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.