter on the other end.”
Matilda backed up as I was escorted out the bathroom door. “You’re a bad person,” she said.
And then it hit me. I had turned her off. I was getting out of the date. Suddenly going to jail didn’t seem so bad. How long would they keep me there anyway? An hour? Maybe two? It would certainly be more interesting that discussing the bible. I’d make restitution for the salad tongs and be on my way. It was still early. I could meet up with friends downtown.
As the police officer ushered me through the restaurant I couldn’t help but smile and then I felt someone squeeze my arm. I turned as I walked. It was Matilda. She smiled so hard I thought her cheeks might split. “I just wanted to say I had a great time until you started fishing for turds with those salad tongs…I have made it my mission to save your soul. I’ll call you when you get out of the slammer and I can arrange a date for you to come to church with me.”
“Slammer?”
I almost tripped over the weather strip at the door. The officer up righted me and kept me moving towards his waiting car with the flashing lights on top.
The successive nights of bar hopping and mixed social events began to take their toll. I was aging quickly—my hair graying—and people began to take notice. It was then on occasion that well meaning friends would try to save me from an early grave and dabble in the forbidden art of match making, attempting to juke destiny by inserting into my life “the perfect woman.” If this occurs in your life I have only three words for you: RUN LIKE HELL.
* * *
My coworker Alice bit into her Ruben and chewed thoughtfully. “So, what have you been up to lately?”
“The same old.”
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way but you’re looking a little rough around the edges.”
“Good rough or bad rough.”
“I didn’t know there was a good rough.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
“I want to help you. I know the most beautiful girl. She is the daughter of a good friend of mine. I want to set you two up.”
I was only half paying attention, watching a beautiful brunette in a tight brown skirt walk across the food court. “Okay.”
“Great, I’ll call her tonight.”
I chewed and watched, chewed and watched and only after thoroughly masticating my food did the enormity of Alice’s words hit me. “What? Call who tonight?”
In a panic I looked over to where Alice had been standing at the food bar. Her tray was gone and all that remained of her presence were a few crumbs of rye bread. I looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of her getting on the escalator on the other side of the food court.
“Noooooooooooooooooo!” I cried.
Car crashes of past blind dates flew through my mind: the girl with cankles, the puker, the racist, the stripper…no, wait the stripper was okay. Panic overtook me as I raced out of the food court and towards the office.
In a full sprint I tried to call Alice’s cell phone but it went immediately to voicemail. Back at the office I found she would be in court the remainder of the day and wasn’t coming back to the office.
It was impossible for me to concentrate on my work that afternoon and not just because I was playing retro Atari games on my computer. I knew deep in my heart that this was a conspiracy aimed at getting me to go out with a “handsome” or “big-boned” girl that Alice hoped I would get drunk or perhaps suffer a momentary bout of blindness and that in my fearful or obliterated state would whisk my blind date off to Vegas to marry me. You scoff but I’ve seen it happen.
Every single blind date I had gone on turned out to be complete mismatch. Sure, I’ll concede that perhaps I was “the blind date” and the women were equally disinterested and or repulsed by me, although I would never admit this to myself. Dwelling on such a thing though would allow self-doubt to run rampant through my mind and squander whatever trace of self-esteem I still held onto.
That night I called my coworker again and again but her phone went straight to voicemail. Frantic, I left her between 20-30 voicemails. I even Googled her address and drove by her house several times around midnight but cleverly all her lights were out.
Later that night while lying in bed I thought of at least a dozen ways to get myself out of the date and was content with faking a bout of the flue. Finally I started to drift off to sleep around 2 am when a thought made my eyes pop open. What if I turned down this blind date and this was the woman of my dreams?
I had been so focused on the gloom and doom of the situation that I had failed to see the possibility in the matter. I was being a coward. How hard could one date be? I resolved to go on that date and possibly meet the woman of my dreams.
The next night I found myself waiting in a bar in downtown Harrisburg for my blind date. Alice had briefly described Matilida to me using descriptions like, “nice strong legs” and “big beautiful eyes” which meant absolutely nothing. Cows have nice strong legs and big beautiful eyes but I wouldn’t want to date a cow…
I looked at my watch. She was ten minutes late and hope welled in my heart that she might not show but just then the front doors burst open and instinctively I knew this crazed soul was her. She looked like some out of work bag lady, her hair twisted up in some type of primitive tribute to shrub art, her lips slashed a most hideous shade of Mac Truck red, her eyes outlined with what appeared to be the charcoal from a fire started in an old oil drum. Draped over her skeletal shoulders was some sort of ancient animal skin of the type preferred by the alternative sheik and obviously rescued from the moldy closet of some long lost maternal relative. .
There would be no wishing myself out of this one. I knew then that escape was my only option. I glanced left and then right. I was surrounded. There would be no escape. “Damn it.”
She extended a hand. “Hi there, you must be, Steve”.
I looked over my shoulder as if I weren’t Steve and I was looking to see whom she was addressing.
“Barbara E-mailed me a picture of you.”
Damn, I’d been had. I turned. “Yes, and you must be Matilda. It’s nice to meet you. Should we get a table?”
She ran a hand through her hair and it got stuck. I pretended not to notice. “That sounds good.”
With some effort she pulled her hand free and followed me to a table. A waitress came up and flipped open her notebook.
“I’ll have a coffee.” Matilda looked at me. “I don’t drink.”
Strike one. Damn, this was going to be even more painful than I had first suspected. I needed the booze to slow my ever-racing mind. “Oh, okay, I’ll have a coffee too.”
The coffee would have me up half the night. I never drink the stuff after noon unless I plan to be up for the duration.
“Sorry, I was late. I was at bible study.”
Strike two. She stared straight into my eyes as if looking for some infinite truth. I tried not to blink afraid she might take it as some sign from Jesus.
“Oh, really. I’ve never really studied the bible. I prefer story books with happier endings.”
“Well, Jesus’ story was a happy story in the end.”
I had to fight the compulsion to yell, “CHECK PLEASE!” It took every bit of inner-strength I could muster but I managed to apply the Zen mindset a former Buddhist monk had taught me over a game of darts at a pub in England.
I stood and pushed my chair in. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“You’re excused.”
Excused? Weird, I thought, as I hurried back to the bathroom. I was no amateur when it came to escaping blind dates and had purposely chosen that particular restaurant because I knew the layout and could call friends who could be there in a matter of minutes if I needed backup.
I ran into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall. I quickly got out my cell phone and began to punch keys madly. And then something awful happened. The phone slipped from my hands and landed in the toilet. If that wasn’t bad enough the toilet was also clogged with what appeared to be a five-course meal and three rolls of toilet paper.
“Goddamn piece of shit.”
I looked around for something to fish the phone out with but there was nothing available. Frustrated, I exited the bathroom and searched around for something to fish the phone out with. I saw nothing until I passed the buffet table where I spied a set of salad tongs. I quickly grabbed them and headed back to the bathroom.
It was going to be disgusting work but I needed that phone. There were over five years of contacts on it, numbers I could never replace.
I rolled up my sleeves and began prodding. The water became cloudy and I couldn’t see my phone. I fished for ten or fifteen minutes. Several time I had the phone out of the water but it slipped out of the tongs.
I finally grabbed hold of the phone and pulled it out of the water and held it up triumphantly only it wasn’t my phone.
The bathroom stall door burst open. “There he is. The bastard is using the salad tongs to unclog the toilet.”
I turned to see two restaurant workers standing in the doorway. A police officer came up behind them.
“I didn’t clog the toilet. Someone did that before I came in here.”
The officer took out his taser. “Sure, I’ve seen it a thousand times before. People clog the toilet in a restaurant and then they panic, try to do anything in their power to unclog it before anyone finds out. They become desperate and crazy. I know you’re not in your right mind. You were probably going to put those salad tongs back on the salad bar. Now, slowly drop the excrement in the toilet and lay the tongs on the ground and turn your back towards me.”
“Listen, this is ridiculous. I—.”
The officer held his taser at chest level. “I said, drop the salad tongs, drop the excrement, turn around and place your hands behind your back…I have to admit I’ve never seen anyone hold a turd up like a prize before. You’re a new kind of weird.”
I complied and as soon as I turned around the officer rushed and handcuffed me. He roughly turned me around towards the door. Matilda was standing there.
“I’m sorry, Steve. I had to turn you in. Stealing is wrong and clogging a toilet is really disgusting.”
“I didn’t clog the toilet.”
The police officer jammed me in the ribs with his nightstick to prod me along. “Tell that to the judge. Your fingerprints are all over those tongs and I’m sure there will be fecal matter on the other end.”
Matilda backed up as I was escorted out the bathroom door. “You’re a bad person,” she said.
And then it hit me. I had turned her off. I was getting out of the date. Suddenly going to jail didn’t seem so bad. How long would they keep me there anyway? An hour? Maybe two? It would certainly be more interesting that discussing the bible. I’d make restitution for the salad tongs and be on my way. It was still early. I could meet up with friends downtown.
As the police officer ushered me through the restaurant I couldn’t help but smile and then I felt someone squeeze my arm. I turned as I walked. It was Matilda. She smiled so hard I thought her cheeks might split. “I just wanted to say I had a great time until you started fishing for turds with those salad tongs…I have made it my mission to save your soul. I’ll call you when you get out of the slammer and I can arrange a date for you to come to church with me.”
“Slammer?”
I almost tripped over the weather strip at the door. The officer up righted me and kept me moving towards his waiting car with the flashing lights on top.
Friday, June 13, 2008
I was driving to meet my grandfather for breakfast before work this morning when I passed a hearse. It occurred to me that at some point I might be packed into a casket and the lid sealed shut. Then the casket would be lowered into a deep dark hole and I would be left forever to rot there. This seemed less than appealing to me so the first thing I did this morning was to write a will.
In this will I made it clear that at no time was I to be put in a casket or enclosed in one of those meat locker drawers in a morgue. My body was to be left out in the open, preferably sitting up. I also refuse to have my body stuffed into the back of a hearse. Instead I would like to be taped to the top of a Subaru’s luggage rack as we make my way to my resting place. An acceptable alternative would be to tape me to a chair and then secure the chair to the top of the Subaru. I think they do something like this in New Orleans, the parade of death or something.
I ask not to be buried in some far off location in a cemetery. Surely, people will forget about me if this occurs and I can’t have that happen. I also am a bit claustrophobic so that hole in the ground thing won’t work for me. Oh, and don’t even consider cremation. If you want to scatter anything get some of my old underwear, pour some lighter fluid on them and get ashes from their remains.
My body is to be put in the city in a park. There I will always feel part of things--everywhere else feels too much like death. Eventually the animals small and large will consume my body and I will be part of the raven, the stray dog and the maggot. I suppose a lot of me will be crapped out in various locations. So, yeah, I guess I will be scattered to the wind but it sure beats being stuck in the ground…
In this will I made it clear that at no time was I to be put in a casket or enclosed in one of those meat locker drawers in a morgue. My body was to be left out in the open, preferably sitting up. I also refuse to have my body stuffed into the back of a hearse. Instead I would like to be taped to the top of a Subaru’s luggage rack as we make my way to my resting place. An acceptable alternative would be to tape me to a chair and then secure the chair to the top of the Subaru. I think they do something like this in New Orleans, the parade of death or something.
I ask not to be buried in some far off location in a cemetery. Surely, people will forget about me if this occurs and I can’t have that happen. I also am a bit claustrophobic so that hole in the ground thing won’t work for me. Oh, and don’t even consider cremation. If you want to scatter anything get some of my old underwear, pour some lighter fluid on them and get ashes from their remains.
My body is to be put in the city in a park. There I will always feel part of things--everywhere else feels too much like death. Eventually the animals small and large will consume my body and I will be part of the raven, the stray dog and the maggot. I suppose a lot of me will be crapped out in various locations. So, yeah, I guess I will be scattered to the wind but it sure beats being stuck in the ground…
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The apocalyptic moon baby had been tucked in a gap between the teeth of time by a marauding eclipse and consequently forgotten. Many millions of years later two enterprising lunar pelicans—out looking for space shuttle debris for lunch—found the sleeping apocalyptic moon baby. They tied floss to their left legs and dove into the mouth of time. They drove the floss between the polished gypsum teeth and told the apocalyptic moon baby to grab hold. She grabbed on with her uranium filled hands and was consequently freed but lost her grip on the slick floss and fell at a million miles an hour to earth. I found her in a dry riverbed while out excavating dinosaur watches. She pressed her left nipple and the countdown in her eyes began…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)