You would Prefer to Think Otherwise...

Sometimes. It

2011-03-30T14:08:00.000-07:00

Sometimes. It.

Sometimes, it is most of the time. However. most of the time, it is someone, rather than something that prevents it from being all of the time, but quite regularly it is and then there really is nothing much to talk about and the crowd that had gathered to witness the spectacle, shuffles away silently. But the times that it isn't, then there is nothing more enjoyable. The subtle shades of the human condition truly reveal themselves in the faintest of hues; beautiful. Delicate nuances that litter the heart and the soul and allow one to paint gorgeous masterpieces of emotion all over the floor.

As I vomited.

I woke up a few hours later lying facedown. Could be worse. I thought. I turned over, knocking an empty glass with my hand, the cheap glass shattering the moment it hit the cold tile floor. I need to invest in a heater. Or at least a pair of slippers. Not the type worn by respectable businessmen, wearing their smoking jackets and their Sherlock Holmes pipes listening to their favorite evening news program in their favorite easy chair. On Tuesdays. No, that style is reserved for the few upright men that have achieved something in this life. Me, I would wear the non-slip type. The ones that old women wear in homes with other old women. For I have accomplished the sum culmination of a lifetime achievement equivalent to that of a senile old squaw. With no grandchildren to come visit and politely inform me that I smell like Lysol and yesterdays’ roast beef. Call me Ishabella.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. I glanced at it, hoping that whomever was on the other line was as equally dissatisfied with their particular lot in life as I. I find it easier to talk to the peculiar amongst us. for I am their leader and they respect me. It is an ability that we posses to be able to distinguish each other through the barest amount of conversation. I picked it up and said nothing.

“Hello.”

It was a woman.

“Hi.” I put on my disinterested voice. They respond better to complete and total indifference. Act like I had something better to do. Which isn’t true, I was sitting naked on a cold kitchen floor in February.

“Mr. Clark…”

and the phone went dead.

Shit.

Talk about ruining a good morning masturbation session. She had sounded sexy. I adjusted myself, and began to stand up. Hoping my eyes would become accustomed to the weak light coming from the dirty window above the kitchen sink. That way, I would not have pull shards of glass out of my feet. I liked the window. it offered me a view of the street and the warehouses across my porthole to the world. They were old and unused and it kept things quiet.

I looked around the room for something that could double as a coffee cup and found the remnants of last night’s temporary friend, a bottle with a finger or two left. I located a Styrofoam cup with some cold coffee left in it, threw in some whiskey and nuked the fucker. After a minute, took it out, topped it off with some more ‘creamer’. I reached for a cigarette, wondering where my pants were and if had I gotten naked for an audience or upon my own accord. Many questions on this cold day. As I drank my coffee I wondered what I had to do today. if anything. No real work. Not till Sunday. And my agent, my actual agent had not been returning my calls lately; I thought of when he was trying to get a hold of me, and I ignored his calls. the bastard. We all lose someday.

I dressed. went to the bar. Ate and got drunk. again.

In the abnormal style of living by bobbing and weaving against the beat of life, you are not so much complaining about the current beat. No, it’s not that, so much more of you screaming to anyone who will listen, that dammit, your beat is better. And it’s really not that you want others to dance to yours, it’s just that to you, theirs sucks, and presumably. they would only fuck up yours.

I woke up in my bed. Weird. I rolled over to be greeted with the sight of the back of a brunette head. Weird. I only lived a few blocks away from my bar and must have tempted a debutante back with me. My allegiance to this dive was won upon hard nights with slow drinking. at a dump with terrible service and an equally unhappy clientele. But we all got along through the mutual understanding that the world outside those doors was not our friend. and it helped that we didn’t like the bartenders. who didn’t like us. It was a happy family.

The phone rang. In an attempt to stave off the inevitable uncomfortable moment where I would have to identify my bedmate by name, I jumped up and went to kitchen to answer the phone at this ungodly hour. I picked it up.

“Hello.”

It was her.

“What’s the score here? Why are you calling me?” Might be too much. Alright, I thought, remain aloof.

“Are you sitting down Mr. Clark?”

Why yes I am. Attempting to keep my morning wood active actually, go on please. “I am. what are you doing? And how do you know my name” Subtle, very subtle.

I paced the kitchen, doing double duty of trying to keep her talking and masturbate, when I felt the familiar sharp pain of a piece of glass being forced up into the bottom of my foot. fuck.

“Mr. Clark, I am afraid I have some bad news.”

“Well you had better spit it out before you hang up again.” Trying to balance on one leg and jerk off while holding a phone is a talent, and if there were an Olympic sport, well . . . I woulda been a contender.

“What? You hung up on me last…”

And she was gone.

Somewhere. someone. or something. is fucking with my head. And I don’t appreciate that.

I hobbled over to the table and after clearing one of the seats off of a month or so accumulation of bad stories and unfinished essays, I sat down and took a look at the protruding piece. It wasn’t too deep, and looked strong enough to pull out by itself. After removing the offending member and staunching the blood with a piece of newspaper, I turned and looked at the bed. Who was she? Of course she was laying facing away from me so I couldn’t make out any identifying scars, tattoos or barcodes. She rolled over and by the looks of it, she was attractive. Nice. Maybe I could do something with this morning motivation. She yawned and opened her eyes faintly, attempting to wake up. I went back to bed and fucked her before the awkward questions began.

I woke up and she was gone. Ah well. At least I didn’t have to tell her goodbye. She was fun; perhaps she will want to do that again, sometime. back to bed.

And nothing happens for two days.

I woke up, made some more whiskey with a hint of coffee and jumped into my 1983 BMW en route to my real job. Me and god agreed on one thing. We both hate getting up early on Sundays.

That one. She looks promising. Her haircut was terrible and she had on the type of large glasses usually reserved for sight assistance for the elderly at Bingo. See, I was into delayed revenge. The awkwardness and embarrassment are always sweetened through the years. And you can find one every time. Maybe it’s the one who cannot stop picking her nose. Or the fat boy with a falsetto voice and terrible acne. I mean. I don’t know who any of these little shits are, and they won’t remember me. until they play this tape for their friends at one of those awkward pre-drinking high school basement parties at your parents house. Then. They will say, ‘remember that creepy cameraman?’ ‘Oh, yeah, that one. That guy was weird.’

“All right now class, settle down now.” Ms. Hartline, said, ushering her second grade students, working her way down the line, attempting to keep it straight and quiet. Why can’t those bastards ever listen, dammit?

She walked further down the line to where I was getting my shot and smiled at me, interrupting my simultaneous thought of wondering if my breath smelled half as bad as my mouth tasted and if there were any sounds that force air out in the phrase ‘do you hhhhhhave a piece of gum.’ Damn that body was too perfect to be in a church. The vision of violating her in a confessional/pew/on the altar that refused to go away was almost enough to make me drop my camera. But, as the good people of St. Agnes were about to find out at their children’s first communion, I am a professional.

Watching the kids process in was always my favorite part of the job. Just wondering who. Who is going to meet a creepy older man on the Internet in about, oh, say six years? Who is going to have a restraining order placed upon them by an overzealous parent? And don’t even get me started on the potential jailbait pictures that are going to arise when one of them snaps a shot on their expensive cell phone of their prepubescent breasts and sends it to some poor lucky sap. Ah, the pleasures of youth. Goddamn I needed a cigarette.

I walked out to my car during the homily, Father Don had a tendency to get a little longwinded and nostalgic at the first communions. My humble opinion was that it was the moment of his downfall, and was in so many ways that did not actually include him coming out and telling the students that this peculiar ritual was the reason for his unnatural attraction to small children and angels and single malt scotch. The poor bastard had never experienced the finer things in life, like a woman, holding your hand and saying, ‘poor thing. You poor, poor thing.’ All while drinking cold beer. in Akron. Sublime.

No one ever rewatches the homily anyways, and hell half the audience tunes out the first edition. My trusty and painstaking market research has found that over 83% of first communion tape viewers fast forward through the homily. The small minority consists of hardcore Catholics and Mormons curious of other religions initiation rituals. Mormons are very curious and always on the lookout for new ways to improve their hodgepodge religion. I went to the trusty beamer and found a note on my windshield. Peculiar. Usually the leaflets left on my car were from adult theatres and advertised live sex shows with subtle hints of the debauchery that could be purchased dependent upon the right amount of money and the level of soullessness one possessed. It was folded up piece of printer paper. Odd. It read:

“It seems that they have figured out who I am. Have you?” On the bottom was a large black ink mark, as if someone had written something and then decided better about it. I hate second thoughts.

Now this presented quite a conundrum. I could let this bother me or . . . I rolled it up, lit it on fire and used it to light my cigarette. If I let little nonsense like this throw off my arcadian rhythm then hell, I would have been locked up in a padded room a long time ago. Hmmm.

I walked in and finished filming. A crazed degenerate perhaps am I, but I do have to at least be able to fund my antics.

With a flourish of fanfare and a triumphal march out the main aisle, the service was done. I went and got drunk.

With nothing to do and nowhere to go. And a penchant for extreme violence and paranoid behavior. I was born into a time where such deeds were looked upon with a sense of disdain. A time when open moves against polite society were met with frowns and mutters concerning the sanity of our humble narrator. Wishing for someone that understood the secrets of this foul culture that we innocuously inhabit. And who wants to walk by quietly in the night? Concerning yourself with matters of the heart is always venturing into dangerous waters. full of sharks, barracudas and women claiming paternity. And who listens? Not me, for I am too busy with the mundane details to observe such lofty goals and ideals. Do my pants match my socks? How about my belt? Do they properly identify with my mindset and my particular objectives for the day?

Because I wish to plan ahead. Second thoughts only incur the wrath of khan. They make us wish for pleasant Tuesdays, upon which we realize that the reason for being is the slow and sad death that You can only hope will not be alone. But, hell. One can merely wonder if the thoughts and the minds of the disturbed are worth a damn, because they are not, and you point at your passport, claiming your citizenship, screaming to anyone that will listen that yes, dammit you do belong. They usually rebut that nah, fool, you be wrong.

The herd instinct is so strong in the mentally of the average American that all the lemmings make the leap.

Not me. For I am for a professional. And three lefts make a right.

I need to stop drinking and trying to ramble on. If these things had made sense, then I would have been stopped a long time ago.

The phone rang. I realized I had developed a problem when I dashed up from sucking down my beer and watching porn on mute to answer it. I had been staring at a blank piece of paper for about twenty minutes now, judging by the current sex act preformed. They all follow a basic time structure, usual for keeping track of time. Corny intro, oral sex for the male, oral for the female, vaginal intercourse, anal intercourse, and bam, half hour comes and goes and facial. Nice round, even numbers for the dispossessed. The phone was still ringing.

I picked it up and said nothing.

“Hello, hello? Is anyone there? Can you hear me?”

Christ.

“Yes, This is she.” I shot back. ho hum, let the bastard sit on that.

“This is no time for games, dammit Sam, pull yourself together, we have work to do.”

Damn her voice was sexy.

“What do you want? This is getting to be a bit ridiculous don’t you think? I mean who are you?”

“Meet me outside the Big Boy on 5^thand Jefferson in twenty minutes. Don’t be…”

And she was gone. Man, this is getting obnoxious.

So once I was presented with a choice? Do I go? I don’t want her to get the upper hand, but I do want to figure out what the fuck is going on. And she does have a sexy voice. Perhaps she will match it. My experience says she won’t, but I do have a short memory when it comes to sexy voices.

With the streetlights flashing by like so many warning bells telling me to turn around, I found myself driving the long road into town. I lived in the industrial wasteland known as gamely by the locals as ‘Cancer Corner’ by the locals due to the myriad of infectious products made at one point in the cavernous empty factories, testaments to the western industrial complex. Asbestos? Check. Lead Paint? Yup. We got that, all day. The way to town was paved with the hearts and hopes of many, nameless, unfortunate fools lost to the annals of history. tossed aside with a certain disdain not unlike an empty pack of cigarettes or a used condom.

***

She thought it late enough to call him. It was what was known as the witching hour. Only the true evil of this world was awake. Only the truly restless, uncomfortable with their place in life were conscious of the true ugliness of the hour. She knew he would answer.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“Mr. Clark…”

and the phone went dead.

Goddammit. Now how was She supposed to talk to the embodiment of pure iniquity when her phone was cutting out on her? again. But she knew that these things arose when Murphy’s Law was most applicable. And now was such a time for such behavior. She walked from her small kitchen to her equally small sitting room, sitting on the couch, and interrupted the slumber of two ugly cats who shot her a reproachful look. Perhaps she would call again, soon. But maybe he had hung up on her? Maybe he already knew her vicious agenda and couldn’t face the music. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, her mom always told her. And she listened to her momma. Always had.

She went to sleep watching an infomercial about the benefits of cremating the dead. with visions of sugarplums dancing through her head.

Awake. It was early but maybe now was the time to catch him.

She picked up the phone and dialed his number.

“Hello.”

“What’s the score here? Why are you calling me?”

“Are you sitting down Mr. Clark?”

“I am. what are you doing? And how do you know my name”

“Mr. Clark, I am afraid I have some bad news.”

“Well you had better spit it out before you hang up again.”

“What? You hung up on me last…”

And the line cut out. Damn. the dogs had found out her purpose. A purpose she herself even had the faintest idea of. She only knew he was the only one who could help her. Conventional methods of abortion were unavailable due to the price and she believed him to be the best in the business. He had no track record of professionalism in this area, she just knew. She had seen him at work. The thought struck her at her one of her enemies’ weddings a few months back. that perhaps this was the man who would take the life inside her. Maybe it was his stance. Maybe it was his utter contempt for society that seemed to emanate from his disheveled appearance, one that was sure to win him big points with potential clientele, looking the part of a photographer.

Of course, She lacked the courage and fortitude to be able to do it herself. It had taken her this entire time to work up the gall to merely call him. She had grown tired and despondent and bored with this world and could not bring herself to add another worthless soul to the foul mix of primordial soup. She was ready for the next great adventure and motherhood was not it. Life offered her no thrills. No morning dew cheered her. No reason to be. She was curious of the Bard’s second part of his rhetorical question. To not be.

The girl had done her homework. She had found his website and knew that he was to film the first communion at St. Agnes that Sunday. She found his car and left a note. It read:

“It seems that they have figured out who I am. Have you?”

Ambiguous. Mysterious. She wrote down her name. Thought better of it and crossed it out, sufficiently hiding her identity. There was time. Let him ponder this and get it on his mind. Perhaps then he would be more receptive to her eccentric request. Was it so much to ask? A perfect stranger? ‘Excuse me, you look like the man I want to end my child’s life.” “I want you to surprise me with it.” “I don’t want to know the hour. Come like a thief in the night.”

Sounded reasonable enough. Right?

She let two days go by.

She called him. It was late, but she knew he would be awake. The malicious cannot lie to themselves, therefore, they cannot sleep. She picked up the phone and dialed his number. He answered right as she was about to hang up.

“Hello, hello? Is anyone there? Can you hear me?” She tried to keep the desperation out of her voice.

“Yes, This is she.”

“This is no time for games, dammit Sam, pull yourself together, we have work to do.”

“What do you want? This is getting to be a bit ridiculous don’t you think? I mean who are you?”

“Meet me outside the Big Boy on 5^th in twenty minutes. Don’t be…”

She had no idea why she picked that particular location. It had sounded so romantic in her mind. A perfect setting to plan the perfect murder. She began to get cold feet. Was she really going to go through with this?

Yes. she was.

***

I lit another cigarette and turned up the radio. What the hell did this bitch want? Why on earth would she keep calling me, leaving me notes on my car, which by the way was extremely creepy. How did she know my car? How the hell did she know where I would be. That’s why I am going. Right? I couldn’t rationalize any other reason.

I got there a little early. I hadn’t eaten all day. scotch and cigarettes have been my diet the past couple of days. Its not a diet I recommend, but the soul, she has her own wants, no? I went inside and ordered. and waited. The woman obviously already knew what my car looked like, better to not give her any more of advantage then she already had in this rendezvous. She had all the power, and it made me nervous.

Twenty minutes came and went. What the hell? Had this just been a figment of my imagination? Just more evidence of my increasing instability and overall decline in my sanity? Or was there something more foul afoot? I decided to mull it over a milkshake. Strawberry that is.

***

She pulled into the parking lot, trying to find a spot by his car. She felt more comfortable by his side. She barely knew him but. she knew that he was a kindred spirit. And she drew strength and courage and all those other bullshit feelings that humans feel.

In she walked.

***

He instantly recognized her from across the room. At first he didn’t know whether to see if he could leave without her seeing him or that he should call out. He just knew what she wanted before she even had crossed the ketchup stand.

***

She saw him and headed towards him. He didn’t rise when she got to the table and she sat down.

“Hello, Sam.”

Damn she had a sexy voice. “And you are?”

“Rebecca. And I think you are the only one that I can turn to.” She knew at this point full disclosure was the only way to go about things.

“What the hell do you want? And does it have anything to do with you calling me? Night and day? And who are you? a better question?”

“Do you have any experience in abortion? I can’t go to a doctor due to financial reasons. And I can’t go through with this pregnancy.” She laid it all out on the line.

I was stunned.

How exactly do you answer that question? Years of practice with the lowest levels of human scum have not prepared me for this request. And that’s saying something. I always felt myself prepared for anything. Even boy scouts do not have a merit badge for this shit. I answered the only way I knew how. “I believe I can help you.”

She looked pleased.

I was still confused. “What did you have in mind? Like coat hanger and vacuum type nonsense?”

“That’s why I chose you. I think you can be the one to make the appropriate course of action. I mean hell, you can handle this? Right?”

I said, “Stand up.”

She stood up, unsure of the next move, but for what she was asking him to do, she might as well be able to acquiesce a simple request to stand.

The target was too inviting to pass up. She looked about three or four months pregnant. Still small and petite with an amazing body, but beginning to show with a little bit of a baby bump.

I punched her. hard. in the stomach.

Once. Twice. Three time’s a lady.

She didn’t know what to do. She felt like she had been hit by a train. She doubled over and slumped down into the booth.

I was hoping the bitch wouldn’t scream. I picked up my tray, walked to the garbage and emptied it. I walked out the door without looking back. If I had had the chance, I would of washed my hands.

It was all of the time.

Well Shit. doc

2009-02-26T14:59:00.000-08:00

“Well shit doc. i don’t really know why I am here. i mean . . . i don’t really think i am any crazier then you. and i mean you gotta be crazy. you just sit and you just sit, you just. . . listen. all day. you don’t say anything. its. its just not right.” I pulled out my cigarettes, knowing he doesn’t smoke. hates smoke. cannot stand the ethereal beauty of faint wasps drifting to the heavens like so many souls of the damned. inhaled into ones’ lungs. enjoyed with the greed of a small child. i offer him one. He accepts. I am
blown away.
I begin to pace. never able to think sitting down. terrible. “cleanliness is next godliness.” I say in my best weatherman’s voice, looking around a clean. calm. idyllic. office. It cannot be more than seventy-five feet to that liquor store. I think to myself, cocking my head slightly to the side. my eyes looking. becoming blurred with lost. they observed a window that had, with little to no doubt in my supposed frail mind, been cleaned within in the past week. maybe month. well dammit it had been cleaned sometime recently. “The autonomy of the Tibetan people is what’s really getting me doc. No reincarnation of the Dali Llama? Where are we to go? Hell. That’s where.”
I am still pacing around the room. well more specifically him. He seemed unperturbed. But its all right, i mean him no harm.
I grind out my cigarette into the ash tray and look expectantly at the Doctor. he has matched me. drag for drag. with an air of finality he grinds his cigarette out onto his thigh, the flame slowly igniting the surrounding fabric. No. wait. there are two cigarette butts in the ashtray. and no burn in his $59.95 Bergner’s dress pants.
“It takes two to tango. doc,” I don’t think he understands me. But no worries, he is not charge of this room. I have been dominating the discussion so long now, I doubt that he has the ability to even muster a word now.
“Tell me about your dreams.” he speaks. caught me off guard.
The question seems troubling. only a delinquent would pose such an inquiry to another fool. and two wrongs make a right. but never the matter, the matter was raised. “I don’t know anything about my dreams. The longer i think about such things. the blurrier it gets.” I freeze. place the ball in his court. goddammit.
he makes no response. The stock photograph of the old man in the picture frame. i bought yesterday makes no response.

i begin to panic. why is he not saying anything? that is his job. he must not have anything more to say.

“Rome was not built in an a day.” I mutter. maybe to myself, but nevertheless utter the phrase, carelessly. He makes no moves to acknowledge i had spoke at all. I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. No one ever calls me. nope. no one there.
“I believe our time is done here, mr”

And Why Not?

2008-04-27T22:27:00.000-07:00

This spring break was good. A full week, with all the trimmings of a classic Roman drama: drunken shenanigans; vicious campaigns; tales of brotherhood and betrayal, compassion and anger; losing hope in the cause, finding it once again . . . victoriously, all to sing the songs of our fathers in Bruiser’s basement arm in arm…mourning for lost comrades, only our eyes revealing the depths of sheer madness and terror . . . New loves were made, old flames rekindled, pride, jealously, lust, gluttony…. and every other seemingly so grand and epic notion that have long since plagued the human psyche were encountered this break. The things that true reprobates always inevitably forget during a weeklong binge.
It began normal. quiet. innocuous. With no real strong indicators of the impending trials and tribulations that were set to unfold over the next seven days. The drive home was short. uneventful. Caught a ride back with Nails, which is always uncomfortable because he drives a truck and when Big Tim decided to head back too, we all suddenly turn into some strange form of wild hillbillies rarely seen outside of low-budget horror films; raving drunk, pissed as all hell, prepared for war . . . announcing our departure of the hills wherever we went with feral screaming and gnashing of teeth. You run that risk with rolling three deep in a regular cab. Different folk.
The first night was spent at two different locations. A novel idea, one might say, but in actuality it was quite a hoot. Without naming any names (loose lips, sink ships); we first set sail at a friend’s house - friend lives with his parent - friend gets in fight with parent - friend jumps ship - we damn the torpedoes and cry, “steady as she goes!” - friend’s dad places out welcome mat for a place to stay the night, annd . . . we scatter like small puppies before a Hoover. There was six cars, every driver a drunk, all caravanning down University. If only Peoria really knew what goes on. I was pilot Little Miss Can’t be Wrong’s dinghy and was in excellent position. Third for a large portion of the race, I pulled into second with a deft lane change somewhere around Glen. It was I and Cenji all the way down Austin, the homestretch, the finish line in sight and just as she was turning onto his street, I went for the glory and the girls. Took the inside corner and broke for the lead. It was The Fast and the Furious all over again, but maybe The Intoxicated and The Idiots sounds better. A few upstanding citizens were offended, namely Rick Kirby, but nobody really paid much attention.
So a running total of possible misdemeanors/felonies:
1. Purchase of Alcohol by a Minor
2. Possession of Fraudulent Identification
3. Underage Consumption of Alcohol
4. Driving Under the Influence
5. Open container of Alcohol in a Moving Vehicle
6. Possession of a Scheduled I Controlled Substance/Paraphernalia

Nothing too exciting happened the next few days; either that or I can’t remember it if anything did anyways . . . so that’s neither here nor there. A rough estimate, recalled under the influence to report to you is Sunday/Monday we got drunk at Bruiser’s house, sitting around till four or so in the morning. With the assholes. So that Tuesday, we decided that a beautiful day deserves a cookout and planned ahead. Crisp had set out six or seven pounds of deer meat he had shot over the course of deer season out to thaw and we began cooking around noon. You have got to love a morning session, everyone all fresh and bleary eyed from the night before. So after a delicious meal and a couple of great cigarettes, our thoughts turned to the day and we transpired for something to do that would keep our pursuits legal, ethical, moral and outside. We settled on shooting guns. Crisp loaded up the cache, and we rounded up the minutemen: Deadeye, Nails, Crisp, I and Big Tim all headed out, armed to the teeth, half crazed on nicotine and testosterone. My favorite part of the trip out there is that we all met at Bruisers and waited for the right moment to load up what Crisp had dubbed, “the mother load of all arsenals.” Just as we think the street is at its calmest, we make the switch into Big Tim’s car. Picture Crisp walking swiftly across the street, arms laden with munitions, and BAM, two cars going opposite ways on the street appear, a dog walker rounds the corner and then the mailman pop up and catch the entire scene with front row seats. Like something out of Crime Stoppers. We had between us: three 12 gauge shotguns, two 20 gauge shotguns, two .22 millimeters; one rifle, one revolver, and one .44 magnum handgun with mother-of-pearl handgrips, stolen straight off of some long forgotten dead Nazi. It was a very successful trip out to Funkytown. First time I had ever shot a shotgun, and let me tell you, it is everything and more.
We had such a good time we went back the next day. This is when things turned interesting. They say a pig will go feral faster then any other previously domesticated animal, “Domestic pigs that escape from their pens or are released into the wild begin to turn feral within weeks. Their snouts and tusks will elongate into flexible, tough, flattened snouts and...” But high school literature class says otherwise, witnessed in Lord of the Flies. And I don’t refute those claims because we all witnessed one another find the tribe in us all in a matter of minutes that day. When we opened up the gates and strolled through our already conquered territory, I spotted a pair of Canadian Geese out on the floating wooden dock in the middle of the pond. These bastards are a nuisance and shit all over the property. They had probably just landed from a long flight out of St. Petersburg, Florida (where the real geese kick it), and were excited about their new private pond to raise a family. Fuck that shit. On previous ventures out to Funkytown during the early of spring, I have come across other nests. After successfully scaring the parents away by use of rocks, pebbles, etc. etc. . . . we have upon direction of my lovely grandmother, burnt the nest, smashed the eggs and pissed upon the ashes. Grrrr . . .
Me: “They’ve got to go.”
Crisp: “You can’t shoot them, they’re not in season. You don’t even have a license.”
Me: “Can’t stay here . . .” As I pumping shells into the chamber. They were going down.
Crisp: “Well . . . Alright. If they’re still down there when we get there, we can shoot at them. I get first shot with a deer slug. If this shit hits, that motha fucka will explode.”
Me: “Awesome.”
Upon our arrival to the patio and the beach overlooking the pond, the geese had swum across to the other side and were looking very quizzically at us from the land. Big mistake. While Crisp sighted up a 12 loaded with a deer slug, I took aim with a very nice little number, a 20-gauge over/under. He shoots first, misses, I shoot, miss, he shoots, misses; I connect on the second shot, picking the ol’ boy off on the wing, where at least he got a sporting chance. It caught the wing of the fool and dropped him in the drink. Crisp immediately grabs another 12, runs over to the flapping bird and pumps three shots into the pathetic creature from point blank range. He turns and looks at us after reaching in and picking up the dead animal, holding it aloft by its limp neck, “ I think he’s dead.”
Now the question becomes, what to do with the corpse. The first thing I did was reach for a cigarette. It was good. Crisp grabs the kill and begins to dash up the hill to the woods, shotgun in arm, bird flopping limply in the other. I turned to Nails, “On a scale of 1 to 10 of how illegal that just was…”
“Well, put it this way, if anyone would’ve seen that, everything we have here would have been taken, we all would of gotten felonies, you probably would’ve gotten multiple, paid a huge fine and most likely served a week or two in jail.”

Nice.
So a running total of possible misdemeanors/felonies:
7. Poaching on a Out of Season Migratory Waterfowl
8. Hunting Without a License
9. Illegal Handling of a Firearm by an Unlicensed Person
10. Shooting of Firearms within 50 yards of the Interstate (didn’t know about this one.)
11. Underage Consumption of Alcohol
12. Possession of a Scheduled I Controlled Substance/Paraphernalia

The true culmination of break came the last Friday. I remember that Saturday very clearly. It was terrible. There was this overwhelming feeling of just . . . emptiness is probably the best word for it. The night before was so special, so magical, it was almost as if we blew some strange dopamine receptor not known to the general public, held secret by an elite group of international scientists. Like some sort of naked-running gland. Bruiser decided to host another party, and when a keg was thrown in for, it had the budding for something wonderful. Not that many people showed up, mostly the normal miscreants that crawled out of whatever gutter they found themselves in that morning to make an appearance that no really paid much attention to. It was smooth sailing for most of the night; I played like shit in beer pong all night, which was really the first night that I can remember being terrible all night. Ah well. It was about 2:30 in the morning and while everyone was still going strong, the general consensus amongst the deckhands was mild to highly inebriated. Dr. Feelgood was in prime form, and had been all night. When he gets real drunk, it is truly a sight. More often then not the first signs of his drunkenness usually show themselves during smoke breaks. He gets this hunched over stance and leans real far forward, with a look on his face that betrays his knowledge that falling is an inevitability, but has just enough sense of mind left to counteract the strong desire to face plant by leaning backwards at the crucial moment. This will go on for quite some time. Then after that stage has been conquered, the intrepid traveler that he is, thirsts for more. The end of the night at Bruiser’s has had many different outcomes for him; from needing to get fireman-carried out after inadvertently exposing himself to a sustainable number of innocent people that clearly did not need to see such things - Better left out of sight, out of mind-, to vomiting over his shoulder, laying on his back in his boxers…in the front yard. So somehow or another he came up with the brilliant plan for he and Big Tim to race.
“Hey, hey!” Pointing at Big Tim, a drunken sheen on his face, eyes near bloodshot, appearing like some half-crazed drunken Viking with enough mead in him to loot and pillage for hours. “Get two cups, fill up and… we are racing. Around the house.”
“What?” With a hefty giggle, Big Tim tried to look around the room to see if anyone else is witnessing the spectacle that was going on in front of his eyes. “Aright, you wanna race? Lets go…let’s do it. You think you can take me, you got nothing.”
“Oh no . . . absolutely not! Absolutely not!” Dr. Feelgood does not take criticism well.
I was sitting by and laughing the entire time, but then, why not? I decided I wanted in. Everyone should get in. So I gathered up Cunt and Crisp and began moving towards the exit when Cunt let loose with the inevitable next step: “Hey lets get naked, everyone get naked!”
Now there are some readers here who will automatically recoil in horror at the mere thought of our actions. What? Are you crazy? This is a terrible idea! But let me tell you. This is nothing homoerotic about the actions that will follow. The pack attitude is one that is hard to resist. The call of the wild, if you will (or even if you don’t goddammit), that strikes a man at least once in his life is so primal in its very essence and appeals to the darkest recesses of one’s heart. It cannot be taken lightly. The overwhelming sentiments of the group were Yes. This is right. This is good.
The group consisted of I, Big Tim, Dr. Feelgood, Drunkass, Crisp, Grandpa and Cunt. We all walked outside and there was a brief moment of hesitation. Are we really going to do this? But fortunately for this herd of lost sheep, we had a collie in our midst, Dr. Feelgood, who happened to be just drunk enough to not really give a shit. There was a flurry of activity and everyone began stashing clothes where it was objectively supposed that no one would fuck with them. No call for that nonsense. We all assembled into what took to be the starting line on a concrete platform in the back corner of his yard, everyone carrying two cups full, and Dr. Feelgood with a pitcher. I turned around and was surrounded by six other naked guys. Big Tim, the only idiot in what has gone in history as the “Tour de Roark” to wear shoes, had his back turned to the group and added to the chorus of whoops and hollers, “I AM PISSING NAKED!” And so he was.
We had a rough 3-2-1 and with a flourish, we all took off. I immediately took the head of the pack with a great start, run through a side yard of an unsuspecting homeowner and emerge out into the road, shockingly fast, staggering drunk, and buck ass naked. Being followed by a host of the like.
There were calls to simply round off the house and take the short road back, but I was having none of it. I figured if I went, they would follow. And follow they did. By this time Big Tim found himself in an unfortunate state. When asked afterwards, “When you guys all left, I was still pissing. So I had to finish that doing a little crab shuffle for the first house. And then I just started vomiting.”
In front I hear some terrible, terrible, death vomit from the rearguard. And then just laughs. He was continuing the run, vomiting over his shoulder on the move. What Drunkass has dubbed “the epitome of an overweight middle-aged white guy”, was naked, spewing the contents of his dinner in the middle of suburbia. I would’ve kept moving too.
But the funny part was it continued throughout the run. We were dashing through front yards, dodging trees and avoiding twigs on the ground, which hurt like hell barefoot. I was still in first and Grandpa ‘I-didn’t-know-it-was-a-race’ bringing up the rear. Then I heard one of the funniest sounds of my short and twisted life. The terrible sound of one hundred and seventy pounds of human flesh hitting a driveway and a terrific bang. I knew instantly; there could be no other explanation. Dr. Feelgood had fallen.
“His physiology was never meant for it in the first place,” they will say, nodding their sentiments away, shaking their heads with a look of sad acceptance of the fact. “He just, just…” trailing off with a distant look in their eyes. Everybody knows what the other is thinking; no one really needs to bring up the past once again. “You know he can speak French?” They will murmur to their neighbor, moving away to lighter topics and leaving other sensitive subjects behind.
When the moment came for him to make the transition from yard to driveway, he stumbled. He tripped. He fell. He supermaned the driveway. He slid face first into home plate. And nobody stopped.
I could tell something utterly amazing had happened. The noise from the rear was too loud, too raucous for just the normal humor found in naked races around residential neighborhoods. I could feel the opposition gaining ground and when we finally turned to corner and began the home stretch, I was passed by Cunt. There were about four houses left and by that time both of us were damn near walking. A flying Crisp made a mad dash at the end to seize the lead and finish first. As soon as he stopped running and threw up his hands in triumph, he immediately bent over and hurled all over the ground. The final order was: Crisp, Cunt, I, Drunkass, Big Tim, Grandpa. And Dr. Feelgood. We were all frantically trying to re-clothe ourselves and avoid piles of vomit that seemed to be appearing with alarming frequency, all while on the camera of one of Hollywood’s finest paparazzi photographer. He claimed to be laying low in Middle America while the whole Britney Spears thing blows over. “Dangerous climate now for photographers,” he had said solemnly, “anywhere you get close enough to take a decent shot of some cleavage or maybe, god-forbid, a nipple slip or a glimpse of beaver, their bodyguards intervene,” a tired look coming across his face.
He had been saying this terrible story all night to whoever was unfortunate enough to fall into conversation with them. Wild, horrible tales of fellow photographers getting hauled off into the desert and never being seen again. Nobody really believed anything he said, but just smiled and walked away saying, “That’s nice…”
When Dr. Feelgood finally made it back five minutes later, he was had two massive road rash cuts over his chest and two cuts on either arm. But as he proclaimed victoriously upon arrival, “I didn’t spill!”

Upon hindsight this was terrible idea. No part of this plan was to lead to any good outcomes. All other possible endings of this tale are bad, most involving massive fines and/or bodily injury. The number of laws that were broken is quite astounding. Assuming that we do get stopped by the police, the first scenario that would happen is we would’ve all scattered. A group of naked guys running from the police, which even has a more comical image attached to it. Think about jumping fences in our state. Much general ugliness. But after we were rounded up like so many Christians under Nero, they would have found out about Bruiser’s party. Then . . . our ship would sink. A few would cry in terror, searching for life vests and ways off, but for the most of us, the true degenerates, we would be calm. Silently watching… facing the sunset with a look of quiet acceptance on our tired faces, yearning for the next great ride through this short life. Where only brief moments of sheer unadulterated joy puncture through our otherwise safe. mild. bland. existence.
So a running total of possible misdemeanors/felonies:

12. Public Indecency (Registered sex offended. Picture online . . . Yes.)
13. Open Alcoholic Container in Public Area
14. Underage Consumption of Alcohol
15. Disturbing the Peace
16. Possession of a Scheduled I Controlled Substance/Paraphernalia
17. Possession of a Scheduled I Controlled substance with Intent to Distribute
18. Hosting a Underage Drinking Party

Some Metaphorical Association

2008-04-05T02:51:00.000-07:00

The second part of my last name is cone but it isn't pronounced like crispy ice cream cones mimicking musicial microphones in a strictly non-auditory manner.

So the muted singer yells into his choco-caramel scoop, textured like a spherical waffle, and his saliva drip drops onto the electronic megaphone like phlgem-infested syrup. A crazed fan, intent on recieving oral from him, spread her legs one night and croaked gleefully, only to find her pissing apparatus sealed and stuck from the very tongue that once ushered it open. But this is besides the point.

It's important to note his spit's lava-esque hue, maroon in color. The tunes continue; he believes his mouth, the very vessel of his voice, is a volcano's orifice, and his melody erupts along the waffle-phone in molten ashes and molasses. Yes. He belts the melody now; but that isn't to say he restrains it, as some belts do with pants, but that he heaves and belts and pants like a passionate vocalist. He nearly eats his Eggo breakfast at the falsetto.

And She Lit Up A Cigarette...

2008-03-30T13:13:00.000-07:00

Are you curious as to how one can spend $4.15 a day? Or if the old adage of one cigarette = five minutes off of your life is true (when researching for this, I found multiple articles that actually cited 11 minutes. Oh boy), then at least one hour subtracted from your already drastically shortened life? Well there are names for each one of those cigarette, those smokes, those squares; all the way from that fresh pack bought at 9:30 in the morning, taking yourself at least five minutes out of the way and five minutes late to class, but goddamn. You now are the proud owner of twenty cigarettes, twenty looseys.

1. The Fresh Pack Cig
You knew you didn't have any cigarettes left from the night before. You sort of had to conserve towards the end of the night. From anytime after 1 am, the box starts looking a little low. So you hold off for a little bit, savoring one usually after big events; be it finishing a drink, playing a game, or narrowly avoiding the cops. But you always leave yourself one left for that walk home. Since you were out late drinking last night, you are late getting up for that 11 o'clock class, you fuck showering and run to the store for a pack. Thank god its not that far out of the way, but nevertheless you will still be a little bit late. Eh? This is always one of my favorites, I mean I love them all, but this one is special. You now have almost a full pack. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 19}

2. Walk to Class Cig
This is one, that depending on the situation could also be called Get Out of Class Cig if you are done for the day. But generally this is the first thing done when exiting a building. I know its tough to rationalize, but being stuck inside of a building listening to a teacher babble on about whatever their unfortunate field of choice is, is not really my cup of tea. So you need that cigarette to calm your self back down, get all the anger out; say the things you wanted to scream at at them sitting up in front of the class, so smug and arrogant. But the beauty of this cigarette is that, even if the teacher does happen to be entertaining, does happens to host an educated and informed class, then you need that cigarette to savor the moment. So depending on how many classes you have that day will directly affect your count here. On average I have about three, so their is usually give or take 5 to 6 smoked over the course of the day-before class and after class. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 14}

It only about 2 o'clock.

3. The Watterson Cigarette
This is a ISU specific smoke. I never really encountered it before living inside arguably one of America's oldest and toughest prisons; basically right along the lines with Folsom or San Quentin. But it takes so damn long to get to my room, that usually when I do reach it, I immediately want a cigarette. The stress from all the collegiate bullshit is enough to drive any upstanding citizen to smoke. The elevators are always packed, always inevitably stand next to the guy/girl that happens to have the peculiar odor of stale dorm air coupled with the fact they have not done laundry in a few weeks. Fuck. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 13}

4. The Pre-grit
Another one of my personal favorites. This is usually before the afternoon smoke, often in the confines of a private little nook surrounding Watterson. You have a couple options: Stand-up Crevice, Full Body Crevice, or The Crevice. Any of those suit your fancy? But, this is the cigarette that you smoke coming out of Watterson, and having just dealt with that nonsense, need a cigarette. This is the cigarette to prepare your lungs for the hitters you are about to bang. Basically this is the appetizer for the main course. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 12}

5. The After grit
Enough said. For the record, anytime you can't stop coughing from smoke irritation, simply smoke a cigarette. Cures all sorts of respiratory problems. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 11}

Yeah its about 5 o'clock

6. The Full Body Cig
This is a mandatory cigarette. After you go to the Watterson Cafeteria and get uncomfortably full, this is the smoke that cleanses your palate. Gets the nasty taste of reheated, barely-edible-by-lab-rats food out of your mouth. This cigarette is always in Full Body, a little cove that is an large window into the hallways leading up to the cafeteria. Could not design a better people watching spot than here. Most people are unaware you are staring them down, and if they do realize, then they generally get pretty uncomfortable and speed up, avoiding any potential for eye contact. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 10}

7. The Leaving Smoke
Usually about 9 or so, you are leaving to go to a party and having just successfully transversed the straits of Watterson, you now need a cigarette. Sometimes depending upon the length of the walk, there is occasionally a Walk cig, but that is only under extreme circumstances. Generally walks lasting more then 20 minutes or so. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 9}

8. Arrival Smoke
Congratulations! You made it! Have a cigarette. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 8}

9. Party Smokes
Yes, plural. This is for all the random cigarette breaks during drinking. Dependent upon the weather, this is normally an outdoors smoke. A nice chance to break away from the rest of the party and talk normally to another smoker. Yes there is a secret code of conduct. Don't ask, I won't tell you. But if you are playing a drinking game, more often then not, its an inside affair. Can't interrupt the flow of the evening. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 0-1}

10. The Leaving smoke
Another mandatory. If need be then you may have to bum one from a fellow compatriot, but nevertheless you have to have a smoke one on the way back. This cigarette offers something most other cigarettes can't: utilitarian value. Usually just reaffirms the musk of O'de Tobacco to you and removes all other noxious odors generally accumulated through an average party. {Tally: Cigarettes left- 0)

And the cycle continues. But in my defense, I work with cigarettes. They give encouragement to actually go class. Numerous times I have been laying bed, hung over like a derelict wino, and the only reason I get out of bed and make it on time is to have a cigarette before. Were synergistic goddammit.

Three Inch Horses, Two Faced Monsters

2008-03-17T13:55:00.000-07:00

Blowing a smooth stream of smoke out of his nostrils, he reached forward and turned up the already blaring music on the radio, tapping his long, slender fingers in time to the beat. After the song had ended, he turned it down to an acceptable level and flicked his cigarette butt out the window out onto the highway, where the last dying embers glowed until extinguishing, illuminating the dark night like so many little fading flares. “I am fucking starving.” He glanced over at The Driver, who was constantly twitching his head; bobbing and convulsing to an inaudible rhythm, dancing some archaic heathen ritual long since lost to the rest of civilized man. “Knock that shit off man.”

The Driver did not respond, but with a look of concentration on his gaunt and sallow face, made a visible effort to control his movements. It must have been too much for his constitution, simply too overpowering to resist. After a few minutes the jerking began again, as if he was unconscious of the movements.

“Seriously, we need some food.”

For the first time The Driver spoke, “let’s wait till we need gas, it’s been like two hours since we last filled up, we need some soon and we can stop there and eat. Might have to be gas station food though. Should be something around here somewhere.” his method of speaking quick and jerky, releasing all the words in one violent torrent not unlike verbal diarrhea. “Do a line. That’ll do ya for a little bit”

This last remark hung in the air like a cloud of smoke and as if a manner of response, The Passenger lit another up cigarette. The silence resumed in the car, so he turned up the radio.
“Check the map, find some bumfuck town with a restaurant or something, I mean hell, there has got to be something around here. Like people need to eat and shit right?” The Driver said with a twitch.

With a troubled look on his face, The Passenger studied the map, trying to understand the concept of the folds. He began to open it unsuccessfully several times, nearly ripping it in two. After a few minutes, he threw it away disgusted. A large billboard for an all-night diner saved him the embarrassment of not being intelligent enough to open a map. “Bingo.” he said with a grin. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small mirror. Reaching into a pocket on his red flannel shirt, he withdrew a small bag of white powder. He scooped a little out with a Good Sam RV membership club card and dumped it onto the mirror, situated two lines, snorted one …… and put it up to The Driver’s face, handing him a cut-off straw as well. Without his eyes leaving the road, he too did his …… and lit up a cigarette immediately. The Passenger did the same, leaned back and looked at The Driver. “I got to eat something man, fucking starvin. Let’s stop at this diner.”

“Dammit. That’s just what we need. A 24-hr joint. Some white trash waitress named Trixie or Roxie. Gotta have red hair. It’s like a goddamn uniform. How far until we actually reach some form of civilization?” The Driver was not happy. “Plus, you really don’t wanna eat that shit. Who knows what we will be eating. I don’t wanna eat some goddamn road kill or some possum. Eh, you like that shit, uh? Some fuckin Possum?”

“Nah, this’ll be fun. What time is it… like two, the place will be empty, and we can have some fun with this Trixie or Roxie. You don’t even have to eat anything.”

With his twisting and jerky movements, a smile slowly broke over The Driver’s face. A slight, high-pitched giggle seemed to force itself out of his lips, only to retreat quickly where it came from. It was the eerie wheezing that is begotten only when excess amounts of speed and nicotine are consumed for many years “Hmmm…we don’t have much left to drive tonight. We could get drunk. I mean if we get too plastered, we could always stay there all night and drink ourselves back to sobriety.” The Driver said all this in a manner of seconds; quick rapid bursts of speech, all strewn together in a single thought. As if his mouth had trouble catching up to the random flow of ideas that were coursing through his brain.

“Yeah, yeah…” and suddenly, “fuck yeah! Lets do it,” The Passenger said, grinning from ear to ear. “Another line?” …… ……

Walking through the empty parking lot, they were like moths attracted to a streetlamp. The diner looked like any diner on the side of any road. It had a homey feel and except for a bleary eyed waitress smoking a cigarette at the counter the place was dead. As they walked through the front door, she begrudgingly rose from her seat and went to the front desk to greet them.

“Hiya, my name is Cassie. How many, two? Smoking or non?”

“Well, judging by the cigarette that is lit and I happen to be thoroughly enjoying right now, that shouldn’t be too difficult of a question, now should it?” The Passenger, giggling incessantly, shot back at her with a grin on his face as if this would the most fun he would have in a long time, and knowing this, was going to make it last.

With merely a sleepy glance, the waitress silently led them over to a booth. Handing them an ashtray and some menus, “I’ll be back in a minute for your order.”

The Driver continued his strange, almost rhythmic and scripted twitching, bobbing his head to some invisible beat that only he was in tune to. He too, seemed excited and was moving a little faster then normal but was sitting silently with a blank look in his eyes. He lit a cigarette, and leaned over the table and spit on the floor.

“Ahh, nice. Hey… Cassandra!” The Passenger yelled at the vicinity of the kitchen. “Dos cervesa, por favor! Vamos!” He continued giggling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

The waitress drudged back to the table, bringing with her two bottles of cheap, domestic beer.

“What can I get cha?”

“Why, Cassandra, I will have the numero uno, and another beer,” The Passenger said, his beer half empty with a large pull. The Driver followed suit with a slight head twitch and a large swallow.

“And my humble friend will have another beer also, and a side of your finest potato chips.” The Passenger said while looking at her with the same grin. The waitress merely looked blankly at the two threatening looking kids. The Driver said nothing.

“My, have I told you what lovely eyes you have?” The Passenger said with a grin. “You ought to be in showbiz. Do you have an agent? I imagine you have a beautiful voice. Are you interested in Broadway? ‘Cause I can see it in your future.” The waitress seemed not to be least bit surprised by his sarcasm and collected their menus without responding.

The Driver grinded his cigarette out onto the table and reached for his pack for another. After lighting one, he began to flick his lighter, opening and closing it rapidly. Apart from the slight twitching of his head and the noise from his lighter, there were no other signs that the place was alive. “She wants me.” The Passenger seemed to close to tears at his own joke.
“You think so? I could tell she was kinda looking at you. I just thought she was wondering what a dumbass like yourself was out past your curfew?” The Driver looked across the table, his eyes dark and hollow, bloodshot with many days of no sleep.

“Nah man, you got it all wrong. Just give it another round, and she’ll look a whole lot better.”

The Driver merely shrugged, a movement hardly discernible in between all his others. An almost oppressive silence fell over the restaurant.

Abruptly the ceaseless clicking of the lighter stopped, and The Passenger looked up excitedly. Both of them turned their heads in unison to the kitchen door that had swung open. The waitress was walking out, and no sooner had she cleared the doorway and began heading towards their table, when The Driver immediately stood up in his chair and launched his empty beer bottle towards the ceiling above the door. It went over her head but close enough to frighten most god-fearing christians. The waitress let out a scream and dropped to the floor, covering her head with both hands. The tray, fully loaded with their food, shattered to the ground and instantly covered the linoleum floor in broken glass and fragmented china plates.

The Passenger was the first to recover, mouth-hanging open; he was almost too surprised to talk. “Holy Shit! Ho…Holy shit. What the hell was that?”

The Driver said nothing, but threw back his head and laughed.

Felons on Friday...

2008-03-10T17:42:00.000-07:00

So after I realized that that my bus decided to not show and simply drive right by, sans me, to St.Louis; and after I realized that purchasing a ticket riding the rails down there ($27) and a ticket returning ($27) together would be $73.50; after I talked to my mom and cleared everything up, I finally walked back outside into the cold to have that cigarette, that delicious cigarette. A train had just departed- coming from the Lou... of course-and there was still a sizable amount of people piecing their life back together as they disembarked for what was sure to a welcome weekend spent in the cold of Central Illinois or destinations elsewhere just as miserable; there was no where pleasant itinerary that included a pit stop in Normal. No one really looked forward to walking outside in this weather for very long. The cold was so bad it'd make your hands go numb in minutes, with wind to cut through any number of cheap department store knockoff fleeces almost immediately.

"Hey man, mind if I borrow your phone."

I heard this and pulled out an earplug of my iPod and turned to address the speaker. It was a middle-aged man, a little bit stockier and shorter than me and was dressed in a plain blue coat and sweatpants. He had a nylon string bag full of other shirts and a bible. But he was smoking, and therefore, was logically incapable of being uncool. Only cool people smoke cigarettes.

He looked unassuming enough. "Sure man, not a problem." I handed him the phone and he held it for a minute and looked at it.

"Wow, sure are making these things small anymore."

I didn't really the need to respond to that and after helping him work the keys, (in his defense, my large fingers are also difficult to work with too. Drunken texting by me? Not a chance.) he made his first call. "Hey Steve!, Its me, Joe!" Yeah man, I just got out! They let me take the train back because of some snowstorm down south or somethin..........Hey man, is anyone coming to get me?.........Well where's Karen?..........What'd you mean no one's seen her?...........Well I am stuck in Normal man, you gotta send someone to get me......................What?......Give me your brother's number, yeah Tim!........Alright."

He turns to me and motions me to take a number down. Damnitt, my weakness. So I take the number down and he hangs up the phone. "Where ya heading man?"

He took a drag from his cigarette and turns to me. "I just got off the train from St.Louis. Trying to find a ride to Galesburg"

"Nice, nice, what were you doin down there?"

"I just got out of prison. "

Oh.
So...its like that. I knew immediately I was not going to ask what he was in for. Not my business. If he brings it up, than so be it, but not by my hand.

"Well congratulations man. Feel good?"

"My man, you have no idea. Everything is just a little bit prettier." And than he starts launching into this tirade of how he wasn't going to drink or "fuck around wit them drugs or nuthin," I sorta zoned out and nodded my head. It was hard to pay attention to him anyways as I had just ripped four hitters to the dome about twenty minutes ago...Plus I mean save it for the parole board. I would love for you to get you life on track, but really, really? I don't care.

"Plus I think my wife is cheatin on me. She is still on that junk shit. Shit'll kill ya quick. She is supposed to come pick me up, but no one has seen her for a few weeks"

Its now about 8 'clock and I still have over an hour to kill before my train comes. We go and sit inside the busy lobby and wait for a while. He's all fidgety and can't sit down to save his soul.

He turns and looks at me, "So they busted me witha case full of machine guns man!" Big old grin on his little face, "got me with a ten spot man."

"You just got out of prison for ten years?"

"Yup."

"Damn, am I one of the first actual conversations you have had on the outside?"

"Yeah man, and that was the first cigarette I have had in loong time."

I guess one of his friends squealed on him. He hinted at knocking on a few doors when he eventually made it back home. The rest of conversation was pretty worthless after that, we just talked about being in prison, he showed me a few tricks that maybe coming in handy one day, god-forbid.

He never did find a ride, at least while I was there. He asked me to point him the direction of the highway, figured he at least walk. "Man, I don't know if you should walk, its dangerously cold out there".... "Nah, I am a survivor, I'll make it." Yeah.

His name was Joe and was from what I saw a generally nice guy, even if he did bum a few of my smokes. But if you ever find yourself in the area of Galesburg and in need of a sizable cache of weapons, he is your guy. Or maybe, not anymore.

Drugs

2008-03-03T23:21:00.001-08:00

I was thinking the other day about why drugs make people think differently.. and it seems to come across that we think more clear when we are intoxicated.. conversation, thought, ideas, or even comedy…. Is it because we are dumbing ourselves down to think more clear? Because that’s what I was thinking.. Us as humans are really fucking smart.. really.. our brains are so awesome and packed with ridiculous amounts of information.. and what do we do to our smart high potential minds? We take drugs…. A wise man once said, “People don’t do drugs because their not fun.” So yea I get it, drugs aren’t good for you, and why?.. because they kill brain cells, they are bad for your body, and they can be additive…. So now I make the correlation between 1.) Drugs make us think more clear, and 2.) Drugs kill brain cells…. I’ve said already that our brains are just crazy with action at all times, so you slow it down.. by using drugs(not saying that it’s the only reason)…. So as I see it, we think more clear on drugs because we dumb ourselves down by killing our brain cells.. and by killing our brain cells we think more clear because there isn’t as much action going on in your brain.

Shall we?

2008-02-29T10:51:00.000-08:00

And off we go to unofficial. Hopefully make it back...

That one guy?

2008-02-19T14:11:00.000-08:00

Anybody know this guy? This is Tim Kang, otherwise known as that Asian guy in all the commercials. As far I know, he is in Cingular, Home Depot, Dairy Queen, and now I just saw him in a Shell commercial. I wonder if he is ever walking around the street and gets yelled at. I know I would. The reason that he really bothers me is because in every single one he makes an appearance in, its the same role. In the Cingular ads, he so much smarter and cooler than the bumbling white guy. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yOZ8f8E5Og). Have we become so politically correct that white people have to look stupid in order to be on TV anymore? Its a trend we have seen more and more. Sure, a bunch of goofy assholes going to a Raisin Bran Factory is funny, but what if they were black? Since when have white people become the butt of every joke?

But more importantly this poor bastard went Berkeley, earned a BA and than went to Harvard and earned a M.F.A. Now he is the veritable asian hooker for PC corporate sponsors looking to 'diversify' their image. Granted to be fair, he has appeared in a few other works, notably The Chappelle Show, and the new Rambo. But, still this guy should probably rethink his career. I mean, does anyone want to be known as 'That Asian guy'?

Excuse me?

2008-02-06T14:56:00.000-08:00

Received my first Communication paper back today. Before I launch into this one, let us take for a minute and think about what class I am talking about. Com 110. Communication as Critical Inquiry. I can't decide if its even worth wasting time talking about such a worthless and idiotic class. What is this class going to teach me that I don't already know? Oh wait that's right....Nothing.

So with this class in mind, our first assignment was Communication Improvement Profile. Oooooo. Lets read a little bit shall we?

"The purpose of this assignment is to evaluate your typical communication habits, determine three specific communication improvement goals for the semster and identify a topic for one of your COM 110 speeches (based upon a paper you revise from your ENG course last semester.)..."

[Editor's note: notice the abbreviations for the classes.]

The assignment goes on to list, paragraph by paragraph, what should be included in each one. Its about three pages and there is even a little space under each heading to allow the student to jot down a few answers to what ever prompt happens to suck that bad to be considered an educated question in this god-forsaken book; which I might add, is only availble from the Communication Departments. Communist Bastards. I thought that we lived in a free economy system? Any wholesaler of College books or textbooks that for some idiotic reason chose one of the poorest demographics possible to rape and plunder, should die a slow and agonizing death of getting trampled by small feral children. Mark my words, if I don't graduate with over at least $50,000 in debit, than it is only because I am no longer in possession of my soul, which I pawned.

Sam Clark

COM 110

January 24, 2008

CIP

What rhetorical devise will you use as an attention getter (e.g., quote, humor, starting statement, imagery, etc.)? How about that? Maybe, I mean, I don’t really think that you could go wrong with that one right there. Or maybe turn the question around. What would you use? I always found that introductions were one of the most difficult things to write in a paper. They are usually the last part I add to any of my work. Either way, that intro right there has to jump off the page to anyone who knows the assignment. Now that I know I have your attention, we get to decide right now where this paper will go. Should we follow the rough outline that was presented to us and simply fill in the blanks? Or maybe we’ll do nothing of the sort and turn this into a strange diatribe for all things that are considered ‘inappropriate’ (and we use the term loosely) by modern society. Ho ho… wouldn’t that be fun? But nevertheless, as this is the first paper due in the class and since I envision a comfortable familiarity with my audience this semester, maybe we should take the beaten path -for now- and address the true issues at hand in this bizarre world in which we share, COM 110. Hopefully this semester I will actually improve my communication skills in multiple facets. I have never been an overt fan of speaking in front of large groups of people, but technically I have never shied away. I would just rather express myself in the written form, a mode of communication much more natural to me. In this paper I want to address the issues of public speaking apprehension, researching skills, and use of visual aids.

[After this paragraph, I received this compelling advise from my highly esteemed teacher "This is stream of conscience writing. NOT appropriate for formal papers." Hey, you know what? thanks a lot.]

So I have never such a curt invitation to talk about myself before; a subject much maligned by the media outlets, but with Ann Landers surely weeping somewhere, we shall press on. As far as being a communicator, I have a slight bias towards writing. I have been writing for my own edification for a couple of years now, and despite never receiving very high marks in the academy for any of my non-formal work, many others who’s opinions are held in a much high esteem than balding English teachers have assured me that it is much better than a kick in the head. And with such stunning reviews like that, how could go wrong? You’re right, you can’t. According to others who have read my work, they know that I have good communication skills although they are severely hampered(?) by an overall cynical and nihilistic view of life, which surprisingly enough is something endemic with my peers. Something I think mainstream media has begotten over the years of mindless programming forced upon viewers everywhere. My experience with public speaking is relativity limited, albeit the mandatory speech classes and presentations in class. I feel no general ill will towards talking in front of groups, but I would rather write out my speech and read it verbatim, which is not entirely the point of public speaking.

[There was another really nice note about midway through this paragraph, written in the margins: "I stopped here." Gee, thanks for the feedback. Listen bitch, if I turn a paper in that is undoubtedly far more interesting and different than anything you have ever seen before, you at least have to have the courtesy to finish the fucking thing.]

The first thing I want to improve in my communication abilities is public speaking apprehension. It seems natural to me that if I would want to see improvement in any aspect of public speaking, than one would have to be entirely comfortable on stage. How could I worry about other facets of making speeches if I am too nervous to present my A material? It would be a waste of time and result in a D paper. The whole she-bang too. Eye contact, enunciating my words, being loud enough and not talking so fast that even Annie Sullivan has trouble keeping up. And all of this fortunately is very simple to overcome. I need to relax and realize that no one is out to get me. Sounds easy huh? I have heard Martin Luther King used to practice speaking to a mirror. Maybe I’ll get a little crazy this semester, who knows.

I do need to work on my researching skills this semester as well. It was something I noticed last semester when I working in my English classes. I didn’t really know how to set about looking up information on a particular subject. What I usually do when I am doing research for my writings is simply immerse myself in whatever particular topic I happen to writing about. And this works to some degree, but only for general background information. However I think that most of it stems from not really having any deep seated feelings for the material that I am forced to look in to, the lone exception being last semester when I was working on my rhetorical analysis. I chose a topic that I have a personal interest in, and I believe it showed. The death of mainstream hip-hop and the rise of independent and underground MCs and artists is important to me, because it is a heavily played chunk of my music library. I believe that most of it is so good, I use any chance available to introduce people to it. And I think the work showed in the paper too. So the method I planning on doing, is research better?

Visual aids have long been a thorn in my side. What purpose do they serve? The subtle balance between having a pertinent visual aid that doesn’t overshadow the speaker is growing ever more thin in the days of PowerPoint. Anyone who takes the time out of their day to work for a decent presentation does so at the risk of having whatever they show eclipse their verbal message. I remember in high school making poster board displays and having to hold them as I spoke. No one cared about what I had to say, they were too amazed at my shoddy poster. So hopefully, this semester I wont have to make any PowerPoint displays and dazzle audience with my message.

So I believe that the English assignment that I am going to revise for this semester is probably the rhetorical analysis on underground hip-hop. I feel it was one of my stronger pieces, with the exception of our first assignment and my true love, creative nonfiction. That simply is not really appropriate for most audiences, as the level of debauchery in it is pretty high. Not really meant for weak ears, or any upstanding moral citizen for that matter. But I suppose I could use audio for visual aid, and by informing the audience about the death of mainstream rap, something most people do not think about at first, illustrate my points with music, instead of cardboard figures and pictures.

The end.

I wonder if that was expected. But no really, this semester I hope to improve all aspects of my communication skills, specifically focusing on public speaking apprehension, researching skills, and use of visual aids. So I hope that this paper doesn’t end up covered in red and that my own style is not shown the manger once more, but is allowed to sleep. Sleep nice and comfortable in the inn for the rest of this semester…hopefully.

What a joke. I also got a note about abbreviating the course title, even though it written the same way on the mother fucking assignment. Its not my fault that the level of writing amongst students in your classes is so low that you have to basically write the entire thing for them and any derivation from your prescribed paper is punished with a rewrite.

This is some really unfunny joke right? Anyone who reads this, please leave a comment with your thoughts about the paper.

Jewelry Commercials

2008-02-04T19:11:00.000-08:00

Watching No Reservations on the Travel Channel with nothing better to do right now, and I happened to be unfortunate enough to come across a commercial for Kay Jewelers. I don't think that there is any way that they could drip anymore sap or corniness. The sheer whimsical value of it almost caused me to spontaneously shit myself. Here is a taste:

Attractive white chick- (opening package) "Oh, Zack, I had one of these when I was a little girl."

Dumb fuck Zack- "Open it, there is more."

Its a jewelry box that when opened a little ballerina dances around, complete with soft music. Of course its pink. What's up with that? Is there no other color in out infinite spectrum that can elicit the response necessary to get this poor infidel laid? Nope, has to be pink.

Attractive white chick- (opens up bottom drawer and sees a little black box) "oooooo..."

And than the announcer comes on. "This valentine's day...."

I wonder if they have the same commercials and just recycle them dependent on the season. How many more holidays can the corporations ruin? The official holiday season used to start the day after Thanksgiving. Stores would open around seven and with all the crazed lunatics would be waiting in line for a few hours. Now look for wreaths and trees around October. Thanksgiving is pretty much skipped entirely for the shopping experience that begins around five in the morning. I mean, shit, what's next? Stores just going to open up at Midnight?

goddamn them.

I wonder if there are any lame assholes out there in this so called society of ours that have recreated any of these heartwarming moments in their own pathetic lives. All though I suppose if you have a significant other to give jewelry to, than maybe you are a little better off than I am.

Probably not.

Recap

2008-01-28T13:17:00.000-08:00

So break finally ended. Not really much to say, except a few memorable events

1. Of course has to be the Blueman saga. I am currently writing it and dependent upon how lazy I really am, it should be up soon.

2. Another good one was a night over at Bruiser's bar and grill, a local eatery. While you won't find an address for it in any yellow pages, it exists. It exists like one of your grandpa's Shiners or Freemason's societies. Quiet like, with all sorts of strange rituals unfathomable by any of a good and sound character and disposition. The split level house offers two areas; one for nice couch sessions and another in the lower basement with room for a table. Under most circumstances and average nights of four or five degenerates drinking casually on Tuesday nights, it was employed as Beer Pong tables. Just casual games though.

But this particular night, one had been designated for Flippy Cup, a game I am not particularly fond of. The whole scene is just not really mine. The mess involved with trying to flip upturned cups that had been until recently been the proud receptacle of four oz. of low grade beever-piss, otherwise known as domestic beer. Mmmm... The problem is that no one ever truly finishes the entire beer due to the warmth of the mess, and usually end up flipping up the remains all over the table. Nice huh? But after having wrote that last paragraph, I realized that when compared to my game of choice, Beer Pong, it seems just as sloppy. I guess though, by the end of a night of drinking, it doesn't really matter. Everything is just sloppy.

With a Flippy cup and a Beer Pong table, the numbers of the party followed the normal trajectory of a Bruiser party: A few guys...A few more guys...A lot of girls...Bunch of people...And than a few guys once more. During one of the girls phases, a friend that I had gone to high school with showed up. She was more of an acquaintance really, and after I had done the standard hug and single question I made up some excuse about something and wandered off else where. But, one thing I realized a few minutes later was that she had brought a friend from school with her. I found out this fact and didn't really give it much thought; I mean, nothing to get strung about.

The night progressed as expected; there much consumption of cheap beer, smoking way too many cigarettes, and hitters being banged left and right. As per instruction. Than everything in the night was turned upside down in a single instant. It was the beginning, the impetus of making this night something actually worth writing about instead of the other twenty parties Bruiser threw over break. This is the actual conversation.

HER (leans forward across the table and whispers into my ear) "Hey, we have the same glasses. We should have sex."

ME (look at her) "Simple as that."

HER (leans back across the table and winks at me).

Yup.

I feel that a little background on the subject is necessary. I have a pair of Dolce and Gabbana (yes... I am sweet) glasses as she did too. The weren't the same exact same frames but nevertheless the brand seemed enough for her.

So with that in mind, we play a few more games. Of course...me, not taking the initiative, decided to get more drunk. So about twenty minutes later, I saw her walk up to the next level and decided to follow. Walked up the stairs and gave her a hug and the eye. The 'yup' look. Than it dawned on me. We don't have anywhere to go. So I found Bruiser, always a good man in a pinch.

"Hey man, can I uhh.. borrow your room?" Of course this was over the noise of the crowd so it had to be shouted a few times, allowing anyone close enough to be brought into the drama.

"Yeah, with who?"

"....The new one. That one?"

"Condoms in my book bag on the floor."

"Word."

I remerged from the lower level up into a room full of my idiot friends and her. I sauntered over to her and taking her hand started the long walk to the door up towards his room. All of the sudden, like the approach of a thunderstorm during a hot summer day, a chant was started by Winston, who when I informed him of the situation about twenty minutes earlier requested the assist. It began small, 'glasses...glasses...' with only a few hardcore assholes who knew the situation immediately and jumped on it like a pack of rabid dogs, but it grew. "Glasses...Glasses" It grew until everyone in the room was hollering at the top of the lungs.

"GLASSES....GLASSES..."

I have since talked to a few people there for the actual incident, and most of them didn't even know what they were yelling about, but were simply yelling for the pleasures of reaching high decibels.

After the sliding door was shut between the heathens and us, she turned and looked at me. "I feel like such a piece of meat."

"No, no, no." I am like Leon Phelps. Oh don't worry, the conversation gets no better from here. All those one liners most assholes feed drunk girls in this context just were not flowing. At all.

So off we went to his room. We got into bed and began making out. Now, she had one of those belts that chicks wear across their stomach to compensate for some other feature, be it a low self-esteem and embarrassment for size of their breasts (✓) or a stomach that everyone will stare at. Anyone who reads this, hear me out. Ain't nothing wrong with having small boobs; the only thing wrong with it is thinking its a handicap.

Anyways, I looked it up on J.C Penny's, evidentially they are called "waist belts." Here's a body slimming guide on waist belts says "Known for its magical ability to create form to even the most boxy of individuals, the waist belt is a sureshot way to maximize any feminine look." And I am not infering that she needed one of these, far from it, I am only saying that they look goofy as all hell.

After a few minutes of making out, I started to try and remove that fucking belt. And sorry to say, but I was entirely too drunk to manage. So I left it for later.

She leaned back and looked at me, "You know, You were the first guy that I saw when I walked in here."

Great, now thats a thing I really wanted to hear. I wonder if she usually ends up in some back room with a complete stranger that she happened to see first. Hope she keeps that stat up at school. So my eloquent and smooth response? "I am drunk." Hey when all else fails, damn the torpedos, full speed ahead.

"Me too."

Awesome.

A few more minutes of swapping salvia, and I return to the belt with a vengeance. I simply refused to be beaten by such a poor excuse like that. Alas, I suppose the factors of drunkenness, poor body positioning and being cursed from birth with fingers that were a poor excuse for a summer sausage. Again here it goes. "You know, I would love to see you naked, but this belt is giving me fits."

She just giggled.

I think that that was the moment when everything went downhill. Now I know most of my collective audience has been intoxicated, and that point in the night, nothing else really matters. It starts small. A little spinning, a little feeling of discomfort. Than there is the feeling of nauseous. Than its the feeling in the mouth. You know now. And usually its too late by then.

I kinda leaned back and sat up on the corner on the bed.

"You ok?"

I looked down at her, leaned in and gave her a kiss. "Yeah I am fine."

Bam.

I didn't even have to time to make it to the bathroom. Most of it went all over the floor, some on the door frame, some even believe it or not, ended up on the ceiling. I did make a little bit into the bathroom. So I am standing there, wiping out the little bit of vomit that actually made it into the sink when she walks up. I looked into the mirror and at her, and suddenly I just burst out laughing. I couldn't help it. The entire thing was too funny for me at the moment and I (obviously) couldn't handle it. The best part was when she was rubbing my back asking me if I was okay. Hmmm... So one minute I am about to have sex with you, the next I am scrubbing out vomit from the carpet. How do you think I feel?

So after I started cleaning it up for a few minutes, she made one of those awkward exits, " Umm.. I am going to go...downstairs." Riiigght.

After a good twenty minutes of scrubbing the carpet and just laughing at the entire thing, I went back downstairs and expected the worst. But since by then it was around 3 am, not that many people were left. Behemoth was the classic line of the night. "Chivalry only goes so far." No one believed that it was me, they all thought it was her. But truly the incident was much more hilarious, because it actually was me.

Yes. I rule.

More assorted assholes in my life...

2008-01-27T19:13:00.000-08:00

Behemoth

With a strange penchant towards yellow lighters, this goofy bastard is known to drive real fast in his shiny car. I have personally had many lighters destroyed because this asshole thinks that yellow lighters are bad-luck. Bad Luck from a lighter…. Yup

Turtle

The dude loves to drive. Really and truly, this kid is a taxicab service waiting to happen. He spends up to eight hours a day in his car, and once told me he should open up a touring service for the back roads of Illinois. He would smoke with the clients and show them the great outdoors…

Drunkass

Never shy to either touch you with either his feet or his trouser snake, he is a testament that everything asshole. Loves to cause a scene and pretty consistently inform you of his current state of inebriation. “Man, I am so fucked up….”

Dr.Feelgood

A drunk driver extraordinaire, his exploits behind the wheel would make any highway patrol man weep instantly. His car is a sort of Frankenstein, he totaled it on one epic night last summer, and lo and behold, it was fixed earlier this year. Dabbles in research chemicals and is employed full time as a professional thief.

Crisp

"Goddamn what a car!" I think that most of my collective audience will agree that they have had at least one meal grilled by this Wino. Smoking clove cigarettes and driving extremely loud cars, this kid is quite proud of his ability to run really fast buck naked through neighborhoods at 3 am.

You Would Prefer to Think Otherwise

2008-01-15T10:42:00.000-08:00

You Would Prefer to Think Otherwise….

Winter in the Midwest is a horrible time. While the snow might have the appearance of lending a calming atmosphere to an already bucolic scene, I knew better. The accumulation does odd things to men, each inch adding more madness to already wizened souls. The christians had come out to play in the long cold winter months and for the few of us left, it’s a dark time, full of tree trimming and other odd rituals that should have seemed archaic at one time or another in our great Western Civilization. The truly evil ones were winning once again, and with the writing on the wall, Alberto Gonzalez not recalling seemed to be the least of our worries. ‘It was him’ they would all shout while brandishing their pitchforks and torches, ‘Let the bastard pay for his crimes now.’ Yes indeed, it was a treacherous and vicious time, full of anguish at the thoughts of lost dreams and fears of what was to come. The Winter was like a great enveloping force, conquering anything in its path after rising from the squalid depths of whatever else gave spawn to the other evil little men of our generation like Tom Brokaw and Scooter Libby.

All of these thoughts seemed to resonate through my cranium at top speeds as I ventured out to my car for cigarettes. The time had indeed come for a test of true grit and valor; only the strong would survive this winter, leaving behind strewn wreckage in god-forsaken places like Wichita and Dubuque. As I walked out of my apartment, I tried to pass by my neighbor’s wide-open door quietly. The climate was not working for him; the poor bastard had taken to conventional methods of coping and the strong drink had reduced him to muttering wild and violent phrases under his breath and hollering at any weak-minded denizen who happened upon him in the dark reaches of this foul complex. I was in no mood for his badgering right now. Now was the time for answers and fast action, not reminiscing of times past. The fool would probably not last the end of the week before they got to him. It was only matter of time; behavior of those sorts was punishable to the highest degree and soon enough he would be hauled off to a processing center with other men of his kind. They would all be reduced to runny noses and groping themselves in dark and smelly places soon enough. As long as people of his ilk were off the streets and small children were safe once more, I saw no reason to get involved.

Somehow the pig had managed to knock the top hinge off of the door and it was hanging comically in the opening. I peeked around the frame and into his dwelling and saw exactly what was expected; the bastard had managed to throw everything onto the floor, and with Neil Diamond crooning softly in the background, it had the wicked appearance of some bizarre lost episode of the Twilight Zone.

“Yes! Let them buy me things” he shouted from his closet. “I will ask them for the receipts, and when I get them, they had better watch out.” He had fortunately not spotted me, but was simply yelling to the winds. “Lets all go to the mall and give them something. Something that they will not expect. Gift Cards!”

I leapt over the opening of his door, and slunk towards the exit. When I had safely reached the door leading outside, I turned and hollered down the hall at him, “You’re next, you crazy devil! They have got the place surrounded and are breaking down the back door right now. Save yourself, you swine!”

Let the bastard sleep on that. The only answer to my shouts seemed to be a low moan from the dilapidated entrance, an anxious plea against forces unseen, but present nonetheless…

I decided right then and there to venture out into the world and see the season’s true impact on this poor unsuspecting city. The Holiday sickness is a well-documented illness around these times. The panic that most people feel at this time is curable, but only by strong drink and remembering that each and everyone who becomes scatterbrained under this evil malady at one time didn’t always think of their fellow man in such evil terms.

The time for Christmas had past, it had begun in October and by the time December had rolled around we were all supposed to watch for shiny new exercise equipment for the New Year to loosen the pounds off the belly of the beast. Corporate America had poisoned the minds of thousands and an air of panic had descended upon the masses. No more were the simple pleasures of the season sufficient, instead capitalism determined that we were to be entertained by the giving of lead-tainted toys from little communist Chinamen and horrible fruit pies, baked with the intention of one-upping the neighbors. Somewhere Lee Iacocca is laughing fanatically and clapping his hands with glee….

The roads were terrible; none of the supposed Christmas spirits seemed to rub off onto the drivers. I was nearly knocked onto the shoulder by a leviathan SUV, “Pagan!” I shouted out the window at the culprit, “I hope a pack of rabid dogs gnaws your children’s presents and defecate on your walls.” I was in no mood to be trifled with. My doctor had recently refused to continue my prescription to anti-depressants and after I was subdued by two large orderlies, the quack had told me I was need of natural cures; something about how they were adversely affecting my liver. The whiskey was no good, he said. The poor fool failed to realize, of course, that I was a professional.

The mall was often a spot I went whenever I felt an uncharacteristic feeling of goodwill towards my fellow man. This was the ticket to cure any happiness. The packed stores were full of tidings of cheer and panicked shoppers who had come to the disturbing revelation that there was only one more day of shopping. An air of panic had descended upon the packed lines of crazed shoppers and snarling cashiers, which would all be reduced to a wild mob soon enough, and when the time came for anarchy, I was prepared. That’s where it would start; the overwhelming pressures of the season are sufficient to breakdown even the strongest christian, and mass hysteria would ensue. I had been quietly assembling the best arsenal money could buy and when the shit hit the fan, I would be ready. Who’s laughing now? Ho ho.

Assorted assholes in my life...

2007-12-31T13:23:00.001-08:00

Today has been a slow day in the world. Its New Year's Eve, supposedly the night of debauchery and shenanigans of all nights. And I feel like shit.

The purpose of this blog is for my own edification and practicing my writing abilities. But since most of the best writers write their own life, I guess that an introduction into the wild world of my friends is needed. I shall attempt to have these people remain anonymous as possible as most of the feats and exploits that will make the headlines of this rough version of "The Enquirer" will be illegal and more often than not, immoral. But for familiarity's sake, a keen mind should be able to pick through my bullshit and recognize who each one truly is.

"Big Tim"

A sub-conscious chain-smoker who, like his fucking coat, comes across as fluffy and cuddly. Don't let the exterior fool you. A hardened sleeper, he will go on stretches for days in which the sun is not seen. Yeah, definitely someone who you want to introduce to your parents.

"Cunt"

I hope that no one is offended by my use of the vulgar phrase, but it really is the only way to describe this arrogant asshole. Known in several small circles as a singer, this girl-jeans wearing prick is famous for telling the same off-the-wall bad jokes for weeks. Only if the person has never heard it before. But when called out, denies the allegations. Yes, truly a Cunt

"Bruiser"

He has more names than Prince and sleeps more than cats. Notable for his strange ability to call for shots at six in the morning, and when greeted by less than enthusiastic replies, will begin to scream. Is the host for many terrible, terrible things happening to usually innocent people all under his roof. With his parents upstairs. asleep.

The One Mom Doesn't Know About

2007-12-28T15:58:00.000-08:00

Moving through the back stockroom and cursing my manager under my breath, I hesitantly turned and looked at the clock on the wall. Damn. One more hour stuck in Hell’s waiting room, dealing with a wild assortment of coworkers and clueless customers; fifteen minutes in transit and a change, and then finally, finally, I could start my weekend. But first I had to dodge my manager long enough to dip out on the closing meeting, which somehow always seemed to last an incredible half-hour longer than necessary and leave exactly at nine. This would not appear to be a challenge as she had the same credentials as I, (a high school degree), and consistently seemed to be pleasantly surprised that she had matched both of her socks in the morning.

I had learned long ago that your average Sears store, more specifically the tool department, was much more than met the eye. It was a sort of human case study, a chance to delve into the inner workings of a mall employee, the minimum wage earner; the type of cashier that after ringing up your purchases struggle with the correct amount of change, and then completely ignore common courtesies and seem to think that a blank stare is the equivalent of a warm handshake and an amiable ‘cheerio!’. The people you start to wonder if their high school advisor had had a personal vendetta against or merely used them as a test subject in some new bizarre form of experimental education. I decided that my tenure at Sears could be approached as an anthropological experiment, a sort of Jane Goodall-esque, except I hoped much less poop-flinging and communal grooming. I began my time amongst the chimpanzee while working in the shoe department, and after being asked to tie the shoes on an incredibly obese man for the fourth time in a day, I began to seriously regret my decision. But for the good of the scientific community, I persevered. I am currently working on the reports to my findings, soon to be published in the National Geographic -the glossy paper offers better color for the photo spread.

So when presented the opportunity to transfer from the shoe department last year, I leapt at the chance to sell big pieces of gleaming metal and powerful handheld drills capable of death, destruction and wondrous creations. Tools are much manlier than stilettos and bathroom slippers.

But again, it was more than meets the eye. I prowled the aisles, always on the hunt for unsuspecting customers that could be persuaded to purchase an expensive new drill with just the right amount of talking; not too much to be considered a smooth-talking, greasy haired used car-salesman, but just enough to be considered a veritable fount of knowledge. “Oh, and we do offer extended warranty with this…” There was a private battle that was constantly being waged, unspoken amongst the employees, but ongoing nonetheless. Not waged in the trenches with guns and ammo, our truly unconventional warfare was fought bloody and violently between the isles, our weapons consisting of eye-catching signs and three-day sales with miles of red tape. A soldier’s ability to maintain a strict monthly quota of selling extended warranties was the most valuable asset to the brass and any slight discrepancy in our performance was met quickly with stern condemnation and a pick-me-up piece of Double-Bubble gum. Our fearless leader was responsible for maintaining discipline and order in the ranks, and used subtle motivational techniques, such as the oh-so clever reward of a surprise tootsie roll in our mailbox. Or maybe it was a slightly stale airhead, dropped ‘accidentally’ after a big sale, as she walked by with a wink and a Cheshire grin. Either way she was my supervisor, just another pawn, a slightly bigger fish than myself in their sick, twisted food chain. The woman was just different; so inoculated in their world of corporate motivational sessions and 9-5 bullshit that she had lost all touch of trace human instincts.

After a clever diversion laid by an allied comrade, I had managed to sneak out the back door, and with the light of a cigarette and a jog to the car, I was free. Free for fourteen glorious hours to do whatever I pleased. It was kind of like bargaining with Lucifer to rise from the depths of the everlasting fires to walk the earth once more, if only under the full moon. I think it was the breeze once you hit the doors. I had to work tomorrow, but my schedule was decent enough to allow for a night of drinking and debauchery, as I could catch at least a few hours of sleep.

Anyone who studies telephones and truly knows their chosen subject will tell you that there are only a few actual epochal moments in the development of hand-held communication devices. From Alexander Graham Bell’s first call, people have sought to make their lives easier. We have put phones on streets, houses, offices and in bathrooms. With the invention of the cellular phone came the changing definition of a generation and the revolution that has been the ever-increasing effort to speed our lives up. And by god I could use my phone like a sexually harassed secretary. In the five or six minutes that it took for my drive home, I could usually clock four or five calls to find out if there was actually anything going on. And the news from the home front seemed promising, as I called my buddy Zak.

“What’s up man? Talk to me.”

“Whaaat up bra’. You should come over.” Zak had the rapid delivery of a speed freak, and the biggest teeth you’ve ever seen.

“What are you guys doin over there? I kinda wanna drink.” It had been a stressful week and goddamitt, who are you to judge me?”

“J.P and Garrett are over at my house and we’re drinkin the beer they brewed.”

“I’m there in ten.”

A mad dash into my house, a change and a brush of the teeth and I was in the car on my way over. I had been looking forward to this night for quite some time. My friends Jp and Garrett had been brewing their own beer in a basement. It was going to be awesome because not only was it free, probably really good and really fresh, but also it was made with love. And consuming love is not illegal regardless of how old you are, regardless of whatever nonsense your congressman tells you.

I pulled my boat, my car was a huge ‘89 Cadillac, got absolutely the worst gas mileage, up behind Garrett’s Audi and looked at Zak’s house. A sprawling ranch situated on an attractive piece of land; the house and the two garages were a sort of Colombian coke villa situated in a nice area of town. The house, which seemed to exude either a seventies soft-core porn or a fifties black and white Sci-Fi horror film vibe (we could never tell), had a pool out back with a nice porch, perfect for sitting around and drinking. Zak’s older brother Nick was a few years older than Zak and had paved the way. His parents had that rare ability to actually trust him and his friends and allowed us to drink, provided we didn’t drive. This was awesome because in Peoria there were about as many options for teenagers as whorehouses in Vatican City. The summer was not a complete bust, as the riverfront hosted many excellent chances to get drunk and dance with slightly overweight housewives. But as soon as the leaves start to change and fall, the damn cold kept everyone inside and makes for long, dark nights of slowly drinking whiskey and watching bad television.

Walking into the breezeway I always liked to look at the décor. Zak’s parents were a select breed and had collected many different masks from different areas of the world. Horribly disfigured mouths and yawning, garish teeth always seemed like an odd choice for décor, but I wasn’t a designer. The basement was our sanctuary. The footprint of the house provided a long room, that no matter how much smoke was produced, be from cigarettes, incense or other sources, the room never smelled. It was cave, with no natural light coming in. You could never tell what time it was, and it was always extremely disorienting to walk upstairs and have the sun blinding down. I believe I spent the majority of any ride home from his house squinting while bloodshot eyes tried futility to adjust.

g…………………. … .. .

It was about 1:45 in the morning, a serious salad munch out session had just finished, and after the obligatory cigarettes had been smoked (cleanses the palate), we had all settled around the television to watch a quality informational. I believe it was the 8-minute Abs workout. And than Zak uttered the epic words.

“Heh... This is the time of the night when we all head up to White Castle.”

J.P immediately stood and started putting his shoes on. “Let’s do it. No really, I’m going. Sam, you’re coming too. Lets fjh......OH...my.... kasjhdka....Lets go...lksfkl....WE HAVE TO GO!” He had this special ability to slur all that into one, long unintelligible sentence. It was like verbal diarrhea.

“Dude, we don’t have a driver.” Garrett didn’t seem to be bothered with the situation.

“Yeah, plus its up in Joliet. That’s a long drive, definitely not like driving to Steak n’ Shake.” Zak clearly didn’t want to go.

“Yeah, two hours.” I started to lace my boots. “I can drive. I got here late. I’m not even drunk.”

“You can take my car.” Garrett started to sit up too. And for his this was an accomplishment. His action right there definitely made it official. We were going.

“No, I mean, I was just kidding when I said that. I don’t really want to go. It’s really far.”

“Nah, I went to Joliet all the time for soccer, it’s only like three hours away.” It was five. “I can get there in two and a half.”

So off we went. Zak decided that he wanted nothing to do with this venture, and stayed at home. I was elected driver as I was the most sober, (got to love the delineating process), J.P took co-pilot and Garret elected to the rearguard. I am most definitely not advocating drinking and driving, but at that time of my life, I had shown a serious penchant for a lack of observation of even the most basic of society’s laws and driving while intoxicated was no matter. I loved driving Garrett’s Audi, his parents had bought it for him when he was sixteen and in the two years he had put it through hell, it looked nothing like its original glory, but damn that car could drive. It was a completely different from driving my own car, and I was excited of the prospect of spending a few quality hours with it. We drove down to Chillicothe, a smaller farming town along the way some twenty odd minutes en route, to stop by a twenty-four hour BP gas station. J.P’s dad had given him a gas card to be used there and we went to fill up for the journey. We also got all the victuals necessary for a late night drunk drive: about ten Starbuck’s double shot espressos for me (gotta stay awake) and for some odd reason a carton of cigarettes. We all smoked too many cigarettes then and still do, but that was simply outrageous. There is no way possible for me to justify that purchase, other than when you’re going for broke, you got to go all the way. The worst part is we actually made a serous dent in the carton during the course of the journey. Probably should’ve had a heart attack with all the caffeine and nicotine coursing through my veins that night.

The ride up was uneventful until we rolled into LaSalle-Peru, around the midway point between Chicago and home. It was about 3:15 in the morning and the little sleepy town was simply unprepared for our visit. The general consensus of the car was that we needed more beer and we proceeded to find it. Nothing was open of course; it was 3 in the morning for god’s sake, shouldn’t there be a store that sells alcoholic beverages for thirsty travelers 24/7? ‘Twere this medieval times, a buxom bar wench would waiting to hydrate us on our epic quest. But alas. We happened to see two guys roaming the streets of the sleepily little town and pulled up to them.

“Hey….hey man!” I shouted out the window, as we rolled to a stop, not suspiciously at all. As they approached the car, Garret began propositioning our offer.

“We are driving to White Castle. Get in!”

The taller of the two started laughing, “It’s a bit late for food man, I gotta work tomorrow.”

“Alright…fair enough. Is there anywhere we can buy beer around here, that’s open at this god-forsaken hour?”

They gave us directions to a twenty-four hour gas station and wished us well on our journey. After we passed a few cops, the only other cars on the road, we pulled into the parking lot and we ran through our order. Of course, none of us were 21 and even worse no one had a fake id. But we did have a trick that seemed to work unbelievably more often than not. When J.P was ceremoniously awarded a speeding ticket a few months back, he had taken his copy and rewrote in the birthday. Conveniently enough when the cop issued it, he didn’t push down hard enough to have the date go all the through the triplicate form to the third and final copy, the plaintiff’s copy. So he would very calmly stroll up to the counter and when asked for id, he would tell them that the police had seized his license and this was all he had. The befuddled sale’s clerk would than glance at it, verify the age, and ring up the purchase. Isn’t America beautiful?

We all went inside and when we saw who was behind the counter, all parties involved became extremely excited. It was an immigrant who probably couldn’t speak English very well and would think nothing odd of selling beer to three degenerate drunks. While I was in the bathroom, Jp walked over to the beer fridge and proceeded to grab a case of cheap domestic beer, otherwise known as beaver-piss. And that’s where things got interesting.

“Excuse me sah. No beer. NO Beer.”

“What?” Jp strolled up to the counter and placed the case on the counter.

“I can sell no beer after three in the morning. Against state law.”

“Ah, come on its only a little bit later three, we only just missed it.”

“Soorry sah, No beer.”

I walked out of the bathroom and into a battle. Both were yelling at each other; Jp about how this was America and we had the god-given right to purchase alcohol at any hour- he is very patriotic- and the clerk repeating how it was against the law for him to sell after three. So the smooth-talker that I was, I immediately tried to smooth things out. I interrupted J.P who was in a rather loud discourse about our fore fathers, and sent him off to the car like a naughty child with a leg tap and motioned him to join Garret back out at the car. I was going to fix this, no worries….

“Hey how you doing tonight?”

“I fine, but I sell no beer after three in the morning.” The little man seemed adamant about this.

“What’s the problem is against state law?” Here began the desperation lies. “See we are not from the area, we are driving up from Tennessee to visit a friend in Wisconsin and we just got a little thirsty.” Never did it occur to me that even if he was able to sell to us, and even if we were legally able to purchase it, what attendant would sell alcohol to three guys on a road trip? Hmmm…

“Oh, sorry no I can’t do it.”

“Not even if you just put it on the counter and I just leave money, ya know, a little extra for yourself? I bet your wife would like some new shoes?” Yes, I actually said this…

“No sorry sah.”

Discouraged, but not defeated, we climbed back into the car and continued on our journey. When we started to hit Joliet, it was about 4:20 and I was the only one awake. I think the stress of the gas station wore my passengers out, and they passed out, curled up in the small car like little tuckered kittens. When I saw the first sign for a White Castle on the side of a highway, I started yelling. I couldn’t help it. I was so excited. By this point, the sheer amount of caffeine and nicotine I had dumped into my body had completely destroyed any appetite that I had and I was just going for the joy of the journey. When we pulled onto the parking lot, I felt as if it was Christmas morning. Jp and Garrett were both jumping up and down, and after we took a few pictures to celebrate the occasion, we all ran to the door. Only to find it was closed. Just the lobby, though the drive-thru was still open, thank god.

We had planned for the full experience, sitting down, big cokes, maybe some fries- who knows, maybe go a little crazy. But the drive-thru would have to do. Of course we let the people know that we drove all the way from Peoria just to eat here, and to make our burgers extra delicious. Each of us ordered ten sylders apiece and we pulled into a spot in the parking lot to enjoy the fruits of our labor. Garrett and Jp went to town on their ten and after a few minutes of eating in silence, were both finished. I ate one and felt like death. So yes, I drove two and a half hours to eat one burger… What?

The ride home was pretty uneventful. They both passed out, and I drove, chain-smoking like a chimney; a speed freak on a mission. I listened to a Grateful Dead album on repeat about seven times. The only excitement of the ride home came about a half-hour outside of Peoria, on a nasty stretch of two lane county roads that we had used to get on the interstate. That road had the worst fog that I had ever driven through. Visibility was near zero, and of course high beams merely deteriorated everything. Looking back, maybe the fog came from stress, brought on by sub par food. But, nevertheless, we arrived back at Zak’s house about six-thirty in the morning. All parties involved safe, satisfied and having the peculiar taste of success and grade E meat on our lips…

It Always Rains on a Picnic

2007-12-28T15:57:00.000-08:00

Andy loved these parties. These were the best kind, the ones with the girls were easy and the drinks were cheap. As he walked from his car with his friend Brian, he stopped and checked his hair and shirt in the side mirror. “Whatda ya think, huh? Good enough to get me with Monica? Or this a stupid question?”

“Man, you is so full of shit, you will never even get to talk to Monica before I’m in back room wit her.” Brian also leaned forward to peer into side mirror to groom his appearance for the party. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Leaning against the hood of the car he glanced over at Andy. “Hold up, asshole. It just started. We don’t need to roll up right now. It’s too early for star football players like us.”

“Oh yeah, I suppose your right. Us being big shots and such is kinda new for me. I’m still adjusting.”

“Dumbass.”

“Hey man, you better watch your mouth. I will slap seven shades a shit right out a ya.”

“Yeah, you and Dumbledore’s army? Settle down before I start taking you seriously. Then things will start getting ugly.”

Andy did not have much of a reply. He knew, one of the few things he actually knew, was that Brian could beat the shit out of him. As Brian smoked, Andy surveyed the houses. From the appearances, they were all the same. Quiet. Still. No signs of any party. The only lights on in the fronts of the houses were the porch lights. Any semi-intelligent person would be slightly curious as to why the street was lined with cars.

“Are you sure this is the party?” Brian usually questioned any decision that Andy made.

“Man look, this chick told me that this was the street. It’s all going to be happening here. Wouldn’t be surprised if this got party of the year.” He just wished he remembered the address.

“Man, you are full of bullshit.”

“Nah dude, she wouldn’t make shit up. She wants to party with me. You know her, the chick who sits behind me in trig. Kristen…. Oh shit, what’s her name? Uhh…Kristen Meyers.”

“Dude, she looks like a rat.”

To this Andy had no reply.

“Man, people need to stop being gay and answer their phones. We can figure out what’s going on.” Brian flicked his cigarette on the ground. “This is the right spot, right?” He was anxious to get to the party. He liked to get in early and check out the field for prospective encounters. He fully expected to find something to shack up with tonight, and regardless of age or the level of consent given, was looking forward to a good night.

“Uhh… yeah dude.” Andy was looking a bit more nervous, flipping through his phone, trying to find anyone who liked him well enough to answer his call on a Friday night. “Here, you try and call somebody.”

“Bullshit, you made me drive forty minutes to a party that isn’t even a party? There’s no one here! What the hell?”

“ Man, calm yourself the fuck down. It’s probably too loud and people can’t hear their phone ring. Just think, if it’s that loud, then it’s bound to be a bomb ass party. Oh hell, I just lost the game.”

“AW! You bitch! You always make me lose that shit. I haven’t lost in so long.”

“Sorry, not really my fault.”

Flipping through his phone made Andy start to get nervous. He already made a complete cycle of his contacts and was beginning the second when his low quality hip-hop ringer startled him. “Alright, shut the hell up, its my mom.” Already planning a scheme in his head: he was a Starbucks with Jason, he was just hanging out and planned to mosey back to Jason’s house around 11:30. That sounded reasonable. “Hey Mom. What? Nothing, just sitting at Starbucks with Jason. Yes, just kind of hanging out, there is not really anything going on tonight.” He always had to sound professional talking to his parents or they would’ve really tried to find out where he was. “Yes, I believe I am going to head back to his house tonight? Is that okay? Yes Mom, I am really at Starbucks, and I am really heading back to Jason’s house tonight. All right, I will see you tomorrow. Love you too. Bye.”

“Man, you always sound like such a tool on the phone.” Brian laughed and lit up another cigarette.

“Shut the hell up, it’s my mom. I gotta act somewhat mature, or she’ll start calling parents.”

“I hope you remember that Jason is on the chess team and is captain of the scholastic bowl team.”

“You think I say his name for any other reason? She knows who he is and besides she likes him better than you. My mom probably thinks I’m deep in a philosophical debate right over a latte.”

“You are such a queer.” Brian didn’t really care whether or not Andy’s Mom liked him or not. Truth be told, he didn’t even like Andy that much. It was just he did not have any other friends.

“Asshole.” Andy flipped some more through his phone, wondering if this or that person would answer his call. “Wait, hold on that’s someone with a case of beer walking up to the house!” He was getting desperate and hoped that Brian didn’t realize.

“Dude, that’s just some old dude who wants to get drunk on a Saturday night. He is not going to a party.” Brian was starting to get frustrated and it showed. He had just crushed his last cigarette and pulled out another.

“Fuck that, he’s just gettin beer for the party, they must need more, it’s so big.” Think of that!”

“Oh, really that house looks so busy.” The man had walked into a house that had the entire front room lights shut off.

“Dude, its gotta be covert, otherwise a party this big would get the cops called in a few seconds. Lets just go knock on that door. I guarantee it will be the party.” Andy started to head towards the house.

Brian would’ve made an attempt to stop him, but didn’t consider it worth his time. If it was the party, then cool, if not, then…he could kick Andy’s ass later.

Walking up to the front door, Andy appeared calm, but was actually really nervous. He was trying to think of what to say. He decided to do what he always did and wing it. He rang the doorbell and after a few minutes of agonizing wait, he heard a noise behind the door. It swung open and a middle age man with glasses, still wearing a tie and button down shirt peered out.

“Well, what the hell do you want?” The man seemed to be slightly angered to answer his door to some punk kid.

“Uhhh… I was invited to come over.”

“By who?”

“Uhhh…Kristen….Kristen Meyers.”

“Look kid, I don’t know what the hell you want or who you are, but I suggest you better get off my lawn rather quickly or there will be trouble. I’m sure the police would love to know what you are up to do tonight.”

Andy didn’t even bother with a reply, he simply turned and walked off the front porch and headed back to the car. The man had stepped out on the porch and watched him walk back. He looked up and down the street and when it appeared that the street was quiet once more, turned and walked inside.

Andy walked past Brian and opened the passenger door and got in the car. Brian seemed to know the result and got in the car without saying anything. He was too mad to even acknowledge what Andy did tonight.

After they got back on the highway and had driven for about ten minutes in silence, Andy turned and looked at Brian, “Dude, I heard there is a party at Jeff’s house next Saturday.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The man walked back into his kitchen where groups of high school kids were all drinking. He walked the entire first floor, and opened up a bedroom door, only to find a group of most definitely underage girls and guys engaging in acts usually frowned upon in the normal society. He wandered downstairs where even more kids were yelling encouragement to an extremely drunk girl wearing a skirt being helped to a keg stand. Evidently not finding what he wanted, he walked out on the back deck, and found his little sister Kristen sitting around a fire with even more kids. “Hey some kid just said you invited him over here.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, I told him to get the hell off my porch.”

“Weird”

“No doubt. Hey, hand me a beer.”

***

Weird Stuff, Huh

2007-12-28T15:47:00.000-08:00

So I guess this is it. The final frontier, the end-all be all of writing, no? I mean blogging in this day and age has reached the type heights that small bands out of Des Plaines, Iowa hope to reach. Everyone has one, and since all of the lemmings have decided to take the leap, I suppose that end of this fall is bound to happen at some point. Right? So along we go in this bizarre world of ours, full of dark ritualistic Pagans and charming christians all unfortunately standing way to close to eachother in the men's bathroom of life. Hopefully this will be good, but goddamn, I mean that's the point right?