If you’re new to the site, scroll down to the previous two entries and read before this entry. Once again, this is a fictional account not meant to express the beliefs or actions of Indulge Moderately.
Little Girls and their Dreams
I knew it wasn’t heaven—but I’m not sure if it wasn’t hell. The room spun like a possessed demon. The darkness provided by my eyelids made me see only in a series of flashing colors. The throbbing pain in my head had yet to fully set in but it was coming strong like a brakeless diesel in the horizon approaching a busy intersection. My throat had turned into sandpaper overnight and my mouth was grainy from the relentless grinding of my teeth. There was a constant stream of screaming like angels being dragged hopelessly to hell—scratching and digging into my head trying to hold on to their fading sanity. “Jesus,” I said under my breath rubbing my head.
“Bobby, how ya feelin’ champ?”
“Been better,” I mumbled as I opened my eyes looking at Teresa feeding her baby.
The light beamed into the house from the open blinds covering half of my face causing my unblemished eye to squint like it’s blackened twin. Joey’s children screamed and played to the sound of Saturday morning cartoons and banging toys designed to torture adults—the same sounds that warned us not to copulate.
“Heard you cowboys had a rough night last night! I heard about the brawl you were involved in—some men just don’t know how to control their anger,” Teresa said in her slightly trashy Texan accent with her back towards me as she nursed her boy in the corner.
“Umm, yeah,” I responded feeling the destruction set in as I sat up from the couch where I slept.
“You know that’s a sleeper sofa? Don’t know why Joey didn’t pull that out? Hey, hon’ why didn’t you pull it out last night?” she said turning her head showing her flushed face as her red hair draped over her baby.
“Don’t know why I didn’t. I usually always remember to pull it out,” Joey said rubbing the baby’s head to the sound of sucking for nourishment.
“And how you feelin’, man?” he said with a sly smile handing me a bottle of water and sitting down in his recliner strategically positioned for optimal television viewing.
I can only manage to speak in consonants, “Mmmm.”
“Yeah, that ol’ boy didn’t appreciate Bobby throwin’ at his head. Next thing ya know, the whole team rushed the mound!” Joey said hiding in his web of lies.
“Why did you throw at his head, Bobby?” Teresa said walking over and sitting the baby down at the opposite end of the couch where I was recovering like he was one of the ‘boys.
“They were bein’ assholes all night—I was tired of all the disrespect,” I said looking down at the carpet caressing my swollen lip.
“Those son’s-a-bitches were like some crazed Indians—you never know what they’re gonna do!”
I was wearing one of Joey’s old yellow shirts that read “Galveston Island” as it hung down to my mid-thigh. A collection of pooled, dried blood from my lip had collected on the collar line of his shirt. I stared at the content baby’s face, as he looked me over, up and down.
“What happened to your face, Bobby?” Joey’s nine-year-old daughter asked as she ran in from the kitchen and sat almost on top of me.
“Now you leave him alone, Charlise, he’s had a rough night!” Teresa instructed her daughter.
Charlise had a strange way of asking very uncomfortable and intrusive questions at the wrong time. She had a certain instinct that sensed any sort of vulnerability and she pounced on it like a wolf on a wounded calf. Charlise hid behind a child’s innocence but I had the feeling she knew exactly what she was asking. Her puffy, ever-flushed cheeks and curly blonde hair made her resemble Joey when she asked such questions.
“Half of your tooths missin’—like mine! Did you get twenty dollars from the tooth fairy? I did!” she said opening her mouth wide.
“No, more like the other way around,” I replied snickering to Joey.
“Why does your breath smell like grandpa’s?” she asked as I heard a loud THUD from right next to me.
“Damn baby, are you okay?” I said as I discovered he had fell over trying to stand and thumped his head against the sharp corner of the wooden coffee table.
“He has a name, Bobby—Charlie Alexander Brenner!” she said as both parents sat motionless as I rushed to help as I patted the baby’s back like a dog.
The tearless baby sat still and gave me a sly grin like he sensed my weakness trying to comfort him, “Charlie Brenner—more like Charles Bronson!” I said in astonishment.
“Dude, we don’t do that, man! Every time he falls we don’t rush to his side. He need’s to learn that we can’t fix all his problems!” Joey said.
“It’s not easy for me to do that—but it’s for the best,” Teresa responded.
“Shit, man! You gotta learn to help yourself in this world! All those little cryin’ assholes on reality shows and the people who blame everyone else for their shitty lives—they were probably pampered growin’ up!”
In a weird moment of silence little Charles Bronson glared at me like was giving me a Death Wish. I turned away and returned to the couch.
“Watch your language in front of the children!” Teresa replied in a tone stating this was not the first time she made this statement.
Charlise hopped in her father’s lap like the lost cat did last night, “We goin’ to the toy store today, daddy?”
“Your mother already told you no!” Joey replied in a soft, stern voice that leaked weakness.
“I don’t understand why we can’t go to the toy store, daddy?” she said rubbing her tiny fingers on her father’s rough, unshaved face.
“Your mother told you no already, Charlise.”
Joey wanted his interior to be as strong as his exterior but it was soft and crumbly. Not a sensitive soft but like a weak frame trying to hold up his word. Women and booze tended to eat-away his wooden pillars like rabid termites.
“But mommy’s goin’ shoppin’ later with grandma. She won’t be here then, so it’ll be your decision,” Charlise replied knowing her mother was in the kitchen.
“We’ll see later. Okay?”
“I’m gonna marry daddy when I grow up!” Charlise said as she smiled at me and hugged Joey.
After I gathered my things I walked towards the door as man-baby shot me a grin like I was walking out on a card game. “You see right through me, baby.” I muttered to myself.
It was 11:00 a.m. as the sun punished my face walking outside towards my car. My eyes burned and it felt like my skin was bleeding as the alcohol seeped merciless through every pore on my body. Opening the car door was like the rush of heat on your face before taking a cooked pizza from the oven. I sat in the driver’s seat and immediately cranked the car sending the vents ripping semi-cold air from the air conditioner.
I sat in the car realizing to check my cell phone for the first time since last night. Or was it early this morning? I had two missed messages, the first being a voicemail the second a text both with unfamiliar numbers—none of which were Amy’s.
The first message was from the credit union I used to finance my car before we were married. Amy takes care of the bills around the house. She’s always been better with accounting purposes then I and I have always felt we should utilize are greatest skills like a team. When we were first married I took the responsibility of household accounting only to overdraw our checking account. “But we still have more checks!” I told the bank.
“There’s no way we’re three payments behind on the car,” I said to myself after listening to the message driving down the street.
“I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride. I’m wanted…”
“Fuck you, Bon Jovi!” I yelled turning the radio station.
It must be some kind of error on the banks part. Maybe we’ve been sending the checks to the wrong address. Maybe we ran out of checks!
The text read:
“Thanx for standing up 4 me last nite! Ur the 1st to do that. Never 4get u. I quit that place. Working @ The G-Spot…come see me sometime!
Caroline ;-+ “
I stopped by the gas station before returning home. I was going to be barraged by a series of questions that I wasn’t nearly ready to answer. I sipped on the jet-fuel laced, junk-fuck coffee that tastes like shit but makes your synapses snap and your veins twitch—making you realize you’re still alive.
I entered our neighborhood and drove down the streets almost getting lost by the identical rows of houses in the master planned neighborhood, housing identical people with identical problems. The yards were manicured perfectly like Astroturf with sprinklers spitting out life in a rhythm reminiscent of their owners. All of my neighbors live in this master planned community each having set their master plans.
I drove up to our little dollhouse assigned a series of numbers to differentiate it from the rest. People made wooden signs or welded metal letters displaying their numbers like it set them apart. The only sign of Amy was a huge oil stain in the driveway. We recently “agreed” to buy her a large SUV to tote herself around because girls driving big trucks are “cute.” The SUV sucked gas away like it did the room left on our credit cards—but it’s cool because she needs it to carry her purse.
I’m getting tired of this neighborhood and Amy’s master plans. She’s rushing our lives like she’s living on a schedule and the alarm clock is ticking for her to get-up and move. I’ve never been a highly organized person and the thought of living on a schedule dulls me like the pen ink she constantly uses to write in her daily planner.
The dollhouse is almost complete with accessories and knick-knacks any little girl would dream of having—even the occupants are becoming plastic. She is boring and her doll parts are factory made and appear to be easily replaceable. Amy may look like a Barbie but she fucks like she’s plastic. Her head and joints can bend from side but her hips stay as stoic as a mannequin.
I’m growing numb inside. I’m overtaken by a sense of melancholy—not sad but not really happy. Life’s going on in front of me at a fast pace but I’ve yet to sample it in years. I shrug my shoulders at any suggestion of change. I don’t feel pain or any sort of emotion—I’m becoming plastic.
“Hey, Bobby! Mornin’ to ya neighbor! See your lawn’s lookin’ better,” said Jared, my douche next-door neighbor as I opened the car door in my driveway.
“Good. Yourself?” I muttered in a leave-me-alone tone to my always-critical neighbor.
I’m stranded in our 2300 square foot space on this island—the mortgage weighs me down preventing mobility and the fence constricts me. The lines have been drawn and the master plans are set--there’s no escaping or chance of rescue.
“Geez, Bobby, what happened to your face? Did you burn your lip on a Hotpocket again?”
“Ha ha!” I responded.
“I know it’s tempting to bite into it after taking it out of the microwave—but you got to give it a few minutes!” Jared said chuckling.
Amy had taken her overnight bag from the closet. That was the only sign of her absence. There was not a note to explain her feelings or any sort of message venting her frustrations. I sensed the alarm clock had woken her from her dream. I wonder how long it will take her to finally get out of bed.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
New stuff...2
I know it’s been a while since I last updated the blog-type-thing. I’ve been busy and under a little more stress then usual. A couple of weeks ago I picked up the keyboard again to work on this “thing.” If you have never been here, scroll down to the previous post and read it first—this is a continuation. The formatting on this website is bad so, again, bare with us here at indulge moderately. Remember that this is merely a fictional story and is not intended to reflect the beliefs and actions of ‘indulge moderately’. But I love to hear responses—even if negative (really). There’s more so expect updates soon. Included is:
Island Life
Compensating
Cheers…
P.S.
Chauvinist is not spelled with an "S".
Island Life
The town I live in, Trophy Lake, is on a desolated island in the middle of North Texas. The only thing that connects us to the outside world is the interstate. There are a series of mostly identical sister islands that connect us to the mainland of downtown Dallas.
On the connecting sea of interstate, are a collection of big-boxes, Super Wal-Marts, and chain shops that make consuming easy for us natives by making their shops remarkably identical to one another. The coconuts and torches they sell are of the same quality but much cheaper forcing smaller merchants, tiki hut craftsman, and banana tree climbers to be fed to the cannibals. The Trophy Lake natives threw a celebration to the Gods after the opening of the local Wal-Mart giving tribute to their benevolence and affordably priced sand dollars, starfish, and beach umbrellas. The Gods instructed us to ritualistically sacrifice the local merchants by casting them into the mighty volcano; in reward, the Wal-Mart’s exterior was crafted to resemble an old English village exterior thus blending in too Trophy Lakes facade of new buildings made-to-look old and quaint.
Provisions are not the only items Wal-Mart provides the natives of Trophy Lake. Inside the Gods recently constructed a shop to design your very own tiki hut. Included in the options are choose-your-own sand color, designer clam shells to decorate the walls, convenient storage racks for spears and pig-spits, and stylish hay stuffed bed nooks blessed by a shaman to prevent malaria and tarantula infestations. Recently the Gods began offering a service to chop down bananas from the islander’s palm trees. Uuga, the native banana tree climber was forced to sell his wife and daughters as slaves to the headhunters. He now stocks coconut bras in their women’s apparel department for a third of his previous wage and no health insurance.
The only way for a newcomer to distinguish the island of Trophy Lake from our sister islands is by mile markers and interstate signs. When we invite guests from the mainland I give them directions by Wal-Marts and chain restaurants. “After you pass the third Wal-Mart on the right, take a left before the second On-the-Border. At the intersection, you’ll see a Best Buy on the left corner at which point you’ll take a right passing the quaint new Chilis with the English village street lights in front. Now, if you pass a Wal-Mart with a Chilis in the parking lot—you’ve gone too far!”
The big boxes make life easy for us natives by offering individual credit cards so we can buy unnecessary provisions to sustain our boredom from the monotony of suburban life putting us deeper in debt with large financial institutions who offer us low-financing, home improvement loans and mortgage refinancing to feed the powerful cannibalistic tribes. Upon miss payment, these institutions attempt to sacrifice the lowly natives to headhunters who ritualistically harass us with sharp spears and invasive phone calls till we’re boiling in a hot cauldron of bed room sets, teak wood patio furniture, and designer curtains.
***
“Bobby, what the hell is this?” Mitch said as he looked down at me sitting at my desk.
“It’s the beginning of my Fish Profile that HR requested,” I responded.
Phase one of Publicon’s “Living Fish” theme requires every employee to fill out a profile of themselves to show-off our true personalities. Once submitted and reviewed for blasphemous statements and critical comments, one of the fluff-pieces will be featured every week in a mass internal email.
“Where are the other 14 questions? You wrote two pages on the first question, ‘Where do you live?’” his grin jutted his flush cheeks upward, which appeared to make his thin, wire glasses crooked.
“Yeah, I had to take that home last night and finish it. I just started on question two, ‘Have any hobbies?’ I spent most of the morning grinding-that-one-out. It’s trickier then I thought!”
“Cannibalistic tribes, pig spits, boiling cauldrons?” he responded adjusting his glasses then scratching the top of his short, gelled hair that appears to never move. “You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna allow you to submit this!” Mitch said as his eyes narrowed as if he was trying to make out a person of vague resemblance to someone he has met before.
Mitch is the head copywriter at Publicon Dallas and my direct supervisor. He hired me straight out of college and is beginning to increasingly show his discontent on his decision. He has a sharp tongue that cuts my bloated, fat copywriting into petite statements for the purpose of clarity and lack of ambiguity. The first time I submitted copy to Mitch it was returned with more red then if it was used in a ceremony to sacrifice a virgin.
“You know, huh, you need to reevaluate your goals and career path with Publicon. You’re one of the most creative people in this office but you’re also the most inconsistent writer in the company!”
I’m the weakest link in the office and I’m in fear of being voted off the island. I wore out my immunity long ago after I wrote a two-page email to Mark Stoller about my disdain about the decision to replace the Mounds bars in the vending machine in favor of fresh bananas. The head of the tribal council has spoken.
“Do you understand me?” he asked while I stared at the Hawaiian Hula dancer jiggling on top of my MAC; I could only interpret his words as ‘ogga bugga, ogga, bugga!
Compensating
“I’m not gonna wear this shirt!” I said defiantly.
“Come on, man! Everyone has to match—it’s league rules!” Joey responded.
We just started our softball league. Every Friday for two months we have a legitimate excuse to drink copious amounts of beer while getting out of the house; a married man’s break from domestic bliss. Girlfriends and spouses have been known to show up but most understand the sanctity of the softball league. Amy views the league as an excuse for girlfriend time—even if she did give a damn about watching her heavily buzzed husband running around like a fool chasing a ball, with our recent spatting the time apart is needed.
Joey spit a rather vulgar concoction of beer and chewing tobacco from his swollen left cheek as he handed out the remaining jerseys, “Besides I gave everyone a nickname this year,” he defended himself in a tone partially blocked by Copenhagen and his thick country twang.
“Jesus, Joey, the Cowboys—that’s real freakin’ original, man!” Denny responded as he demonstrated a curiously unnecessary round of calisthenics as if he was batting cleanup for the Rangers.
“That’s a great team name, man! We’re like America’s team!” he responded laughing as the newly anointed “Cowboys” groaned in discontent as we chugged beer before the first inning in the visitor’s dugout.
We’re a collection of old high school friends, new additions to the pack, and random extras. We all know Joey has a greater talent to get-under-more-skin than a well-hung porn star. Denny and Joey are considered to be mere acquaintances rather then friends, the pair has constantly competed between each other since high school. Denny’s short frame barely contains his cocky attitude and paunchy stomach all of which seem to be held up when he bows his barrel chest. Like Joey he was a great athlete in high school but his body seems to be decaying and falling like a once proud but aging football dynasty. His thick, black eyebrows are manicured just enough to hide the formation of his uni-brow and his equally as dense late-nineties-hip goatee does little to filter out his opinionated, aggressive language.
“’Stumpy’! Your such an asshole, man!” Denny responded as he looked at the name on the back of his jersey.
The light shadows under our eyes and rounding faces give the since of our pre-thirty aging; not so much a prevalence of age but an evident lack of youth is shown. We’re sluggers slightly passed our primes who finish the season in the fall realizing they have become veterans.
“Yeah, just like a little stump!” Joey said while his long arm reached down balancing his beer can on a stop sign-red faced Denny’s square head.
We have no great war to fight; we have little opposition to protect our families against. Our sole battles are fought for middle-management positions, profit-sharing bragging rights, and the closest parking spot at TGI Fridays. We piss-on-our-tree’s by yelling at the asshole who cuts us off in traffic and return home like a conquering barbarian reaping his spoils of victory over Shake-and-Bake chicken and instant mashed potatoes.
“Fuck you, dickhead!” Denny said while violently pushing Joey as the beer erupted from off his head like a geyser unable to contain the pressure caused from hot air.
Joey’s face soured and turned into a serious grin of competition and anger. I grabbed his arm in an attempt to prevent unnecessary punches as a teammate did the same to Denny.
“Can’t you guys just get along for the sake of the team? You’re both acting like children!” Brendan, our shortstop and star player, said as he intervened between the two pushing them away from each other.
Brendan was the sheer definition of moderation perhaps being the reason why he was monetarily more successful then any of the cowboys. For the same reasons he never drank before a game and rarely attended happy hours after work. Brendon held a rigorous 5-day a week work out schedule that was rarely missed and his list of vices read like the “hits” portion of my box score during the playoffs last year—zero. Brendan is tall and thin like a lanky relief pitcher wasting little motion in his delivery offering efficient, beautiful pitches that are as effective as they are pleasing to watch. In contrast to the rest of the ‘boys, his face was always clean-shaven without the hint of stubble like the field at a major league ballpark on opening day. He speaks with an effeminate accent which is the only bulls-eye the ‘boys could use to fire their inadequacies at such a man they wish they could be.
“Hey, Nancy! Why don’t you mind your own business?” Joey said with a playful comradery.
“Let’s chill with the name calling, alright!” I said.
“No, don’t worry!” Brendan replied in a tone stating his dislike for the name but understanding of the playful ribbing. “Apparently that’s my new ‘team name’,” as he turned around for us to read NANCY across his back shoulders.
“Let’s finish the game so Brendan can catch his chartered jet!” Joey responded laughing as we felt the tension ease.
“Dude, that’s bullshit! Why do you get a name like “The Duke?” I said to Joey.
“That’s my name, man!”
“No one’s ever called you The Duke!”
“Well they should, man ‘cause that’s my new name!”
“Maybe your name should be…I mean, instead of Duke…like, dickhead!” Denny fumbled with his insult as he grabbed his $350 softball bat and headed to leadoff the game, chuckling. “…dickhead!”
The pitcher tossed a slow, arching pitch towards the plate. Denny lifted his trunk of a left leg and turned on the ball like it was a disloyal friend that had to be set in place. The ball sailed over the left field fence, bouncing in the parking lot next to the row of oversized pick-up trucks. Denny strolled passed home plate while launching his bat, he threw his hands in the air and screamed, “Oh yeah!”
We buy expensive, unnecessary items that are purchased to attract women like off-road tires were made of pheromone-laced rubber. In reality, designer golf cleats, projection-screen TVs, anything made of camouflage, and V-8 engines attract only other men like the ambiguous look we give women after seeing their French Manicure. These items are purchased to compensate for our lack of communication and we carry them like a caveman’s new club.
“Fear me!” Denny yelled as he pounded his chest rounding third.
On the exterior we display a machismo aurora that is rarely penetrated by the sharp words of our friends. But the words from a superior about lack of performance or from that of a lover stomping on an inadqueceny can leave us in a vulnerable position in which we fear the most. Like a base runner caught in a pickle between the third baseman and the catcher-- we can face the inevitability of our problems or we can continue to make sharp-turns, sprinting between problems, wareing ourselves out for later innings until being tagged-out trying to reach home.
“Give me back my glove—it’s mine!” Denny said while two rowdy Cowboys tossed the glove over his head playing keep-away in the dugout.
****
I was three-beers-into-the-7th inning as I crushed the third can and discarded it next the pitcher’s mound as I called in for relief. Our competitors had launched a 10-run rally in the final inning and I was ready for the comfort of the concrete bench or perhaps the solidarity of a barstool. I glanced at Joey who refused to cover any of the infield as he leaned his left foot against first in an effort to support his own weight and a lone cigarette whose dangled ash was long and ready to fall with any sudden movements. Smoke seemed to explore his mouth then trickle-out as he showed no signs of inhaling or exhaling. He resembled a tall tree swaying in the wind whose roots would not let him budge, yet you questioned how long before the old log would finally fall.
“Did you just get back from the coffee shop? Where’s your beret?” yelled a voice towards me from the opposing team’s bench.
Denny grabbed a beer from a cooler he placed near the on-deck circle and tossed it in my direction, “Here’s your relief!”
“Keep tossin’ up them puff-pastries! I’m gonna send it over the fence!” the new batter said as he stepped into the batter’s box.
“Suck my ass!” I responded.
The batter crowded the plate like a lumberjack after last call for pancakes waving his aluminum tool like a mighty slab of oak. If I didn’t have to lob the ball towards the plate I would throw a fastball between his eyes. I tossed the ball in the air at an angle any mathematician would agree equaled the circumference of the top of an oval. The batter cracked the ball above Brendan’s head into left-center field causing our “Rocky Mountain High” center fielder to stumble towards the ball like an aloof parent chasing a child into traffic. The batter rounded first passing a dazed Joey as two runners came around and scored. In frustration, I cracked my relief beer and chugged accordingly. The center fielder overthrew his cut-off man and sent an arrantly flying chunk of spooled leather hurtling in the air like a wounded pigeon. As the batter rounded third, I turned around to examine what was causing such a delay to be struck in the right eye with the softball. I fell directly on my back and rolled around to my stomach clinching my eye in pain. The cowpokes surrounded me like I was an injured calf lying helplessly on the ground delaying a cattle drive. As I clinched my face, I laid on my stomach in pain surrounded by empty beer cans. Strangely my first thoughts were this would not be the only time I will be in this vulnerable position.
“You okay, man?” Brendan’s voice questioned.
The only words I could communicate to the outside world for two minutes was what was written on the back of my jersey.
“BOISENBERRY SCONE”
“00”
*******
“I really don’t need to be here! It’s been a long night—let’s just go home!” I said as Joey and I waited in line.
“No, this is what you need! You’ll feel much better in a few minutes…believe me,” Joey assured me in his staggered, drunk tone.
“Let me call Amy and tell her what’s going on.”
“What are you crazy? Put that damn phone away!”
“Awwe, what happened to your eye, hon?” the front desk lady asked like a worried mother.
“Uhh, just a little softball accident,” I responded while looking directly at her chest in a alcohol haze as my eye pulsated like the button on her shirt assigned the responsibility to conceal her large breasts.
“We’ll make you feel better, I promise!” she responded like she already had a remedy in mind. “Let me see some identification please.”
As I handed over my driver’s license she said to Joey, “you too, baby. And $10 each, please.”
We opened the door to be greeted by the loud, pulsating bass of some cheesy, nu metal song that was standard fare for most strip clubs. The room was crowded with drunk, horny men who wanted to catch a glimpse of something they could never have. We found a table next to a side stage and sat quietly taking-in the surroundings.
“What can I get y’all to drink, fellas?” the slightly ragged cocktail waitress that couldn’t make-the-cut for a dancer asked us politely. “Whoa, what happened to your face, sweetie?”
“I took a ball off my face at our softball game.”
“It’s not the first time he’s taken balls to the face—but usually they bounce of his chin!” Joey said followed by a robust laugh.
“We’ll take a couple of beers,” I responded bouncing the joke-off like the ball that dented my eye.
“How ‘bout some ice for that?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’ll be great!”
“Be right back—y’all don’t get in too much trouble while I’m gone!” she said walking off.
Strip clubs are places that breed sexual frustration. We pay $20 for a dance from women who pretend too like us. It’s a fantasy world fueled by expensive booze and women who think they have nothing to offer the world besides their bodies. To fulfill their roles in fantasyland they alter their bodies with plastic and treat themselves with chemicals to make it through their show.
“Can I give y’all guys some company tonight?” a tall blonde with the green eyes of a lost cat asked as she flung in Joey’s lap.
Strippers are attracted to Joey; they sense a man willing to spend anything for a little bit of affection. Their intuition is sharp being that Joey tosses around money at these establishments like a professional gambler in Reno. The dancers sense money like a single, forty-year-old debutant at a golf course.
“Obby, ook!” is the way my name sounds with a mouth full of plastic.
“Here you go, guys! That’ll be $20--$16 for the beer and $4 for the ice,” the waitress stated nonchalantly.
“Lovely,” I responded with the same tone as I handed her the cash and placed the sandwich bag of ice on my eye.
As the night progressed, my eye and pants were swelling at a rapid pace. My buzz was back in full force and I was worried about the awkward explanation to Amy on why there was going to be a $200 charge too Ted’s Tractor Supply on my debit card. It was 1:30 a.m. and my money and indiscretions were disappearing like Joey every 45 minutes to the champagne room.
I knew answering the phone was a mistake, but my drunkenness overestimated Amy’s understanding and my ability to explain the current situation.
“Hey, baby! How are ya?” I responded enthusiastically as I answered my cell.
“Where are you at? I can barely hear you?” Amy said over the phone enunciating every syllable.
“I’m just out with the Cowboys at the bar,” I screamed into the phone.
“With who? You’re at a kicker bar? It sounds like you’re at a club!”
“No, no! I’m not kicking the car!” I fumbled. “Oh, hey! I bought a bunch of mulch at the tractor store today. Thinkin’ ‘bout building a tomato garden…I’ll explain later.”
“Build a what? Mulch?”
“Hey, Amy were takin’ good care of your boys down here!” the evil red head stripper on Joey’s lap yelled just loud enough for Amy to hear.
“You’re at a fuckin’ strip club! You’re with Joey, aren’t you? Tell that slut to keep her hands to her self!”
“No, honey! Her name’s Shontae, she’s a med student at…”
“Why don’t you just stay out tonight? I don’t even want to see you!”
“But honey, my eye—she’s a healer!” I said to blank noise on my cell phone.
I have no idea what to do in this situation. Should I call back and leave several messages apologizing? Maybe I’ll just rush home and consolidate the damage before things get much worse. Joey always seems to offer helpful advice in these delicate situations in his own down-home way. I’ll seek his sage-like advice.
“You make my pants happy!” he said to the stripper.
“So do you want me to dance for you or what?” a voice said above me in a cynical-let’s-go-already tone.
“Hell yeah, he wants you to danshh!” Joey said stumbling his drunken words as the demon redhead wrapped her knees around his neck; the same woman who I was sure was named after some toxic four-liquor shot made for ceremonial tortures during 21st birthdays.
“So yes or no?”
After the initial beer buzz wears off my speech and vocabulary decrease like the clothes on the demon-slut wrapped around Joey’s face. But I wanted to explain to her my opinion about buying lap dances for oneself; how unless someone pays for it with their money, like your father giving you the biggest pork chop at the dinner table, it’s almost like buying a prostitute.
“Yes.”
“My name’s Carolina,” she said rubbing my face on her stomach.
“’U’m, Obby,” is the way my name sounds with skin in your mouth.
“Where’s your wife at tonight? Her little sowing circle?” she asked me as her hair fell forward above her head partially touching the floor.
Carolina’s skin was the color of a storm cloud in an endless battle to conceal the bright light of the sun—it was translucent but at the same time you could detect a hint of color. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders like nightfall directly contrasting the complexion of her skin.
“Oh, I’m not married,” I said feeling a strange compulsion to lie as I talked to her inverted face between her legs.
“Well that’s a hell of a tan line you have on your ring finger!” she smirked as I jangled my wedding ring against the change in my pocket.
“Oh, well maybe, I’m…”
“So what the hell happened to your eye?” she said unhooking her bra and rubbing her natural B-cups on my wound like a prizefighter’s trainer would use a frozen steak after a title bout.
“Softball accident,” I said tucking away the strange smell of incense infused lotion on her for my spank-bank later tonight.
“I take it from the name on the back of your jersey that your friends have a sense of humor or you come from a long line of bakers?”
“I don’t even like scones,” once again telling useless and equally as untrue lies and worrying that she may have seen the small patch of hair on my back.
“So are you going to think about these when you’re jerking-off later tonight?” she asked licking her right nipple.
A sleeve of tattoos running to her shoulder concealed Carolinas left arm; a serpent slid down her arm constricting blood flow like a noose as it past symbols of dollar signs, naked women, and fancy cars as it gradually grew larger and fiercer.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“Kind off,” she replied brushing off the question.
The serpent’s body extended to the base of her hand as the snake’s engouraged mouth hissed sending it’s eager tongue to wrap around the start of her index finger like it was ready to devour.
“I’ve been married once,” she responded as she turned her back towards me and sat between my legs rubbing the once hidden thong string on my crotch. “Are you gonna think about this the next time your fucking your wife?”
At mid-forearm, the snake began to shed its skin into the tail of a once angelic dragon wrapping her upper chest and circling around her shoulder to the small of the left side of her back. The dragon looked up and screamed at the head of the serpent, coveting the ring-like halo it had stolen from the fallen angel.
Carolina’s body told more of a story then any part of our conversation that night. Her exterior was brash but her body gave off a sense of damaged vulnerability that was hidden unless you came too close. After a long dance she went off to quietly tell other lustful men stories. Stories that were trying to break the silence from her marked, naked body—stories that fell onto deaf ears.
“Are you guys leaving already?” Carolina asked us as we walked towards the door.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said glancing down at my watch blaring 3:36 a.m. “It’s been a hell of a long day!”
“Why don’t you guys come in the back—I’ll help you wake-up!”
Joey and I glanced at each other with looks of thoughts about forbidden fruits, lush gardens, and unforgiving wrath. Without speaking Joey and I stumbled sheepishly behind.
The backroom awakened us from the Vegas like coma the strip club lounge gave us. It was lit with cheap, grocery store lights one of which flickered on and off like an SOS signal. The sink next to a vanity table dripped in a rhythm reminiscent of a dungeon.
“This should wake you up,” she said as she emptied half of a small bag of cocaine on the vanity’s glass shelf.
Carolina scrapped the small rock into equal lines of four with the precision of a surgeon. She licked her finger to pick-up the remnants that failed to fall in line like an ice scrapper on a windshield blanketed in snow and proceeded to rub her forefinger against her gums. In a long fluid motion, she effortlessly snorted her line and handed the rolled-up dollar bill to Joey.
“When in Rome…” Joey said as he fell to his knees before Carolina.
A scraggy, blonde haired woman appeared in the corner next to the front door—shaking nervously and coughing as she held her mouth like she was keeping a dark secret while awaiting judgment. I could hear her teeth scraping against each other giving off a faint grinding sound like a quiet dentist drill digging out a cavity.
“Y’all don’t got no ice, do ya?” she asked us trembling.
I looked around the room for a soda machine or cooler thinking I could also use some for my eye when Carolina responded, “No, we don’t have any crank. Wanna’ little blow, Chloe?” she asked in a compassionate tone that I had never heard from her mouth.
“Thanks, maybe a little please,” she responded taking the rolled up dollar and snorting.
“Drake don’t want me dancin’ here no more,” Chloe said rubbing her puffy red nose. “Says I’m too old and it’s bad for his business.”
“Well Drakes an asshole! You need to get rid of him and go into business alone—he’s not helping you!” Carolina said.
Chloe wrapped her chapped, lipstick-stained lips around a long cigarette, which caused her sunken cheeks to fall further into her mouth. Her pupils resembled trembling flies caught in a bloody spider web.
“How else am I gonna make a livin’? This is all I’ve ever done!” she responded walking back to the corner.
Joey was halfway finished with his line when a lanky man burst into the door wearing golden rimmed, flashy sunglasses and a sideways mesh baseball cap.
“So, do you think I’m some sorta bitch? Huh? I drove all the way up here in my Ben-zo for you to not say a word?” the man said instantly grabbing Chloe’s mouth between his fingers. “Where the fuck is my money?”
“That’s Drake—he’s a real asshole!” Carolina stated making sure everyone in the room heard.
Drake’s head turned at the three of us on the other side of the room and continued his attention towards the blonde, a purple vein pulsated on his forehead through his Irish-white skin, “Can you not speak now? You been doin’ blow all night with these bitches?”
“No, no!” Chloe responded.
“Fuckin’ liar!” he said while violently slapping the woman with the back of his hand.
Joey stood up and walked away from Carolina as she yelled out, “Hey you fuckin’ faggot! Get the fuck off her!”
“And who is you niggas?” he said as I looked at Joey’s freckled face and he at my blue eyes. “Maybe you need to learn to speak when spoken too, bitch!”
“Fuck off you small-pricked homo!” Carolina blurted out.
Drake strolled up to Carolina smoothly and stared directly into her eyes like he was training a naughty dog. He crossed his left arm over his chest and swung his hand backwards towards Carolina’s face. Without much thought to consequences I reached up and caught Drake’s hand before reaching it’s destination. Still sitting in the chair I stared up at his clasped hand then at his face. Drake grabbed a piece from the back of his jeans.
“And who the fuck is you?” he asked in a trembling, semi-calm tone.
“Obby,” is the way my name sounds like with a gun in your mouth.
Joey made a slight motion like he wanted to help as I nodded him off feeling the gun collide with both sides of my back teeth. He ripped the gun out of my mouth as the metal sight chipped part of my front tooth.
“Sit the fuck down, fat man!” Drake yelled redirecting the gun at Joey.
Drake shoved the gun back into my mouth splitting the top of my lip. He took off his sunglasses revealing his discolored blue eye to his other deep blue one.
“And who the fuck do you think you are? Huh?” he yelled.
“Obody!”
“Who?” he asked shoving the gun further down my thoat.
I felt the salty taste of warm blood and saliva drip off the mouth of the gun as I gagged from the steel forced down my mouth. Drake’s front tooth blinged DRAKE in gold, diamond studded letters announcing he was different and special from everyone else.
“Obody!”
“That’s right! Fuckin’, ‘obody’!” he said as he withdrew his gun followed by a long string of red saliva that snapped and fell on my shirt as he put it back in his pants.
Island Life
Compensating
Cheers…
P.S.
Chauvinist is not spelled with an "S".
Island Life
The town I live in, Trophy Lake, is on a desolated island in the middle of North Texas. The only thing that connects us to the outside world is the interstate. There are a series of mostly identical sister islands that connect us to the mainland of downtown Dallas.
On the connecting sea of interstate, are a collection of big-boxes, Super Wal-Marts, and chain shops that make consuming easy for us natives by making their shops remarkably identical to one another. The coconuts and torches they sell are of the same quality but much cheaper forcing smaller merchants, tiki hut craftsman, and banana tree climbers to be fed to the cannibals. The Trophy Lake natives threw a celebration to the Gods after the opening of the local Wal-Mart giving tribute to their benevolence and affordably priced sand dollars, starfish, and beach umbrellas. The Gods instructed us to ritualistically sacrifice the local merchants by casting them into the mighty volcano; in reward, the Wal-Mart’s exterior was crafted to resemble an old English village exterior thus blending in too Trophy Lakes facade of new buildings made-to-look old and quaint.
Provisions are not the only items Wal-Mart provides the natives of Trophy Lake. Inside the Gods recently constructed a shop to design your very own tiki hut. Included in the options are choose-your-own sand color, designer clam shells to decorate the walls, convenient storage racks for spears and pig-spits, and stylish hay stuffed bed nooks blessed by a shaman to prevent malaria and tarantula infestations. Recently the Gods began offering a service to chop down bananas from the islander’s palm trees. Uuga, the native banana tree climber was forced to sell his wife and daughters as slaves to the headhunters. He now stocks coconut bras in their women’s apparel department for a third of his previous wage and no health insurance.
The only way for a newcomer to distinguish the island of Trophy Lake from our sister islands is by mile markers and interstate signs. When we invite guests from the mainland I give them directions by Wal-Marts and chain restaurants. “After you pass the third Wal-Mart on the right, take a left before the second On-the-Border. At the intersection, you’ll see a Best Buy on the left corner at which point you’ll take a right passing the quaint new Chilis with the English village street lights in front. Now, if you pass a Wal-Mart with a Chilis in the parking lot—you’ve gone too far!”
The big boxes make life easy for us natives by offering individual credit cards so we can buy unnecessary provisions to sustain our boredom from the monotony of suburban life putting us deeper in debt with large financial institutions who offer us low-financing, home improvement loans and mortgage refinancing to feed the powerful cannibalistic tribes. Upon miss payment, these institutions attempt to sacrifice the lowly natives to headhunters who ritualistically harass us with sharp spears and invasive phone calls till we’re boiling in a hot cauldron of bed room sets, teak wood patio furniture, and designer curtains.
***
“Bobby, what the hell is this?” Mitch said as he looked down at me sitting at my desk.
“It’s the beginning of my Fish Profile that HR requested,” I responded.
Phase one of Publicon’s “Living Fish” theme requires every employee to fill out a profile of themselves to show-off our true personalities. Once submitted and reviewed for blasphemous statements and critical comments, one of the fluff-pieces will be featured every week in a mass internal email.
“Where are the other 14 questions? You wrote two pages on the first question, ‘Where do you live?’” his grin jutted his flush cheeks upward, which appeared to make his thin, wire glasses crooked.
“Yeah, I had to take that home last night and finish it. I just started on question two, ‘Have any hobbies?’ I spent most of the morning grinding-that-one-out. It’s trickier then I thought!”
“Cannibalistic tribes, pig spits, boiling cauldrons?” he responded adjusting his glasses then scratching the top of his short, gelled hair that appears to never move. “You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna allow you to submit this!” Mitch said as his eyes narrowed as if he was trying to make out a person of vague resemblance to someone he has met before.
Mitch is the head copywriter at Publicon Dallas and my direct supervisor. He hired me straight out of college and is beginning to increasingly show his discontent on his decision. He has a sharp tongue that cuts my bloated, fat copywriting into petite statements for the purpose of clarity and lack of ambiguity. The first time I submitted copy to Mitch it was returned with more red then if it was used in a ceremony to sacrifice a virgin.
“You know, huh, you need to reevaluate your goals and career path with Publicon. You’re one of the most creative people in this office but you’re also the most inconsistent writer in the company!”
I’m the weakest link in the office and I’m in fear of being voted off the island. I wore out my immunity long ago after I wrote a two-page email to Mark Stoller about my disdain about the decision to replace the Mounds bars in the vending machine in favor of fresh bananas. The head of the tribal council has spoken.
“Do you understand me?” he asked while I stared at the Hawaiian Hula dancer jiggling on top of my MAC; I could only interpret his words as ‘ogga bugga, ogga, bugga!
Compensating
“I’m not gonna wear this shirt!” I said defiantly.
“Come on, man! Everyone has to match—it’s league rules!” Joey responded.
We just started our softball league. Every Friday for two months we have a legitimate excuse to drink copious amounts of beer while getting out of the house; a married man’s break from domestic bliss. Girlfriends and spouses have been known to show up but most understand the sanctity of the softball league. Amy views the league as an excuse for girlfriend time—even if she did give a damn about watching her heavily buzzed husband running around like a fool chasing a ball, with our recent spatting the time apart is needed.
Joey spit a rather vulgar concoction of beer and chewing tobacco from his swollen left cheek as he handed out the remaining jerseys, “Besides I gave everyone a nickname this year,” he defended himself in a tone partially blocked by Copenhagen and his thick country twang.
“Jesus, Joey, the Cowboys—that’s real freakin’ original, man!” Denny responded as he demonstrated a curiously unnecessary round of calisthenics as if he was batting cleanup for the Rangers.
“That’s a great team name, man! We’re like America’s team!” he responded laughing as the newly anointed “Cowboys” groaned in discontent as we chugged beer before the first inning in the visitor’s dugout.
We’re a collection of old high school friends, new additions to the pack, and random extras. We all know Joey has a greater talent to get-under-more-skin than a well-hung porn star. Denny and Joey are considered to be mere acquaintances rather then friends, the pair has constantly competed between each other since high school. Denny’s short frame barely contains his cocky attitude and paunchy stomach all of which seem to be held up when he bows his barrel chest. Like Joey he was a great athlete in high school but his body seems to be decaying and falling like a once proud but aging football dynasty. His thick, black eyebrows are manicured just enough to hide the formation of his uni-brow and his equally as dense late-nineties-hip goatee does little to filter out his opinionated, aggressive language.
“’Stumpy’! Your such an asshole, man!” Denny responded as he looked at the name on the back of his jersey.
The light shadows under our eyes and rounding faces give the since of our pre-thirty aging; not so much a prevalence of age but an evident lack of youth is shown. We’re sluggers slightly passed our primes who finish the season in the fall realizing they have become veterans.
“Yeah, just like a little stump!” Joey said while his long arm reached down balancing his beer can on a stop sign-red faced Denny’s square head.
We have no great war to fight; we have little opposition to protect our families against. Our sole battles are fought for middle-management positions, profit-sharing bragging rights, and the closest parking spot at TGI Fridays. We piss-on-our-tree’s by yelling at the asshole who cuts us off in traffic and return home like a conquering barbarian reaping his spoils of victory over Shake-and-Bake chicken and instant mashed potatoes.
“Fuck you, dickhead!” Denny said while violently pushing Joey as the beer erupted from off his head like a geyser unable to contain the pressure caused from hot air.
Joey’s face soured and turned into a serious grin of competition and anger. I grabbed his arm in an attempt to prevent unnecessary punches as a teammate did the same to Denny.
“Can’t you guys just get along for the sake of the team? You’re both acting like children!” Brendan, our shortstop and star player, said as he intervened between the two pushing them away from each other.
Brendan was the sheer definition of moderation perhaps being the reason why he was monetarily more successful then any of the cowboys. For the same reasons he never drank before a game and rarely attended happy hours after work. Brendon held a rigorous 5-day a week work out schedule that was rarely missed and his list of vices read like the “hits” portion of my box score during the playoffs last year—zero. Brendan is tall and thin like a lanky relief pitcher wasting little motion in his delivery offering efficient, beautiful pitches that are as effective as they are pleasing to watch. In contrast to the rest of the ‘boys, his face was always clean-shaven without the hint of stubble like the field at a major league ballpark on opening day. He speaks with an effeminate accent which is the only bulls-eye the ‘boys could use to fire their inadequacies at such a man they wish they could be.
“Hey, Nancy! Why don’t you mind your own business?” Joey said with a playful comradery.
“Let’s chill with the name calling, alright!” I said.
“No, don’t worry!” Brendan replied in a tone stating his dislike for the name but understanding of the playful ribbing. “Apparently that’s my new ‘team name’,” as he turned around for us to read NANCY across his back shoulders.
“Let’s finish the game so Brendan can catch his chartered jet!” Joey responded laughing as we felt the tension ease.
“Dude, that’s bullshit! Why do you get a name like “The Duke?” I said to Joey.
“That’s my name, man!”
“No one’s ever called you The Duke!”
“Well they should, man ‘cause that’s my new name!”
“Maybe your name should be…I mean, instead of Duke…like, dickhead!” Denny fumbled with his insult as he grabbed his $350 softball bat and headed to leadoff the game, chuckling. “…dickhead!”
The pitcher tossed a slow, arching pitch towards the plate. Denny lifted his trunk of a left leg and turned on the ball like it was a disloyal friend that had to be set in place. The ball sailed over the left field fence, bouncing in the parking lot next to the row of oversized pick-up trucks. Denny strolled passed home plate while launching his bat, he threw his hands in the air and screamed, “Oh yeah!”
We buy expensive, unnecessary items that are purchased to attract women like off-road tires were made of pheromone-laced rubber. In reality, designer golf cleats, projection-screen TVs, anything made of camouflage, and V-8 engines attract only other men like the ambiguous look we give women after seeing their French Manicure. These items are purchased to compensate for our lack of communication and we carry them like a caveman’s new club.
“Fear me!” Denny yelled as he pounded his chest rounding third.
On the exterior we display a machismo aurora that is rarely penetrated by the sharp words of our friends. But the words from a superior about lack of performance or from that of a lover stomping on an inadqueceny can leave us in a vulnerable position in which we fear the most. Like a base runner caught in a pickle between the third baseman and the catcher-- we can face the inevitability of our problems or we can continue to make sharp-turns, sprinting between problems, wareing ourselves out for later innings until being tagged-out trying to reach home.
“Give me back my glove—it’s mine!” Denny said while two rowdy Cowboys tossed the glove over his head playing keep-away in the dugout.
****
I was three-beers-into-the-7th inning as I crushed the third can and discarded it next the pitcher’s mound as I called in for relief. Our competitors had launched a 10-run rally in the final inning and I was ready for the comfort of the concrete bench or perhaps the solidarity of a barstool. I glanced at Joey who refused to cover any of the infield as he leaned his left foot against first in an effort to support his own weight and a lone cigarette whose dangled ash was long and ready to fall with any sudden movements. Smoke seemed to explore his mouth then trickle-out as he showed no signs of inhaling or exhaling. He resembled a tall tree swaying in the wind whose roots would not let him budge, yet you questioned how long before the old log would finally fall.
“Did you just get back from the coffee shop? Where’s your beret?” yelled a voice towards me from the opposing team’s bench.
Denny grabbed a beer from a cooler he placed near the on-deck circle and tossed it in my direction, “Here’s your relief!”
“Keep tossin’ up them puff-pastries! I’m gonna send it over the fence!” the new batter said as he stepped into the batter’s box.
“Suck my ass!” I responded.
The batter crowded the plate like a lumberjack after last call for pancakes waving his aluminum tool like a mighty slab of oak. If I didn’t have to lob the ball towards the plate I would throw a fastball between his eyes. I tossed the ball in the air at an angle any mathematician would agree equaled the circumference of the top of an oval. The batter cracked the ball above Brendan’s head into left-center field causing our “Rocky Mountain High” center fielder to stumble towards the ball like an aloof parent chasing a child into traffic. The batter rounded first passing a dazed Joey as two runners came around and scored. In frustration, I cracked my relief beer and chugged accordingly. The center fielder overthrew his cut-off man and sent an arrantly flying chunk of spooled leather hurtling in the air like a wounded pigeon. As the batter rounded third, I turned around to examine what was causing such a delay to be struck in the right eye with the softball. I fell directly on my back and rolled around to my stomach clinching my eye in pain. The cowpokes surrounded me like I was an injured calf lying helplessly on the ground delaying a cattle drive. As I clinched my face, I laid on my stomach in pain surrounded by empty beer cans. Strangely my first thoughts were this would not be the only time I will be in this vulnerable position.
“You okay, man?” Brendan’s voice questioned.
The only words I could communicate to the outside world for two minutes was what was written on the back of my jersey.
“BOISENBERRY SCONE”
“00”
*******
“I really don’t need to be here! It’s been a long night—let’s just go home!” I said as Joey and I waited in line.
“No, this is what you need! You’ll feel much better in a few minutes…believe me,” Joey assured me in his staggered, drunk tone.
“Let me call Amy and tell her what’s going on.”
“What are you crazy? Put that damn phone away!”
“Awwe, what happened to your eye, hon?” the front desk lady asked like a worried mother.
“Uhh, just a little softball accident,” I responded while looking directly at her chest in a alcohol haze as my eye pulsated like the button on her shirt assigned the responsibility to conceal her large breasts.
“We’ll make you feel better, I promise!” she responded like she already had a remedy in mind. “Let me see some identification please.”
As I handed over my driver’s license she said to Joey, “you too, baby. And $10 each, please.”
We opened the door to be greeted by the loud, pulsating bass of some cheesy, nu metal song that was standard fare for most strip clubs. The room was crowded with drunk, horny men who wanted to catch a glimpse of something they could never have. We found a table next to a side stage and sat quietly taking-in the surroundings.
“What can I get y’all to drink, fellas?” the slightly ragged cocktail waitress that couldn’t make-the-cut for a dancer asked us politely. “Whoa, what happened to your face, sweetie?”
“I took a ball off my face at our softball game.”
“It’s not the first time he’s taken balls to the face—but usually they bounce of his chin!” Joey said followed by a robust laugh.
“We’ll take a couple of beers,” I responded bouncing the joke-off like the ball that dented my eye.
“How ‘bout some ice for that?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’ll be great!”
“Be right back—y’all don’t get in too much trouble while I’m gone!” she said walking off.
Strip clubs are places that breed sexual frustration. We pay $20 for a dance from women who pretend too like us. It’s a fantasy world fueled by expensive booze and women who think they have nothing to offer the world besides their bodies. To fulfill their roles in fantasyland they alter their bodies with plastic and treat themselves with chemicals to make it through their show.
“Can I give y’all guys some company tonight?” a tall blonde with the green eyes of a lost cat asked as she flung in Joey’s lap.
Strippers are attracted to Joey; they sense a man willing to spend anything for a little bit of affection. Their intuition is sharp being that Joey tosses around money at these establishments like a professional gambler in Reno. The dancers sense money like a single, forty-year-old debutant at a golf course.
“Obby, ook!” is the way my name sounds with a mouth full of plastic.
“Here you go, guys! That’ll be $20--$16 for the beer and $4 for the ice,” the waitress stated nonchalantly.
“Lovely,” I responded with the same tone as I handed her the cash and placed the sandwich bag of ice on my eye.
As the night progressed, my eye and pants were swelling at a rapid pace. My buzz was back in full force and I was worried about the awkward explanation to Amy on why there was going to be a $200 charge too Ted’s Tractor Supply on my debit card. It was 1:30 a.m. and my money and indiscretions were disappearing like Joey every 45 minutes to the champagne room.
I knew answering the phone was a mistake, but my drunkenness overestimated Amy’s understanding and my ability to explain the current situation.
“Hey, baby! How are ya?” I responded enthusiastically as I answered my cell.
“Where are you at? I can barely hear you?” Amy said over the phone enunciating every syllable.
“I’m just out with the Cowboys at the bar,” I screamed into the phone.
“With who? You’re at a kicker bar? It sounds like you’re at a club!”
“No, no! I’m not kicking the car!” I fumbled. “Oh, hey! I bought a bunch of mulch at the tractor store today. Thinkin’ ‘bout building a tomato garden…I’ll explain later.”
“Build a what? Mulch?”
“Hey, Amy were takin’ good care of your boys down here!” the evil red head stripper on Joey’s lap yelled just loud enough for Amy to hear.
“You’re at a fuckin’ strip club! You’re with Joey, aren’t you? Tell that slut to keep her hands to her self!”
“No, honey! Her name’s Shontae, she’s a med student at…”
“Why don’t you just stay out tonight? I don’t even want to see you!”
“But honey, my eye—she’s a healer!” I said to blank noise on my cell phone.
I have no idea what to do in this situation. Should I call back and leave several messages apologizing? Maybe I’ll just rush home and consolidate the damage before things get much worse. Joey always seems to offer helpful advice in these delicate situations in his own down-home way. I’ll seek his sage-like advice.
“You make my pants happy!” he said to the stripper.
“So do you want me to dance for you or what?” a voice said above me in a cynical-let’s-go-already tone.
“Hell yeah, he wants you to danshh!” Joey said stumbling his drunken words as the demon redhead wrapped her knees around his neck; the same woman who I was sure was named after some toxic four-liquor shot made for ceremonial tortures during 21st birthdays.
“So yes or no?”
After the initial beer buzz wears off my speech and vocabulary decrease like the clothes on the demon-slut wrapped around Joey’s face. But I wanted to explain to her my opinion about buying lap dances for oneself; how unless someone pays for it with their money, like your father giving you the biggest pork chop at the dinner table, it’s almost like buying a prostitute.
“Yes.”
“My name’s Carolina,” she said rubbing my face on her stomach.
“’U’m, Obby,” is the way my name sounds with skin in your mouth.
“Where’s your wife at tonight? Her little sowing circle?” she asked me as her hair fell forward above her head partially touching the floor.
Carolina’s skin was the color of a storm cloud in an endless battle to conceal the bright light of the sun—it was translucent but at the same time you could detect a hint of color. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders like nightfall directly contrasting the complexion of her skin.
“Oh, I’m not married,” I said feeling a strange compulsion to lie as I talked to her inverted face between her legs.
“Well that’s a hell of a tan line you have on your ring finger!” she smirked as I jangled my wedding ring against the change in my pocket.
“Oh, well maybe, I’m…”
“So what the hell happened to your eye?” she said unhooking her bra and rubbing her natural B-cups on my wound like a prizefighter’s trainer would use a frozen steak after a title bout.
“Softball accident,” I said tucking away the strange smell of incense infused lotion on her for my spank-bank later tonight.
“I take it from the name on the back of your jersey that your friends have a sense of humor or you come from a long line of bakers?”
“I don’t even like scones,” once again telling useless and equally as untrue lies and worrying that she may have seen the small patch of hair on my back.
“So are you going to think about these when you’re jerking-off later tonight?” she asked licking her right nipple.
A sleeve of tattoos running to her shoulder concealed Carolinas left arm; a serpent slid down her arm constricting blood flow like a noose as it past symbols of dollar signs, naked women, and fancy cars as it gradually grew larger and fiercer.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“Kind off,” she replied brushing off the question.
The serpent’s body extended to the base of her hand as the snake’s engouraged mouth hissed sending it’s eager tongue to wrap around the start of her index finger like it was ready to devour.
“I’ve been married once,” she responded as she turned her back towards me and sat between my legs rubbing the once hidden thong string on my crotch. “Are you gonna think about this the next time your fucking your wife?”
At mid-forearm, the snake began to shed its skin into the tail of a once angelic dragon wrapping her upper chest and circling around her shoulder to the small of the left side of her back. The dragon looked up and screamed at the head of the serpent, coveting the ring-like halo it had stolen from the fallen angel.
Carolina’s body told more of a story then any part of our conversation that night. Her exterior was brash but her body gave off a sense of damaged vulnerability that was hidden unless you came too close. After a long dance she went off to quietly tell other lustful men stories. Stories that were trying to break the silence from her marked, naked body—stories that fell onto deaf ears.
“Are you guys leaving already?” Carolina asked us as we walked towards the door.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said glancing down at my watch blaring 3:36 a.m. “It’s been a hell of a long day!”
“Why don’t you guys come in the back—I’ll help you wake-up!”
Joey and I glanced at each other with looks of thoughts about forbidden fruits, lush gardens, and unforgiving wrath. Without speaking Joey and I stumbled sheepishly behind.
The backroom awakened us from the Vegas like coma the strip club lounge gave us. It was lit with cheap, grocery store lights one of which flickered on and off like an SOS signal. The sink next to a vanity table dripped in a rhythm reminiscent of a dungeon.
“This should wake you up,” she said as she emptied half of a small bag of cocaine on the vanity’s glass shelf.
Carolina scrapped the small rock into equal lines of four with the precision of a surgeon. She licked her finger to pick-up the remnants that failed to fall in line like an ice scrapper on a windshield blanketed in snow and proceeded to rub her forefinger against her gums. In a long fluid motion, she effortlessly snorted her line and handed the rolled-up dollar bill to Joey.
“When in Rome…” Joey said as he fell to his knees before Carolina.
A scraggy, blonde haired woman appeared in the corner next to the front door—shaking nervously and coughing as she held her mouth like she was keeping a dark secret while awaiting judgment. I could hear her teeth scraping against each other giving off a faint grinding sound like a quiet dentist drill digging out a cavity.
“Y’all don’t got no ice, do ya?” she asked us trembling.
I looked around the room for a soda machine or cooler thinking I could also use some for my eye when Carolina responded, “No, we don’t have any crank. Wanna’ little blow, Chloe?” she asked in a compassionate tone that I had never heard from her mouth.
“Thanks, maybe a little please,” she responded taking the rolled up dollar and snorting.
“Drake don’t want me dancin’ here no more,” Chloe said rubbing her puffy red nose. “Says I’m too old and it’s bad for his business.”
“Well Drakes an asshole! You need to get rid of him and go into business alone—he’s not helping you!” Carolina said.
Chloe wrapped her chapped, lipstick-stained lips around a long cigarette, which caused her sunken cheeks to fall further into her mouth. Her pupils resembled trembling flies caught in a bloody spider web.
“How else am I gonna make a livin’? This is all I’ve ever done!” she responded walking back to the corner.
Joey was halfway finished with his line when a lanky man burst into the door wearing golden rimmed, flashy sunglasses and a sideways mesh baseball cap.
“So, do you think I’m some sorta bitch? Huh? I drove all the way up here in my Ben-zo for you to not say a word?” the man said instantly grabbing Chloe’s mouth between his fingers. “Where the fuck is my money?”
“That’s Drake—he’s a real asshole!” Carolina stated making sure everyone in the room heard.
Drake’s head turned at the three of us on the other side of the room and continued his attention towards the blonde, a purple vein pulsated on his forehead through his Irish-white skin, “Can you not speak now? You been doin’ blow all night with these bitches?”
“No, no!” Chloe responded.
“Fuckin’ liar!” he said while violently slapping the woman with the back of his hand.
Joey stood up and walked away from Carolina as she yelled out, “Hey you fuckin’ faggot! Get the fuck off her!”
“And who is you niggas?” he said as I looked at Joey’s freckled face and he at my blue eyes. “Maybe you need to learn to speak when spoken too, bitch!”
“Fuck off you small-pricked homo!” Carolina blurted out.
Drake strolled up to Carolina smoothly and stared directly into her eyes like he was training a naughty dog. He crossed his left arm over his chest and swung his hand backwards towards Carolina’s face. Without much thought to consequences I reached up and caught Drake’s hand before reaching it’s destination. Still sitting in the chair I stared up at his clasped hand then at his face. Drake grabbed a piece from the back of his jeans.
“And who the fuck is you?” he asked in a trembling, semi-calm tone.
“Obby,” is the way my name sounds like with a gun in your mouth.
Joey made a slight motion like he wanted to help as I nodded him off feeling the gun collide with both sides of my back teeth. He ripped the gun out of my mouth as the metal sight chipped part of my front tooth.
“Sit the fuck down, fat man!” Drake yelled redirecting the gun at Joey.
Drake shoved the gun back into my mouth splitting the top of my lip. He took off his sunglasses revealing his discolored blue eye to his other deep blue one.
“And who the fuck do you think you are? Huh?” he yelled.
“Obody!”
“Who?” he asked shoving the gun further down my thoat.
I felt the salty taste of warm blood and saliva drip off the mouth of the gun as I gagged from the steel forced down my mouth. Drake’s front tooth blinged DRAKE in gold, diamond studded letters announcing he was different and special from everyone else.
“Obody!”
“That’s right! Fuckin’, ‘obody’!” he said as he withdrew his gun followed by a long string of red saliva that snapped and fell on my shirt as he put it back in his pants.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
New stuff from the book
Hello. The following is a few chapters that I’ve been working on in the book-type-thing I’m writing. It’s a fictional story, although you may draw some similarities. This is from near the beginning so please excuse the lack of character development. The formatting on this blog website is not designed for this sort of thing so it may be difficult to read. It will not allow me to indent or space appropriately so please bare with me. I would like to hear some feedback. My email is indulgemoderately@yahoo.com or contact me through myspace. Again, sorry about the crappy formatting! Here’s a table of contents: Generic Winos Customer Complaints Profile Self-help Children from Children Enjoy… Generic Winos I knew Amy was going to be pissed. As I slid down the aisles of the local mega-mart, I passed the chips, crackers, red meat, imported beer and economically sensible bottom-of-the-barrel beer that is purchased by the pallet and is marketed by a white can that reads “BEER” in black and is roughly as expensive as a six-pack of microbrew, the pasteurized part-skim milk with whey protein concentrate and cheese culture witholeoresin paprika for color--block of shelf-stable cheese-type-thing which makes a stellar enough queso dip, the two-for-a-dollar hot dog buns, sodium laced cold cuts, pre-lighter fluid dosed charcoal, large gaudy hats in the shape of a crawfish with two large pinchers jutting out like antennas, the wide array of spiced and dried pork, and the anti-acids to be able to consume all of it without heaving like an anorexic training for prom. I passed all of my staple items in favor of a different direction (besides the must-buy crawfish hat). Today my plan was different. Oh, look! A chardonnay—how unbecoming! Or perhaps a nice port, perfectly paired with a delicious sweet treat somewhere between h’or deurves and cordials. The bottles stuck out in various sizes and shapes announcing their vineyard and chronology like a stabled line of horses waiting for their breeders. “Get something nice, but not too expensive, don’t embarrass me in front of my friends!” Amy’s directions were all too clear in my head. “And you’re not making your sangria!” There was a time when she loved my homemade sangria wine. I remember the recipe by heart. Bobby’s Texas Sangria Wine -fresh citrus of your choice ( I prefer watermelon, peaches, and strawberries) -4 parts orange juice and 1 part lime juice -1 part Bobby stumbling about remarking on all of the lovely sweater cows under the warm Texas sun -1 cup of brandy or peach Schnapps (for the meager academia years) -1 cup of Amy’s small fleshy ass in the palm of my hand as I goose-her while she talks with friends -1 cup orange flavored liqueur (if at hand) and 2 boxes of cheap red wine—preferably a burgundy -2 parts Bobby lifting Amy’s short denim skirt passed mid-navel to 1 part ripping her dainty neon green thong off -2 cups of sugar water (simple syrup) and refrigerate for about an hour -1 part bending Amy over the toilet in the downstairs guest ½ bathroom while reaching around to cup her mouth too prevent noise -add 1 bottle of Mum’s and 1 bandage for your ecstasy induced tooth-shaped lesion on your left index finger There would not be any of the prementioned items tonight. No rowdy football games, Madden Playstation tournaments, drinking games, or barbequing. Amy’s friend, Lisa, invited us to a wine and cheese party. The kind where “young, urban professional” men trade off blows between their hefty 401K’s and progressively soaring tax bracket classifications and the women gash about their exceeding credit lines while bragging about how small their purses are. “Are you vested yet?” one of the douches would ask me while jerking-off in my face. “Look, I can only fit my lipstick in my Versace!” she would say with a functional knapsack full of cosmetics, telecommunication devices, and various shades of plastic tucked away in the corner closet. I reached the end of the wine aisle; just a couple of steps forward and I would be carousing in “no-man’s land” or the more appropriately named “Greeting Card” section. “An unpretentious yet slightly brooding nut flavor with fruity hints,” I whispered to myself as I placed the bulky box of wine in the tailored-for-the-bachelor hand basket. The copy on the box babbled on about valleys in Sonoma and old family vineyards when it should have been a white box with bold black print stating “WINE”. After I paid for the WINE and the crawfish hat I left for home hoping I could sneak inside while Amy was completing her presentation with her hair dryer and eyebrow brush. I successfully infiltrated the house through the back door leading to our kitchen. By the first impression of our kitchen you would guess that we were both Italian; deriving from a small village in Sicily or from a long generation of sausage artisans from Bologna or some ethnic portion of Brooklyn where large women half-hang out there third-story apartment windows while violently waving a dough roller screaming Italian epithets at the local boys for accidentally bouncing their handball off her car windshield. The mass produced signs hang in the kitchen announcing that we do indeed sell cappuccino and various types of espresso beverages indicating our little General Electric furnished, stainless steel appliance kitchen is in fact a quaint little café hidden by a hanging veranda, when in fact Amy only gets her caffeine fix from diet sodas and I wouldn’t know how to make a latte if a Seattle barista bitch-slapped me with an “indie” folk-rock vinyl until I produced the perfect amount of frothy foam. In fact, we’re both some mixture of Protestant muttness that any document of linage would read like an early 1900’s roll-call list from Staten Island. We’re both from the flatlands of North Texas where if you’re lucky enough to find a significant hill, you can see for hundreds of miles in each direction. I popped a beer and set water to boil in a small, handled saucepan for macaroni and cheese. I hear Amy’s steps forcefully hit the floor above me. Each step walking with a purpose creating a loud, strange rhythmic pattern trying to convey that she won’t put up with any of my shit tonight and I better be ready by 7:30. In an effort to consolidate my steps, therefore saving time, I chugged the remaining half of my beer allowing me to simultaneously grab the box of Mac ‘n Cheese in the walk-in pantry while throwing away the beer can. In a fleeting moment of grace, I faked the easy bucket and gracefully spun around while grabbing the ‘fridge door and launched a prayer at the last second. In a frenzy to beat the buzzer, I grabbed for another beer--while popping, I heard the empty beer can hit the bottom of the trash. “You better be ready by 7:30!” she said from upstairs. “Well, hi to you little flower!” I responded sarcastically. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get ready. Got off late!” “Take your time!” In order to demonstrate to our guests that we are sophisticated and well-off, we have perched several prestigious decorations and nick-knacks around the house including an empty bottle of champagne, art from the very best Bed Bath and Beyond in town, old-fashioned ladies’ hat boxes recently made from a sweat-shop in Singapore, a reproduced sans ear era Van Gogh painting complete with stars, an old French coffee press which only upon a recent accident did I discover was not an ancient penis enlarger, and an empty bottle of Chteau Margaux 1995. The latter was a gift bought by Amy’s parents upon which they wanted me to toast with during my short speech during our rehearsal dinner. After the toast I was made aware that our guests weren’t laughing at my humorous anecdotes but of my pronunciation of the “Shittle MarkX 1995”, like I was announcing the introduction of the latest Ukrainian economy sports hatchback. I grabbed the Margaux and placed a funnel, which I retrieved from the remnants of my old college beer bong in the hole of the bottle. I ripped open the box of WINE and pored until 80% of the bottle was full. My logic being, if anyone questioned why the bottle was pre-corked, I could lie and say I couldn’t wait for a glass. I stuffed the bottle with a gently-used cork, popped my fourth beer, and finished preparing my Mac n’ Cheese. “Hey, what’s up? You about ready?” Amy said as she walked into the room complete for proper presentation in her black pants and tight sweater top. “Ooh, boobies!” I said in a playful, cartoonish voice while crossing my eyes in a goofy expression of lust as I reached for her chest while pinching my hands together like a crab going after dinner. “Get away from me you freak!” she responded half jokingly. “What the hell are you doing eating before the party? And why don’t you use a plate?” she said as I shoveled the Macaroni into my mouth straight from the saucepan used for its cooking. “Well first of all, I’m eliminating the middle-man. And second, it’s a wine and cheese party! Unless the words barbeque, keg, big-ass sandwich, or pizza are in the little E-vite you got from her, I’m gonna be hungry. “ “The E-vite said there’d be sandwiches!” “Uhh, did it happen to say big-ass sandwich? There’s gonna be those little finger sandwiches with cucumber and cream cheese!” “So, there’s gonna be other stuff, too!” “Last time I grabbed the other stuff and tried to build a big-ass sandwich and you got all pissed!” “Now you’re just being stupid!” It was not unusual for us to playfully spar like this, but I knew there was more to it then light jabbering. When you’re married you pick-up on the little nuances that get under your spouse’s skin. It gets bad when you know that the skin is slightly wounded so you poke and scratch at it. This typically happens early in the whole mating process. Once the small knick has taken enough cuts it starts to bleed and trickle down the skin covering up different, unaffected parts that are stained until the blood has been wiped away and a scab forms. The oozing scab can take years to heal, if at all, and if poked even gently it will open again and tends to leave a nasty scar. I have a nasty habit of peeling scabs before there completely healed and I rarely carry bandages. ### “Oh, I love your place! It’s so sheik!” Amy boasted to Lisa. Lisa and Sean lived in a flat in the recently renovated and sickly trendy Uptown portion of Dallas. The carless minorities were successfully moved farther away from their jobs to make room for high priced condo flats made from old warehouses and office buildings or torn down to make gaudily trendy megaplexes that stand out from their surroundings like Baked Brie and aged Gorgonzola next to a can of Cheese Whiz and Spray Cheese on Lisa’s Pottery Barn coffee table. “Oh, thanks! It’s okay for now, Sean just received his promotion to VP so hopefully we can move into something a little more spaceish in a few months,” Lisa responded nonchalantly. Smalltalk. I fuckin’ hate it! Some people say I don’t talk very much due to my lack of participation in such social norms. I can feel it being directed toward me. Shifty eyes redirected at me away from their competitive conversations. Brooding glance-overs from strangers questioning the nature of my visit and liquidity of my portfolio. “Bobby, how are ya, buddy! Long-time no see, man!” Sean said to me the way you would enthusiastically greet a 6th grader at an adult party. “I’m good, man! And yourself?” I responded. “Good, good! Just moved into the new place last month. Just tryin’ to get settled in! So where do you office now a’ days?” “Still off of 635 near downtown.” “You’re a technical writer? Right?” “No a copywriter for Publicon Dallas.” “Oh, yeah! You’ve been working there for six years—out of college right? So what’s your title?” “Copywriter.” “Oh, I meant your working title, not your profession.” “Yeah, still copywriter.” “Thought Amy told us you were promoted a few years ago?” “Yeah, I was promoted to copywriter from junior copywriter.” “Oh.” “It’s like skinless fried chicken over regular fried chicken—they’re paying more for less of a title!” I’m such an asshole, that doesn’t even make sense. “Oh. Well can I get you something to drink? Some wine or a cocktail?” Sean asked. “I’ll take a beer.” Sean looked at Lisa in order to ask her for permission without speaking, “Yeah, that’s fine. Make sure you put it in a glass,” Lisa spoke her answer exactly as if she was saying, ‘Yeah, I guess so.’ “I’ll be right back, Bobby. Let me take that wine off your hands, buddy!” he said as I handed over the post-cold war Ukrainian hatchback bottle. Lisa gave me the “you’re an idiot” head nod of disapproval. As I watched the two head for the cocktail table I wondered if Amy was still alive. “I love your China! Was this part of your wedding registry?” she asked Lisa in a small group of identical women. I feel her breath when she speaks to me, but it’s no longer warm. I know the blood still courses through her veins, but to where? “Congratulations on Sean’s promotion! How does it feel to be the wife of the Vice President of Sales for the Muller Group?” The way she speaks with everyone else is the way she used to speak with me—with excitement and passion. “Is that your new Land Rover? I’m in love with the new model!” I don’t think she’s a real anymore. Her petite frame used to come alive and gel on top of me like a clay modeling. Her once playful blonde hair and unpredictable eyes used to inspire me, now her doll parts or pressed in an assembly line to fit any other factory part. She used to press her hair through my baseball cap now it’s straightened and sculpted into a mold like her friends. “Here’s your beer, Bobby,” Sean said. “Amy, I think there’s something wrong with this bottle of Margaux you brought,” one of the guests stated with a sour look on his face. “Oh, no Jonathan. Bobby bought that today! Didn’t ya, hon?” she asked. “Yeah, straight off the shelf! I couldn’t help but to indulge with a glass before we left,” I said. One of Jonathan’s conversation pals spoke up, “Yeah, this does taste a little off,” which was quite an astute remark from someone on their second glass. “Either this has been uncorked in the fridge for six months or this is an all together different wine!” Jonathan responded sarcastically. The ride home was quite interesting. Usually we battle over radio station supremacy but she didn’t even make an effort. The silence was devastating and awkward like passing gas in a crowded subway train. I knew she was going to be pissed; I just wanted the silence to be broken so the healing could begin. “I can’t believe you did that in front of my friends! I’m so stupid! I actually thought you were being romantic buying the exact wine you toasted with at our rehearsal dinner. I’m such an idiot!” she said holding back a tear. I felt like a complete, ass. I knew she was going to be pissed after I switched wines but I had no intention of throwing sentiment in her face then publicly mocking her. “I’m sorry! I was just trying to save money. With the mortgage and the credit cards I feel like a jerk spending 50 bucks for a bottle of wine! Besides I didn’t think anyone would actually notice the difference!” I said “Half of those fucking people were at the rehearsal dinner! And Jonathan’s a pretty renowned sommelier!” “What the hell’s a sommelia? Is he the fuckin’ lizard king?” “No dumbass! He’s a professional wine tasting, type-guy…for restaurants!” she fumbled. “Jonathan studied with Le Cordon Bleu in Paris!” I finally found a profession that would be killed before me in a post-apocalypse world when searching for useful skills to share in the Earth’s meager few remaining rations. “Do you think I wanna spend my Saturday night, after a long work week, hanging around your stuck-up, high and mighty, pretentious friends?” “No, let me hang-out with your beer-guzzling, foul mouth loser friends as you watch football and eat three pounds of chips and queso!” That night she retreated to the backyard patio to finish the rest of the WINE while talking for hours on her cell. On occasion I would stammer by and hear my name mentioned. I woke up on the couch and climbed into bed with her around 10 a.m. We spoke briefly as we both agreed to disagree thinking the opposite person is an asshole. After a long truce I climbed on top of her to have SEX and prepare for another long workweek. A Brief Email Customer Complaint Retrospective http://contactus.anheuser-busch.com/contactus/default.asp?site=IA February 20, 2002 Anheuser-Busch Corporation Customer Service Department CC: Bud-Light Brewmaster Bobby Hawkins 1919 University Park Plaza #212 Lubbock, TX Dear Anheuser-Busch, I would like to start by thanking you on your wonderful product you have been brewing in the Majestic Colorado Rockies for the past 100 or so years. I recently turned 21 years-of-age, but I have been enjoying your product for the past five years. Currently I am studying advertising at the hallowed halls of Texas Tech University, in which upon graduation I plan to pursue a job in copywriting. I grew up watching the fierce battles during Super Bowl commercials in which your geniuses in copywriting deemed Bud Bowl. I credit my passion for advertising and underage drinking to your brilliant advertising/marketing plans. Though underage drinking is illegal, I feel it has trained me for a quite stellar drinking career in the academic environment. I have heard of many-o-freshman who have haplessly fallen victim to the demons of the booze after succumbing to the pressures of academia (i.e. freshman 15, 8:00 a.m. classes, etc.). Please commend the ad department for me! However, I have recently fallen astray from your fine brew after sampling a can that contained a far more bitter and I believe double potent blend of your premium, American-style lager, Bud Light. I would have phoned your hotline printed on the can, but I feel a famous author stated it best when writing, “The pen is mightier then the sword.” Please forgive me in the lack of accreditation to this noble author but I have not been able to afford textbooks as of yet for the spring semester partly to the fault of your fine product. The night in question began with a rendezvous with some of my fraternal brethren at colloquial favorite, Bash’s Bar. Tuesday between 4-6:00 P.M. they have penny-pitcher happy hour of your finest brew. Rarely being one to over indulge, I bring nothing with me as far as currency other than one nickel. When I only have 2 cents remaining, I give the rest to the cute bartender and carry on my way. However, due to an over-testosteroned Tech Rugby captain who bumped into me after reaping the spoils of his victory creating a chain reaction causing the soiling of a sorority girls favorite Greek sweater, I only had 2 ½ pitchers (I could have had more, but I believe the bartender should receive a little something for her fine effort in such an uproarious working environment). Afterwards I drove 20 minutes to the strip (the only place to buy alcohol in Lubbock just outside the county line), bought a case of Bud Light from Ed’s Corner for $15.99 and returned home to the scene in which the tasting occurred. I noticed the foul taste of the beer upon the first sip but continued to drink seven more cans because of my commitment to my loyal constituents to win back my executive position in Presidents and Assholes. The contaminated beer caused me to miss my noon class and forfeit my reign as inter-gender champion of my Ju Jitsu class thus dropping my grade and affecting my cumulative GPA. I do not think your company’s malice should affect my job hunt in May, but I will keep you posted. If in such time an opening in your advertising department should arise, you have my email address. I have attached my resume and cover letter. P.S. I seek no compensatory damages from decline in my GPA nor from the emotional trauma suffered from the sorority girls slap of my face. But I would like my money back for the case of beer. Concerned customer, Bobby Hawkins http://www.chateau-margaux.com/Website/dynamic/contact.php?LANGUAGE=eng July 21, 2007 Chateau Margaux Customer Service Department Bobby Hawkins 1713 Tuscan Hills Dr. Trophy Lake, TX I would like to start by commending your fine wine on its pursuit of gustatory excellence in your brewing of the fine Chateau Margaux. During my wedding rehearsal dinner, I was bestowed with the honor of saluting our guests to your fine wine. Upon which their tasting drew a sensation of palate pleasing ecstasy as they gashed at the witty banter and insightful commentary I provided. I would like to thank your expensive booze for slathering them up nicely for this most amateur of performers. Being a bit of a wine artisan myself, I am familiar with the process of mixing a fine glass of wine. However, after a recent experience with a rather sour bottle of your vintage 1995, left me brooding for a more 2001 less audacious flavor or even for a bottle of Strawberry Hills Boone’s Farm for that matter. Upon those in attendance at the function, was Jonathan Simmons, an up-coming sommelier in the DFW area. He studied under one of the most prestigious wine pro’s in Paris, a one Gordon Blue. If my studies are correct, an apprentice of the famed Gordon Blue would know a good glass of Chateau Margaux. He agreed that I let such a prestigious wine brewer, such as yourself, know the faults of their ways. I purchased your product from Joe’s Classy Wines in Trophy Lake, Texas for $149.99. Please do not try to contact this establishment, it is now closed due to a miscommunication mistake between a 17-year old homecoming queen’s ID and a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. Thank you for your time. Fellow wine brewer and connoisseur, Bobby Hawkins Self-help The advertising agency I work for, Publicon, is the supermart of communication companies. A one-stop-shop for all your company’s communication needs. A slaughterhouse of branding designed to trim the useless hair, fat, and bones from businesses to produce one distinct, clear message. We also have an army of polished infantry in “strong” suites trained to speak in appropriate tones and instruct bloatedly rich corporate executives how to tell the public their coal refinery is “working with the environment” or that the saccharin in their diet soda only gives cancer to test monkeys. Apparently efficiency and productivity has been down in the Dallas office. Recently I attended a mandatory human resources meeting where they showed a video of fishmongers in Seattle laughing with customers as they threw fish through the crowded market. The workers would scare visitors by throwing fake rubber fish into the crowd or directly at an aloof bystander’s head. In the end, after a series of employee testimonials, it showed people lining up to by fish, choosing the happier fish market over the more downtrodden and frumpy seafood stands. The empty blonde suit with heels began her sales pitch, “If these men wake-up at three-in-the-morning, work long hours around wet smelly fish all day—why are they so happy? They choose their attitudes everyday when they wake-up. We choose our attitude every time we walk into work? Why not make it a positive attitude! It’s contagious!” -Little drones plugging away at their desks with forced smiles on their faces. “Go the extra mile to make someone’s day at work. Pretty soon it will come back to you!” -As the boss walks by and someone drops a piece of paper little deadline leery drones double-take and run to scoop it up in fear of lash from the boss. “Make sure to smile at work! Your co-workers will appreciate the effort and it simply brightens the work place!” -Awkward, forced smiles from account executives after recently losing million dollar accounts. Caffeine sustained copywriters working till 2:00 a.m. trying to fix mistakes for a client pitch at 8:00 a.m. with a twitchy grin like their being stuck with electrodes. Mark Stoller, CEO, walked on stage to finish the presentation. A slick-talking suit, with ultra-shiny shoes and graying, playfully spiked brown hair. Ad Age magazine deemed him “a hired bounty hunter seeking to destroy your competition.” “Thank you, Christine for that most captivating presentation! As always!” he added as everyone clapped and her colleagues in HR nodded jealousy. “Publicon Dallas is going to take this philosophy on like we’re taking on a new account—with full burr and excitement to carry out something we know will change our work place for the better!” he said looking around the large conference room with an intense look in his eyes and a slight grin.” This is the same salesman who three months ago during my quarterly performance report, told me to be more aggressive and confident with my ideas. “You know what I think you need, Bobby?” he asked. “Well, no…” “You need to practice the art of self-affirmation and positive energy!” he said interrupting me after two syllables. “Let me ask you, Bobby! What’s the first thing you do when you get up every morning?” Mark mentions my name every time he asks me a question making our conversations more awkward then if I pulled panties out of my briefcase rather then a pen. The contrast at either side of the desk is immense. Mark’s well over six-foot with body sponsored by Balley’s Fitness, sharp expensive shirts draped with “strong” ties, and professional shoes that are hip but not gaudy making a statement saying, “Yeah, I probably dropped three bills on these.” I’m one-day unshaven with an exceedingly mentionable love-grip hanging over 70% of my belt, slightly hung-over, second-day non-washed, business casl. shirt has a small taco stain directly above where my tucked-in shirt and belt meet, and my shoes are scuffed from constantly scraping the emergency brake everyday after getting out of my car. “Kiss my wife and go for a jog…I dunnoh?” fucking liar, Amy usually yells at me to shut-off the alarm and the only exercise I get is when I rub-one-out in the shower. “Bobby, the first thing I do when I get out of bed is look in the mirror and say an affirmation I have said to myself for the past ten years. “’I’m going to have a great, productive day!’ Before a large presentation ‘I’m smart, captivating, and I will get this account.’” His wife must think he’s fuckin’ nuts! I guess she can put little things aside since he looks like an IZOD model and finances her BMW. “When I’m driving to work I listen to positive, self-affirming CD’s to enrich the mind and make me a successful person at work.” That night after an extended happy hour, I ordered a starter kit from the Internet entitled “Self-Love”. It turned out to be a video of three middle-aged women with no make-up demonstrating effective forms of masturbation with an older lady who hid behind several PhDs who kept repeating “very gently.” I was going to return the kit, but oddly enough the follow-along-piece, which were accompanied by two AA batteries, mysteriously disappeared when I placed it on the counter at home like the last slice of pizza at a college dorm. When I asked the only party who could have been responsible for such a thievery she blushed then replied, “You probably threw it away with the package. Or you may want to check up your ass, pervert!” “So to help kick-off our team’s new philosophy at work, we’re going to give you these free shirts to wear every Monday to start every week off with a little spark! No, Jody I will send an internal email if we have a major presentation or a client visit requiring more professional office dress,” Mark added answering a Jody who has obviously already embraced this fish thing with gusto as she playfully smiles and giggles. ##### My wife caught me masturbating yesterday. It’s not the first time, but the third time I’ve been caught in the three years we’ve been married. The first time my in-laws were visiting and decided to stay in our small first apartment on the outskirts of downtown. We were newlyweds and only had one bedroom forcing us to sleep on the sleeper sofa for the filial piety aspect of such relationships. At night, I would sneak a hand under the covers only to be greeted with a sharp slap on the hand of instant rejection. I told her, “I’m the accelerator and you’re the brakes!” The next morning I greeted my father in-law with a pot of fresh coffee and a copy of the morning news from which I stole from my neighbor’s, the stockbroker douche who always hit on my wife, doorstep. I hopped in the shower and caught a whiff of the feminine smell of Amy’s body lotion, “Mmm, cucumber melon!” As I lathered myself, I squeezed a palm-load of the lotion to relieve some tension. At full-mask, Amy walked in to brush her teeth only to be greeted by such a sight through the glass door of our stand-up shower. “You fuckin’ pervert! What if mom would’ve walked in and saw you beating-off?” she said with a method she has perfected through the years of yelling softly. “If your mom knowingly walked in on me showering, we would’ve had more problems then me jerking off!” I said to her as my voice echoed in the sanctity of the shower. The second incident, I was digging through my friend Denny's bag-o-porn to see if I could find any treasures in a sea of light bondage and creampie videos. Every bachelor has a big collection of accumulated porn, but Denny was finally getting married and had to trim his collection of filth to a mere shoebox-o’-porn, a choice collection—a greatest hits, if you will. Amy caught me on the loveseat in the living room with the volume on mute. Yesterday morning I woke up early. On the weekends, when I drink too much, I have a nasty habit of waking-up before my hangover has enough time to even set-in. I’m half drunk and sleepless, with my eyes wide-open staring at the red letters on the alarm clock blistering 4:15 a.m. against the stark contrast of the dark room. We drink so we can smile at each other and practice a low level of communication. The instant shock of waking in a strange bed has worn-off. When you open your eyes it’s nice to have the luxury of familiar comforting surroundings of your bedroom; being able to look at the book on your nightstand, enjoying the feeling of your plush pillow, the smell of your wife. It’s been over a week since we slept in the same bed together. I’ve been sleeping on the couch, loveseat, guest bed, patio furniture, or wherever I may pass out. During this restless period of discomfort, I’m forced to reflect on our relationship troubles. We fought again last night. Not a fight where problems our resolved, we no longer have the luxury of those disputes, fights that follow around in a circle leading to the same problems. Each time we fight our problems are dug deeper to where they become engrained so we can no longer reach them for repairs. Useless fights that have no resolution. She throws books at me for self-improvement and to find out if I can feel pain. Books written by doctors, psychiatrists, over-opinionated life coaches, unlicensed talk-show hosts, and douche celebrities who shout life answers from their $3.5 million houses in Malibu. Dr. Phil tells me to listen to my spouse and when I masturbate to porn I’m actually cheating on my wife. That fat bastard is on his second marriage and when any married man tells you he doesn’t jerk off he’s a fucking liar! I climb out of bed with the captain’s eye staring straight up at me as if too say, “Hey asshole, you gonna do somethen’ about this!” Oddly enough my penis has a New York cab driver’s accent. I strategically maneuver myself over the toilet to attempt to execute the morning-wood pee where mistakes are costly. I’ve been known in the past to soil whole rolls of innocent toilet paper in such cases. I bend my penis down and push like I’m preparing to fire a missile out of my cock. Oddly enough, the stream of urine is divided into two streams, perhaps a tributary of sorts which always confuses me in the morning. As I carry on with this most monumentally long piss, I glance at the handcrafted picnic basket next to the john, which was undoubtingly woven by some fine artisan in a Korean sweatshop, carrying the latest addition of Cosmopolitan. The magazine is opened to the end of an article about a machine designed to shape thighs. The athletic blonde model appears to be tightening an advanced system of levers and pullies between her legs. If my advertising company were commissioned to market the product, I would call it the “Vag Master.” Her toned thighs awakened Mighty Kong back to his wild, primitive nature. I instinctively opened the cabinet above the toilet to the high priced basket of lotion I bought Amy last February 14th on my way home from work. I’m not sure about it’s moisturizing powers but it’s truly a superior product when it comes to lubrication. As I was about to achieve launch, a glazed and dreary Amy walked in the room causing me to lose balance almost tripping on my boxers wrapped around my ankles. Having no ability to sustain the barbarian horde, I lost a little bit of my self right on Amy’s Cosmo missing the “Vag Master” by a whole page. “Jesus, your so fucking pathetic! And I wasn’t even finished with that article!” she said frustratingly. “Sorry about that one,” I said in a defeated tone. I glanced down at the defiled magazine and read the now damp article headline, “10 Ways to Save Your Marriage.” Children from Children Joey and I stood in line at a photocopied replication of a popular coffee chain on the outskirts of downtown Dallas Friday before work. We arrived at 7:45 a.m. and only had to wait 15 minutes; the amateurs who showed at 7:50 a.m. had to bare a line out the door. The hip, unique music selected by a savvy marketing team instead of an edgy folk artist was so rudely interrupted by blaring cell phones with annoying ringtones to really show the owner’s “true personality,” a socially acceptable self-statement without having to speak. The douche behind me in line decided to brand his girlfriends call with Tim McGraw’s “I’m Amazed by You”. "I wanna spend the rest of my life With you by my side Forever and ever Every little thing that you do Baby I’m amazed by you" “Cheese-dick, douche-bag!” I mumbled under my breath as I thought about Amy. “What’s wrong with you, man? You don’t seem to chipper this mornin’,” Joey said in his heavy Texas twang. “Yeah, things between me and Amy aren’t going so well, right now. It’s just, we constantly fight and nothing ever gets resolved. It’s like a big fuckin’ circle, man!” “Man that’s just standard shit for married people! Teresa and I get in fights sometimes, hell she even says she’s fixin’ to leave sometimes.” Joey and I have been best friends since grade school despite the fact that we’re polar opposites. He married his wife Teresa two years out of high school after she became pregnant. Oddly enough Teresa’s sister, Liz, was Joey’s high school sweetheart. When Liz graduated and left to attend Cosmetology school in San Antonio, she dumped Joey. Teresa caught Joey crying in his extended cab Ford F-250 and ended up consoling him with comforting words and a pink positive sign on her pregnancy test. Oddly enough Teresa’s dad, who is not considered to be a modern renaissance man of sorts, was not at all pleased. After finishing off a fifth of the plastic bottled Bourbon Deluxe in his doublewide, he greeted a burly Joey outweighing the small man by 100 pounds with a sharpened switchblade and a polite request stating, “…better get movin’ down that aisle!” The happy couple have been married ever since and recently celebrated the birth of their second child. “Dude, this is different! You and Teresa really do genuinely love each other and it’s obvious that y’all are at least compatible. Ya’ know?” “You’re thinkin’ way too much about this, man!” “It’s like she’s on this set life plan! She insists on having kids before she’s 30 like her vaginas gonna’ close-up! Shit man, me a father! I’m a 28-year-old child!” This summer two of our houseplants died and the fledgling bushes I planted in the front yard won’t make it past August. The only thing that grows successfully in our house is the mold on the bagged, shredded mozzarella from her mother’s lasagna recipe she was determined to make. We talked about getting a puppy last year but I almost had a panic attack about the logistical issues of such an endeavor. Both our commute times are over thirty minutes and last month it was hot enough for Jesus himself to rip his shirt off and cuss his old man’s name. So if my neighbor’s gardener from Central America is walking around bare-chested, how does a big hairy dog cope in the backyard? “Man, it’s proven from genetics and shit that women’s fertility rate drastically drops when they hit thirty. It’s like a slugger with less chances of hitting home runs! Women ultimately just want you to be a man and be there for ‘em! Shit, your not gonna understand everything she says, no man does! But if she needs someone to listen to her and nod there head like they give a damn—be that person! And if she feels it’s time to reproduce—well, give it to her!” Joey’s opinions may be exceptionally skewed in certain situations but sometimes he has the remarkable talent of taking my overly thought problems and worries and turning them into a very simple, clear-cut issue. He works for his father who owns the second largest plumbing supply company in North Texas. After high school graduation, he started at the bottom of the company and worked his way up to the top salesman. He never seems to over analyze problems or second-guess himself, taking life one sale at a time. “Yeah, whatever,” I shook my head and slowly looked away. “It’s all that damn hippie music you listen too that’s rotting your head with this modern-man, better person, shit!” he said coming from a person who only takes life advice from Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, or Johnny Cash. “Dude, shut-up!” I responded hoping the sassy barista with sleave-tattoes and dark rimmed eyeglasses wouldn’t hear his embarrassing comments. The same man who despite my four-day-a-week patronage for the past three years can’t remember my name. “Just act like a man and she’ll appreciate it more than you can imagine.” “Ohh, a boysenberry scone! I know what I’m getting!” I said looking inside the glass display case. “Yeah, and so I was scratching my back in bed this morning and I noticed a small patch of hair between my shoulders!” I said trying to change the subject from my marital problems. “Oh, little Bobby’s finally growin’ up! Next year you’ll get your pubes!” he said grabbing my shoulder and trying to go down the back of my collared shirt. “Piss off you hairy beast! Get the hell off me!” as I tried to nonchalantly push his 6’5, 250 pound frame off me without Derrick the vindictive barista bastard who can’t remember that I always get a vanilla latte seeing me being picked-on by this balding, curly blonde haired bear. “What can I get you guys started? Or should I let you finish play wrestling while the line gets longer?” he said in a ‘I could give-a-fuck’ tone. “I’ll take a grande vanilla latte and a boysenberry scone,” I answered. “I’ll just have a large coffee and a tampon for my friend here, with his scone!” “Are you guys paying separate or is big Uncle Frank going to pick up the tap before taking you to Six Flags?” he asked me as I looked rather ashamed. “Separate,” we said in unison handing him are debit cards. “Oh, look Bobby and Joey! Sounds like members of the Little Rascals. When are you two going to accept the fact you’re pushing thirty and go with Bob and Joe?” Derrick said chuckling. “Give us our coffee, already!” Joey responded. “Can you believe that guy?” he asked me as we walked away with our drinks sans humility.“Yeah, he’s so cool,” I turned and whispered under my breath. |
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Jesus Christ Pose
I’ve been renting HBO’s Rome box sets from the video store. I have been addicted to things before but usually it involves cold beverages, college football, or the half of the population with hairless legs (on glorious days, all three, though the latter can wait till Sunday unless she has a flat head--haha). But after watching Rome for three hours a day for a week’s time, you start to emulate their vernacular. I was driving to work in my mid-level Japanese sedan when I was cut-off by some douche that jutted-out of the HOV lane on his speedy Suzuki crotch-rocket. As he sped off, he popped a wheelie like he was questioning my manhood, “How dare you sir! Fear me! For I am a white man with a tie!” (the most physically unimposing demographic, ever). As I raised my chalice (Starbucks to-go mug containing a most delightful coffee blend infused with a hint of hazelnut), I cursed him by the God’s Versinious, the God of pullover cashmere sweaters, and Levistrauss, the God of casual Fridays, for them to damn him with infertility and dry, flaky skin.
It must have been difficult in a polytheist society to remember all of the different Gods and how to use them for your bidding. At least in Christianity, we only have one God to hide behind when we’re in trouble. People still hide behind God like a Divine Blanket. When a particular athlete’s entourage shoots up a strip club because of his sense of insecurity when he can’t get friction wood during a lap-dance from a three-day meth-binged stripper who claims she is a med student at the local community college and because a seedy, silk-voice strip club DJ won’t play his “jams”; during the press conference he throw’s God out like a 95 mph slider—being there both impossible to hit.
I’ve decided to put God on the back burner for a while. Just for about another ten years. In that time, I’m going to hedonistically party and indulge in every drug imaginable while womanizing and demeaning every woman I can. I’m going to break laws at my convenience and pimp-slap anyone daring enough to try to save me. When I’m older and tired, when it’s no longer convenient or possible to engage in such activities anymore, I’m going to stand on the church steps in front of everyone, with my arms spread out in a Jesus Christ pose waiting for my children to run to me in admiration. I will renounce my ways and swear my faith to the Lord. It’s always nice to have your cake and eat it, too.
It must have been difficult in a polytheist society to remember all of the different Gods and how to use them for your bidding. At least in Christianity, we only have one God to hide behind when we’re in trouble. People still hide behind God like a Divine Blanket. When a particular athlete’s entourage shoots up a strip club because of his sense of insecurity when he can’t get friction wood during a lap-dance from a three-day meth-binged stripper who claims she is a med student at the local community college and because a seedy, silk-voice strip club DJ won’t play his “jams”; during the press conference he throw’s God out like a 95 mph slider—being there both impossible to hit.
I’ve decided to put God on the back burner for a while. Just for about another ten years. In that time, I’m going to hedonistically party and indulge in every drug imaginable while womanizing and demeaning every woman I can. I’m going to break laws at my convenience and pimp-slap anyone daring enough to try to save me. When I’m older and tired, when it’s no longer convenient or possible to engage in such activities anymore, I’m going to stand on the church steps in front of everyone, with my arms spread out in a Jesus Christ pose waiting for my children to run to me in admiration. I will renounce my ways and swear my faith to the Lord. It’s always nice to have your cake and eat it, too.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Grunts from impressionable youths
A few years ago, I was a middle school teacher (yeah, I know). I liked the job and working with those awkward, goofy bastards (at a bar last weekend I heard a pretty girl describe me the same way) but capitalism reared its bitchy head and I pursued other “things.” Everyone remembers the impromptu interpretive dance troop I co-founded entitled “I swear I’m not Gay,” but the black tights were not exactly flattering and I do have an aversion to Germans who refer to themselves as the symbol “?” with parrots named Longfellow. Anywho, I’m not sure if the parent’s enjoyed my quirky lesson plans.
“…and that students is why God invented hangovers.”
Or.
“…and so Harriet Tubman became the first black bus driver.”
I went to a late happy hour the other night (some call it breakfast) still in my shiny shoes and “strong” tie. I wore a look on my face like a dog after his owner tells him not to eat out of the cat’s litter box. A young, clean-cut kid came in with two other people, he had an innocent look as if the world had yet to cock-slap him in the face. He was giddy being one of the few times being in a bar at legal age. (Remember, ohh, give me the drink with the big umbrella with dirty whore in the title!) He was a Marine on leave from Iraq with only a few days left before he had to leave again. If I had seen him in another scenario, I would have sworn he was only a few years older then my former students.
“It’s not that bad. The sand gets everywhere and occasionally a brown person will shoot at you,” he said.
“Sound’s like Galveston!”
He oozed Semper Fi and wore Jesus Christ on his sleeve. He seemed very optimistic and a little drunk. “I heard there is only, like six Starbucks in Baghdad. So in the morning, how do you tell your captain that you want a vente skinny toffee nut latte easy on the foam? Do you like, write it in the sand next to your tent at night so the lesser soldiers can place the order?”
I’m not stating anything new to say that Marines are more than a little brainwashed. But it’s more than that. “Diamonds are forever” is “The few. The proud. The Marines.” little bitch. The Marines are brilliant marketers.
Identifying the Problem: How do we convince young people to be the first line of defense to break the enemy line and mostly likely die? Like using three Q-Tips while your waiting for your boyfriend to get back with the tampons…it will stop some, but there is going to be blood all over the place.
Target Market: Young, mad aggressive, hard-on teens, that want to have a cock-size contest with the world. (aka, most teenage males)
The Solution: Create a conducive environment for breeding destruction. A multi-media onslaught of messaging branding the Marine as a machine only capable of making death.
Results: Teenagers searching for an identity will line up in hopes of fitting in to this image.
“…and that’s why class the government turned young aggressive men into disposable heroes or simply the cost of doing business.
As the young Marine was leaving, the hot bartender gave our new friend a sincere handshake of gratitude for serving our country (actually, I think he was a good tipper). My friend and I worried as we saw the confused look on his face of misguided lust and testosterone that he would pounce like a jackrabbit in-heat. I was worried that he would say something stupid to prove his testosterone.
“I’ve seen every Jean-Claude Van Damn movie three times!”
Needless to say, all went well. Hopefully I won’t read about his death in Iraq.
“…and that students is why God invented hangovers.”
Or.
“…and so Harriet Tubman became the first black bus driver.”
I went to a late happy hour the other night (some call it breakfast) still in my shiny shoes and “strong” tie. I wore a look on my face like a dog after his owner tells him not to eat out of the cat’s litter box. A young, clean-cut kid came in with two other people, he had an innocent look as if the world had yet to cock-slap him in the face. He was giddy being one of the few times being in a bar at legal age. (Remember, ohh, give me the drink with the big umbrella with dirty whore in the title!) He was a Marine on leave from Iraq with only a few days left before he had to leave again. If I had seen him in another scenario, I would have sworn he was only a few years older then my former students.
“It’s not that bad. The sand gets everywhere and occasionally a brown person will shoot at you,” he said.
“Sound’s like Galveston!”
He oozed Semper Fi and wore Jesus Christ on his sleeve. He seemed very optimistic and a little drunk. “I heard there is only, like six Starbucks in Baghdad. So in the morning, how do you tell your captain that you want a vente skinny toffee nut latte easy on the foam? Do you like, write it in the sand next to your tent at night so the lesser soldiers can place the order?”
I’m not stating anything new to say that Marines are more than a little brainwashed. But it’s more than that. “Diamonds are forever” is “The few. The proud. The Marines.” little bitch. The Marines are brilliant marketers.
Identifying the Problem: How do we convince young people to be the first line of defense to break the enemy line and mostly likely die? Like using three Q-Tips while your waiting for your boyfriend to get back with the tampons…it will stop some, but there is going to be blood all over the place.
Target Market: Young, mad aggressive, hard-on teens, that want to have a cock-size contest with the world. (aka, most teenage males)
The Solution: Create a conducive environment for breeding destruction. A multi-media onslaught of messaging branding the Marine as a machine only capable of making death.
Results: Teenagers searching for an identity will line up in hopes of fitting in to this image.
“…and that’s why class the government turned young aggressive men into disposable heroes or simply the cost of doing business.
As the young Marine was leaving, the hot bartender gave our new friend a sincere handshake of gratitude for serving our country (actually, I think he was a good tipper). My friend and I worried as we saw the confused look on his face of misguided lust and testosterone that he would pounce like a jackrabbit in-heat. I was worried that he would say something stupid to prove his testosterone.
“I’ve seen every Jean-Claude Van Damn movie three times!”
Needless to say, all went well. Hopefully I won’t read about his death in Iraq.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Machine
The loud sound wakes me in the morning. To be at the utmost level of efficiency, I require proper rest and adequate nutrition. In the mornings, I wound my face and adjust the dead cells to look respectable. A colored piece of cloth is noosed around my neck and wrapped under a hard shirt constricting my head movements. Companies require us to wear suits so we can’t look around. I leave early to wait in line with the rest. I take my caffeine enema and chew on my processed, artificially flavored, cost efficient square of substance, which I have yet to decide if I enjoy. I collect money by practicing socially acceptable norms and speaking in moderate tones; too loud and I’m asked to leave, not loud enough I stay in the same position, in moderation I slowly ascend. Three times a week I prepare for mating by running in place and moving heavy items. I’m allocated two days a week too support the others and try to get the other half to understand me. On unannounced occasions, I take certain liquids that make me smile and I study sponsored colored, blinking lights of fantasy that help me forget about the monotony. You see, Brian is an idea shaped by the others and identified by a series of numbers. My thoughts and actions group me into a target market so the others can survive.
Friday, March 21, 2008
St. Patrick and Irish Soccer Houligans
Mmm. St. Patrick’s Day, an excuse for loud white people to get shit-faced and collect beads from scantily clad women. Sign me up! We went to Duke’s in Addison the day before St. Patty’s. A place with a huge crowded patio and a constant stream of ultra-loud music.
-“Yeah, so you should check out my blog!”
-“I don’t want too see your hog!” she said disgustingly.
-“Oh, I love dogs!”
Duke’s is a place where douches take off their work uniforms and put on their equally as conforming, biker uniforms. “Look it’s Bob from accounting wearing leather chaps. Sunday’s he has two hours of freedom before returning to his 401K, nagging wife, and two kids. He’s a badass!” You’re a target market. Your friend with the black bandana and dark Ray-Bans sporting a Harley tattoo across his bicep should ink a barcode across his forehead. You tattooed a brand across your arm; you’re a marketer’s dream, you’re not a target market, you’re a product. I’m going to tat’ the Starbuck’s logo across my back to show I believe in fair-trade coffee beans not forced indigenous South American labor and hip unique music not selected by an edgy folk artist but a savvy marketing team to further brand their product. You’re not a rebel. Give me a quiet, portly, middle-aged man, with a hard right part in his hair and a round face that volunteers with his church’s youth group on the weekends who avidly complains to his company’s board of directors about their shitty pension plans and lack of maternity leave for husbands. While his co-worker, “Biker Bob,” complains at the water cooler but does nothing and conforms to his little biker demographic. You’re as edgy as a gumball. Give me a little Hispanic cashier woman who daily calls Wal-Mart’s employee complaint line for a plea for health insurance. Rethink your iconic ideas of freedom and rebellion, douche-bag.
-“Have you ever heard of the Lambada?”
-“Yes, I love lasagna!”
I was already half-drunk when we arrived and very dehydrated from the previous day’s festivities. All I could think about was pure glacier water and Gatorade enemas. After the seven hour “delay” at the bar for my beer, finally I was able to talk to an uninterested yet Amy Winehouse-hot bartender. “Umm, this green beer looks like Smurf piss. Yeah, little known fact, Smurfs were herbivores, which made their urine green. You know, I’ve actually masturbated to Smurfette!” Her stoic face told me she wasn’t interested in my quirky banter.
-“Yeah, so you should check out my blog!”
-“I don’t want too see your hog!” she said disgustingly.
-“Oh, I love dogs!”
Duke’s is a place where douches take off their work uniforms and put on their equally as conforming, biker uniforms. “Look it’s Bob from accounting wearing leather chaps. Sunday’s he has two hours of freedom before returning to his 401K, nagging wife, and two kids. He’s a badass!” You’re a target market. Your friend with the black bandana and dark Ray-Bans sporting a Harley tattoo across his bicep should ink a barcode across his forehead. You tattooed a brand across your arm; you’re a marketer’s dream, you’re not a target market, you’re a product. I’m going to tat’ the Starbuck’s logo across my back to show I believe in fair-trade coffee beans not forced indigenous South American labor and hip unique music not selected by an edgy folk artist but a savvy marketing team to further brand their product. You’re not a rebel. Give me a quiet, portly, middle-aged man, with a hard right part in his hair and a round face that volunteers with his church’s youth group on the weekends who avidly complains to his company’s board of directors about their shitty pension plans and lack of maternity leave for husbands. While his co-worker, “Biker Bob,” complains at the water cooler but does nothing and conforms to his little biker demographic. You’re as edgy as a gumball. Give me a little Hispanic cashier woman who daily calls Wal-Mart’s employee complaint line for a plea for health insurance. Rethink your iconic ideas of freedom and rebellion, douche-bag.
-“Have you ever heard of the Lambada?”
-“Yes, I love lasagna!”
I was already half-drunk when we arrived and very dehydrated from the previous day’s festivities. All I could think about was pure glacier water and Gatorade enemas. After the seven hour “delay” at the bar for my beer, finally I was able to talk to an uninterested yet Amy Winehouse-hot bartender. “Umm, this green beer looks like Smurf piss. Yeah, little known fact, Smurfs were herbivores, which made their urine green. You know, I’ve actually masturbated to Smurfette!” Her stoic face told me she wasn’t interested in my quirky banter.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Seattle Chronicles: Fin
Boy someone sounded like a big ole’ Serious Steve in the last entry! So being the last night for me in Seattle, I decided to see how many microbrews I could drink and still stand straight. Needless to say, today I awoke with an “organic” hangover. The beer maybe fresh, but I still feel like burnt dick.
The Sealltites call the area of Shoreline, close to where my brother lives, the ghetto. I’m not sure why but I think a cop once spotted a “negro” walking these streets. The only danger you may be in is if your attacked by a frustrated gang of post-happy-hour computer programmers mad because they lost the semi-final round of Warcraft’s League of Champions because their battle dwarf, Lord Hagar, was killed by a frumpy gargoyle due to his lack of dexterity points.
So I went to a local bar to grab “a couple” of beers. After “a couple” of beers I struck up a conversation with a group of rowdy guys at the beginning of a bachelor party. Real salt-of-the-Earth type guys, mostly sawmill workers and dock man in their flannel shirts and Dickies. I was in the middle of telling them about my extensive array of hair products and my Express credit card, when I was interrupted by a guy sitting behind me.
“Ohh, damn baby, you look good!” he yelled.
As I turned around I said “Why thank you, I just got this sweater on sale at Brooks Brothers and I’m trying something different with my…oh.”
I saw a scantily clad woman walking in the door and I quickly deduced she was the entertainment for this evening. One of the guys knew the bar owner and reserved a back room for the stripper. The lady began flirting with the guys when one of the men’s wives called and said she was on her way up to the bar to make sure there were no “whores” around.
I wanted to help the guys escape from this desperate situation. I wanted to create a diversion of sorts. I thought about telling the stripper to hide in the bathroom and the guys to encircle around me. When the angry wench would walk into the door, I would pull out a book from my man-purse and read like it was an impromptu men’s reading group, called “Prose over Hoes.” I would read, “…and at that point I knew we were no longer little girls…but little women,” my voice trailing off in a fit of emotion as a single tear runs down my cheek. A burly lumberjack named Biff, with a pension for tattoos, motorcycle rallies, and 1920’s French Impressionist Cinema would grab a Kleenex to wipe a tear.
Of course this never happened, and when the butch woman with a bourbon-slur came in the door she called the nice stripper a dirty whore. She created such a scene as her husband tried to lead her out of the bar. I decided it was time for me to leave.
My sister-in-law Kirsten, picked me up and we went out to see some local live music, being the fact that my brother, David had to work all weekend. At this point, I was already pretty sauced from dealing with Biff, my thoughts, beautiful silicon, and many microbrews. We tried to see a band called the “Helio Sequence” but the concert was sold-out. We then proceeded to go to four different bars, like a drunken “Taste of Seattle” or Martha Stewart Living “Beer Bongs.” We managed to stay out until 2:00 when the bars shutdown. I was sitting at a bar stool talking to this hard-living looking woman in her late fifties who was surprisingly a philosophy professor who graduated from Brown, when a wiry old biker comes up and picks up my ¾’s full hefeweizen and chugs it in one gulp. The professor said, “Hey Chuck that’s not my beer, it’s this man’s!” The biker was very apologetic but I decided to add my two cents.
“You don’t have to piss all over her!” I said.
Now what I meant to say, in my drunken state, is that you don’t have to mark your territory. I’m not hitting on your “old lady.”
“I didn’t piss myself!” he replied.
“Hey, don’t be a cheesedick! I’ll get you another beer, man!” the bartender told me.
“You’re a di…, a cheese…, your dick’s made out of cheese!” I mumbled.
Anyway, the biker turned out to be really cool and we ended up talking about Southern rock the rest of the night.
I’m catching a red-eye to Dallas tonight and I start training at the Dallas office tomorrow. I’ve already lost one hour to daylight savings, now I’m going to lose two more from time zones. Anyway, the weather’s quite lovely.
The Sealltites call the area of Shoreline, close to where my brother lives, the ghetto. I’m not sure why but I think a cop once spotted a “negro” walking these streets. The only danger you may be in is if your attacked by a frustrated gang of post-happy-hour computer programmers mad because they lost the semi-final round of Warcraft’s League of Champions because their battle dwarf, Lord Hagar, was killed by a frumpy gargoyle due to his lack of dexterity points.
So I went to a local bar to grab “a couple” of beers. After “a couple” of beers I struck up a conversation with a group of rowdy guys at the beginning of a bachelor party. Real salt-of-the-Earth type guys, mostly sawmill workers and dock man in their flannel shirts and Dickies. I was in the middle of telling them about my extensive array of hair products and my Express credit card, when I was interrupted by a guy sitting behind me.
“Ohh, damn baby, you look good!” he yelled.
As I turned around I said “Why thank you, I just got this sweater on sale at Brooks Brothers and I’m trying something different with my…oh.”
I saw a scantily clad woman walking in the door and I quickly deduced she was the entertainment for this evening. One of the guys knew the bar owner and reserved a back room for the stripper. The lady began flirting with the guys when one of the men’s wives called and said she was on her way up to the bar to make sure there were no “whores” around.
I wanted to help the guys escape from this desperate situation. I wanted to create a diversion of sorts. I thought about telling the stripper to hide in the bathroom and the guys to encircle around me. When the angry wench would walk into the door, I would pull out a book from my man-purse and read like it was an impromptu men’s reading group, called “Prose over Hoes.” I would read, “…and at that point I knew we were no longer little girls…but little women,” my voice trailing off in a fit of emotion as a single tear runs down my cheek. A burly lumberjack named Biff, with a pension for tattoos, motorcycle rallies, and 1920’s French Impressionist Cinema would grab a Kleenex to wipe a tear.
Of course this never happened, and when the butch woman with a bourbon-slur came in the door she called the nice stripper a dirty whore. She created such a scene as her husband tried to lead her out of the bar. I decided it was time for me to leave.
My sister-in-law Kirsten, picked me up and we went out to see some local live music, being the fact that my brother, David had to work all weekend. At this point, I was already pretty sauced from dealing with Biff, my thoughts, beautiful silicon, and many microbrews. We tried to see a band called the “Helio Sequence” but the concert was sold-out. We then proceeded to go to four different bars, like a drunken “Taste of Seattle” or Martha Stewart Living “Beer Bongs.” We managed to stay out until 2:00 when the bars shutdown. I was sitting at a bar stool talking to this hard-living looking woman in her late fifties who was surprisingly a philosophy professor who graduated from Brown, when a wiry old biker comes up and picks up my ¾’s full hefeweizen and chugs it in one gulp. The professor said, “Hey Chuck that’s not my beer, it’s this man’s!” The biker was very apologetic but I decided to add my two cents.
“You don’t have to piss all over her!” I said.
Now what I meant to say, in my drunken state, is that you don’t have to mark your territory. I’m not hitting on your “old lady.”
“I didn’t piss myself!” he replied.
“Hey, don’t be a cheesedick! I’ll get you another beer, man!” the bartender told me.
“You’re a di…, a cheese…, your dick’s made out of cheese!” I mumbled.
Anyway, the biker turned out to be really cool and we ended up talking about Southern rock the rest of the night.
I’m catching a red-eye to Dallas tonight and I start training at the Dallas office tomorrow. I’ve already lost one hour to daylight savings, now I’m going to lose two more from time zones. Anyway, the weather’s quite lovely.
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