Replace “back injury” with “black guy” and all situations revolving spinal displacement suddenly turn into issues of race.
When I’m in a bad mood and people try to get me out of it by wishing for me to have a good day I make a visible effort to run my day into the ground. I accept your challenge to have a terrible day in spite of your misplaced tidings of kindness. I do not wish to sleep this evening for tonight I shall be buried.
My girlfriend was angry with me for waking up at 1 pm.
Her: I’ve been dealing with this for eight months.
Me: Nine months. And I would have woken up at ten if you had told me Amy Winehouse died.
Her: We deserve McDonald’s.
She didn’t actually say that. But it makes the story happier.
What’s the Worst That Could Happen?
-What you want to happen won’t happen and you’ll get hurt.
-Nobody will appreciate your effort.
-Due to a minor unforseen oversite that could have been stygmied by a minute’s worth of self-review, you and everybody you love or have loved –assuming you don’t hate them now–dies in front of your eyes as you die in front of theirs– and they know you are to blame. And you know you are to blame. Everybody you have ever disliked immediately learns from your folly and becomes rich and successful by excelling at everything you ever accomplished and, more importantly, everything you couldn’t. They live until they grow bored.
Start a business kidnapping lesbians and putting them in the back of my truck. We’ll call it Edward’s Scissor Vans.
No monetization plans.
Afraid of getting Carpal Tunnel sydrome. When I play Xbox my fingers make more clicks and clacks than a starving african child.
The neighbors are getting suspicious of me. I probably had it coming though, building a huge watch tower in my backyard and everything. Well, that my constant playing of my “Halloween Sounds and Frights” playlist.
And the lions.
I mean, they have every reason to be suspicious but they shouldn’t be staring at me in the backyard. It’s downright creepy. A guy should be able to perform his ritualistic sacrifices in peace sometimes. My cult friends and I were filming a simple gladiator match to send to Johnny Knoxville for the next season of Jackass the other day and the neighbors called the cops on us for being too loud. Um, I’m sorry, but I can’t control my friends’ screams of pain.
Don’t blame all of them though…Dave was really loud. He was the loudest, actually; he kept screaming, “SHOOT IT! JUST SHOOT THE FUCKING LION!”. Dave must have forgotten that guns would have been anachronistic in a Gladiator-like setting and would have been out of place and it would have been louder than his screams of pain and anguish. Maybe if I had a silencer…but those cost money… eh. Maybe next time.
The fireworks must be pissing them off too, but I don’t know why. Fireworks are beautiful. The police said that my neighbors had little children, but wouldn’t that just be a benefit to me? Kids love fireworks. Except deaf kids. But in respect to that, nobody loves deaf kids; they never listen.
Sometimes I’ll sit up in the tower and watch my neighbors– who are watching me. They think they’re getting the last laugh, but they aren’t: I have cameras monitoring their house. So even when the neighbors are watching me I’m watching them– in person and on my 40 inch monitor. That’s like watching them twice as much as they watch me.
Maybe I should call the cops on them. That’d be a treat. I’ll just say they’re invading my privacy by constantly watching me.
Hm. Forty inches… Brb, I think I know what kind of movie looks really good on a 40 inch screen and sounds like four guys anally penetrating Jessica Drake.
This acid’s tight.
Shit. Oh shit. Katy’s coming back home on Sunday. I got a text from her this morning.
She knows. She has to know I cheated on her.
Oh shit. Shit man. That’s all I can think about right now. Shit. Don’t you think it’s all shit— made the banner on my cell phone say shit because that’s all I ever say when I pull out that piece of shit shit unlock now press start to unlock shit— it’s all shit shit shit— bull-fucking your mother shit— all of it is dog shit. Buckets of shit painted on shit tasting like dog shit gas shitty mileage shitty jetta no money for gas or shit or money for wiping my ass when I shit so maybe I’ll just fill up a bathtub with horse shit and laser shooting shit that I can tattoo on my shit together just to make sense of all the shit raining down upon the shitforest canopy that houses all the creepy butt-fucking monkeys I’d seriously rather pick up donkey shit with my mouth for less than minimum wage just to leave y shitting job. Quite shitting literally. I hate it I hate it I hate it.
Shit, Katy, again. Shit shit shit shit shit I hate it I hate it I hate it getting pulled over by a shitty cop city cop chop shop can’t just find that registration Officer Cunt Popsicle I mean it fuck you and your shit catering job face I hate my obnoxious face and the shitty mirror image I’m stuck with bullshitting your bullshit and
Nobody but Katy can help me with my shit but that’s good and gone because her shit is good and better than my shit because I’m a shitty cheater
I have to tell somebody.
I mean it fuck you she’s the shit I care about mostly because our cats are shit ain’t shit to love because they crap all over the hallways walk down and Katy is allergic to them but I don’t get to say my shit because I’m a wreckless wreckful reckless back of the most pungent shit ever removed from an ass as cavernous and rank as they come just some cold shit getting fried up for breakfast but I’m just shitting you because I didn’t eat breakfast I didn’t eat lunch I didn’t do dinner and it’s cold my nutsack must have withdrawn up to my liver that shit can’t filter shit for shit since I drank too much in high school and early college and now my stingy ass can’t even pull himself together for the girl he loves because he’s trapped under his shit and in the the person the shit starts to take a personality of its own until all I all I all I until all I really want to fucking know is what is going on and does a bear fucking shit in the woods or not?
Another one of Morgan’s parties. This one was the celebration of Christmas or Summer solstice— whichever would have been more appropriate for tonight. Goddamn, I am drunk. Everybody was there, again— except for the Mexican girls that work at the Panda Express.
And I had to go to Morgan’s party this time. It was either that or sleep in my car. Well, I’d sleep in my car anyways but Chaz-hands said the chinchillas had fleas so he had to bug bomb Apartment J last night.
I didn’t notice the fleas, but then again, I didn’t notice our place was being bug bombed until I was laying in bed and Chaz-hands called my cell phone. And did you know that we have chinchillas? I had no ideas we had chinchillas until yesterday. I thought they were cats.
What a party, though. Just a frickin’ hootenanny to end all hootenannies. Didn’t get laid— again— but I was the guy who cock-blocked himself this time, so it should be understandable. Still got a blowjob, though.
Oh, yeah. I guess I cheated on Katy.
This party was different and not just because there were no high schoolers or failed Disney stars present; this time Morgan had a boyfriend. And this time the two of them were fighting.
“Go fuck yourself,” she yelled.
“You’re a retarded bitch,” he yelled. What was his name again? Oh yeah, it was Carl. Yes, in this day and age where everybody is going deaf and blind from facebook, smartphones, and loud music, Carl was still able to keep the fact he had two girlfriends a secret from each other.
“I’m kind of seeing Morgan,” he told me in the car before we got there. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“I’m not going to say anything to Jay,” I said. Carl lifted a balled fist. “Or Morgan.”
“Good,” he said.
“You have to do me a favor, though,” I said.
“What is it bro?”
“I’m drunk,” I told him, speeding through a red light. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Anyways, back to the party:
“What have I done wrong?” Morgan asked.
“You’re being loud and retarded and so are your friends,” he said.
“It’s the Fourth of July,” she said.
“That doesn’t matter; you’re being embarassing,” he said.
“It’s my house,” she said.
“You’re stupid when you’re drunk, regardless of where you are.”
“You’re being a dick and you won’t even drink with me.”
“I’m going to be taking shots of Malibu soon you fucking retard.”
“You’re the retard who takes shots of Malibu, dick.”
This went back and forth for, quite literally, an hour. I sat and watched most of the time in between taking shots of Carl’s Malibu. The man had none left by the time he walked out.
“Fuck this and fuck you, bitch,” he said, leaving through the front door.
“He’s being a dick,” we all told her in all the ways people can— in between sobs.
“I just,” she paused, “need a cigarette and a beer,” she said. I had both ready— for myself, sure, but I wasn’t going to let my selfishness get in the way of my selfishness. In fact, I was going to use it to my advantage.
I flashed a beer and my box of cigs. “Lets go,” I said.
And what can I say— opportunity strikes when the iron’s hot on the door.
“I like him but I don’t love him,” Morgan told me on the patio. It was just the two of us— none of the other savages.
“There’s a reason you’re so broken up about this, though,” I said.
“Okay, so maybe I love him a little. But still…” she trailed off.
“He’s nice, I mean, he can be a nice guy,” I lied through the smoke.
“But why does he have to be such a dick?”
“We’re guys. It’s a communication thing.”
“But he’s such a dick.”
“Sure he is,” I said, wanting to tell her about the crack-apple incident and the fact that he was cheating on her. Or, rather, with her.
“You’re such a good friend, Chuck,” she said, squeezing my free hand (that should have had a beer in it). Here it goes, I thought. This is my in.
Most guys think the friend zone exists. Well, let me tell you: it doesn’t. Because if it did then that friendly squeeze would have been the end of this post. But it’s not, so it isn’t.
We talked some more. And then danced. And then danced some more. And then made out. And then made out some more. And then blowjobbed.
“What about my boyfriend,” she said in between fatty slurps.
“What about him?” I said. After all, what about him? He’s cheating on her and— spoiler alert— they’re still together after all this. I’d tell Jaye but this is her first boyfriend and she’s a mormon; I can’t shit all over her. Somebody else can do that for her. Somebody like Carl or Carl.
I needed to keep her from stopping the suckfest. So I made her feel comfortable: “What about my girlfriend?”
Gosh, I forgot to mention Todd was at the party before all of this. Doesn’t matter how many phone calls you ignore— it’s hard to ignore a person in person without being blind, deaf, or Phil. Todd was in the backyard, nursing a beer in a Canadian chaise lounge. And I when I saw him it was too late to pretend I didn’t.
“Sup, Todd,” I said.
It was really boring. We caught up on stuff that wasn’t me getting a conejob— mostly because neither of us knew I was about to get a conejob. And speaking of smoking pole, Todd had been in contact with Leo.
“This guy called me last night and offered me a five finger discount with his mouth.”
“Yeah I gave your phone number to a drug dealer.”
Todd laughed it off. He thought I was joking. Good, now I can tell him the rest of the truth: “Dude, I just ignore your phone calls because you’re an annoying pussy zombie.”
Todd kept laughing.
“Even more so,” I said, “I just hate your fucking guts and want you dead. You’re just an intellectually vanquished vegetable of a person. I forgot about you until just this moment when I thought about all of the people that I’m glad will never remember who I was in high school. May your dull, insipid life continue until at least the first reunion. You may be unable to hear all of us make fun of you behind your back since you’ll probably be stuffing as many dicks into your face as possible five years from now, but may you shine your brightest until then.”
Todd stopped laughing.
“You may ask yourself “why would somebody say that about me”. I’m saying it about you because I can’t say it to you. Saying something directly to your face would put any man at risk of contracting HPV. And we’re only supposed to carry it.”
And then I realized Todd was there. I meant to say that on my blog and not directly to his face.
Anyways, back to getting my gherkin slurped.
“How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie-Pop?” I whispered into Morgan’s ear.
“Mffw,” she tried.
“Don’t stop sucking, just tell me how many goddamn licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie-Pop.”
That’s right, baby, I thought. We’re mining for tonsils tonight..
After my turn in the barrel, Carl came storming into the party around 11PM after most people had gone home. He had Morgan’s phone with him.
“This bitch— this retarded bitch has been cheating on me,” he announced to me, Morgan, and Littlefoot.
“What are you talking about?” she said.
Carl threw a cell phone down on the ground.
“She’s been texting somebody all night!” he screamed.
“Where’s the proof then?” Morgan asked.
Carl looked down at the smashed to bits phone on the ground. He said nothing. He just started to tear up.
“Carl,” I said, “Was that phone all the proof you had?”
He looked like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cry or vomit.
“Carl,” I said, “Was that your phone?”
He nodded his head, covering his mouth with one of his slimy cheating hands.
“Carl,” I said, “Did you just break your phone?”
He nodded again.
Carl, in a fit of drunkenness, thought that he had Morgan’s phone and that Morgan all the scandalous text messages on the phone were hers. But, in all actuality, he had his phone andhe was the one sending scandalous text messages out. He was that drunk.
“I’m taking Carl home,” I told Morgan. I sobered up with a couple of bowls and we went on our way, nary a word the rest of the night from Morgan, Carl, or Littlefoot.
Katy can’t find out about this. I almost want to drink so much more…or smoke more…Just enough to forget about this so I can’t find out about this in the morning. What was I thinking? I love Katy. I’m not over a relationship with her; I’m just unhappy with it right now. I can’t let something that was like fucking a grapefruit get in the way of our relationship. By the way, getting a blowjob from Morgan was kind of like fucking a grapefruit, I guess.
Goddammit. Nobody can find out about this. Goddammit.
And we haven’t even finished bug-bombing but I don’t give a shit– I need to sleep in my own bed tonight. This morning. Whatever.
This is the first thing I ever wrote. I was kicked out of my house for writing it. I regret everything.
The scratching on my window was growing louder. It had woken me up, but I didn’t think twice about it. Maybe it was just a bird doing stupid bird things. But the scratching was becoming irritating. It became clear to me: something had to be done about the bird.
The girl that I had been sleeping with. I had just noticed her. Her name escapes me even today, but she was beautiful. Luscious breasts, long, blond hair, tall, silky smooth skin. She was the perfect specimen of beauty. A creation of some other being than God– she was too beautiful to be created by Him. With her head on my chest, sleeping soundly, I knew I had done my job last night– I had obviously banged the living shit out of her.
Whispering in her ear, “Honey, can I take care of that bird?” elicited no response from her. So I poked her. No movement. She wasn’t dead or anything like that but the night hadn’t treated her body too well, apparently. Neither had I. I sat up and looked out the window to get a look at my irksome avian friend.
A man was scratching my window. The man was sickly pale, sporting stringy and long black hair, with bags under his eyes. He was wearing a ripped t-shirt, and there was a lot of blood staining through the chest area. His arms seemed to be bulging with veins– crossing every which way, making him look as if he had colored his veins on his skin with purple marker. They eyes were bloodshot. Everything immediately became clear:
I was on an awesome LSD trip. Or this guy was. Either way, one of us was totally fucked up. I had never taken LSD before and probably didn’t even mean to but the box social I had attended the evening before was a bit of a mess; everyone was buttfucking each other and taking pills.
The man stopped scratching. He howled into the sky, spitting blood up. He paused. I took a second to breathe. This is some good shit, I thought.
Suddenly the window exploded inward into my room, covering the rug surrounding my bed with shards of glass. The man had bashed the window in with his head and was now lying three feet away from me, howling in pain. He stood up, scrambling to find his balance, still screeching something horrible. There was glass in his eye. But he didn’t pull it out. It became apparent to me that I wasn’t on LSD. That man might have, but I definitely wasn’t, because I’m pretty sure regular household objects like chairs and lamps try to eat you when you’re on LSD and not other people who are on LSD.
Obviously I was dealing with a zombie.
The zombie– this waste of human flesh– jumped at me, mouth agape He was trying to bite me. In one swift movement I hopped out of bed and pushed the girl towards him.She could buy me some time to get to my closet, I thought. Her head met his and he was knocked to the floor again, with her almost lifeless and naked body pinning him down. I rushed to the closet. Slamming the door open, I looked to the ground– no shotgun. Where had I put it?
I remembered what my mother had told me the day before she was taken from me by the gestapo. “Charlie, I left the shotgun in your sock drawer”. Those words always haunted me, but they now made sense: the bitch moved my fucking gun. Within three seconds my sock drawer was open and my shotgun had been procured.
Cocking the gun, I ran over to the girl and zombie and pushed her off of him. “I’ll show you,” I said, cocking my gun, “to wake me up at eleven in the morning you dirty chicken rapist.” I jammed my foot deep into the zombie’s chest. My foot sank deep into his chest cavity. He let out a painful howl. I cocked my gun and aimed at his head.
“Die, cunt!”. I pulled the trigger. The blast destroyed his head completely. Blood was everywhere. My ears were ringing. I was still naked.
The girl was sprawled on the floor near my bed. She was starting to awaken. Something told me that the shotgun blast was her alarm clock for the day. She got on her knees and tried getting up. While she was in this position I was starting to get some deja vu. The girl had been on her knees in my presence before. It took nearly a minute for her to get up without my help.
She turned to me as she sat up, but still slouching. Her eyes wandered to my penis, then to my six-pack. I was getting eye-fucked. She looked into my gorgeous eyes and stammered out, “How did I get here?”
I told her that it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that we get the fuck out of there. She seemed unhappy with the answer I gave her, so I pointed at the zombie.
“Oh,” she said, “Holy shit, you killed a guy”.
“I think he was dead before I killed him, if that makes any sense,” I replied.
“It doesn’t, but it’ll do for an answer I guess. Hi, my name is Jessica,” she said, going for a handshake. I wanted to tell her that a handshake wasn’t the proper reward for saving a life– a hand job was. But in an amazing moment of clarity, I just bit my tongue instead.
“Hi, my name is Charlie,” I responded, walking over to my closet. “Would you like some clothes?” I picked a bra and some jeans from my closet and tossed it to her.
“Nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said. She started to dress in front of me. I put on the t-shirt and jeans I had been wearing the night before. I knew they were from the night before because of the vomit stains on the shirt and the ketchup stains on the crotch part of the jeans. Don’t ask.
After we dressed, we stared at the headless body lying near the window. “What should we do with it?” she asked.
“Something tells me we should take it outside, but could you do me a favor and turn on the news?” She fumbled with the remote sitting on my night stand.
“How do I–” she said
You have to change inputs, so hit INPUT” I said.
“Alright I’m doing that but it’s not working.”
“Hit TV and then INPUT or else it won’t work.”
“Alright I did that.”
“Then why isn’t my TV on?”
“Maybe the cable isn’t on. I’ll hit CABLE and then POWER and then TV and then POWER.”
“Yeah that’s fine but you still need to change inputs on the TV on and then hit INPUT so it switches to that input.”
“I’ll change inputs and then turn the TV.”
Michelle was obviously retarded. I snatched the remote away from her and turned on the news.
“Fox News, Charlie?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “What were you expecting?”
“Something not shit,” she retorted.
“You may be gorgeous but I have a gun. You have tits. One of these things can save us from zombies and one of these things can get in the way of lifting heavy objects. I’d like you to take a guess and shut the fuck up.”
She was silent. I had won the battle. The truth was that I trusted CNN just as much as Fox, but Fox was closer to Cinemax, so I watched it more often.
The television showed me what I feared most: total chaos. Talk of satellites, disease, and secret government experiments littered the screen. They all pointed to the same thing: zombies.Undead, they called them. We were warned to stay inside, not attempt to contact loved ones. I laughed. My cell phone provider was Verizon; I couldn’t contact my family even if I had wanted to. Or loved them.
I heard sirens in the neighborhood. “We’re staying in, Amanda,” I said. I struck on one of my pecs and lit a cig. “It’s going to be a long weekend, Jane. Strap in and get ready for the ride of your life.” I think the line was from a movie. That’s why I said it. I don’t even smoke, but I knew I looked really cool when I did it.
I am currently in a closet with a laptop writing this. I shall write to you tomorrow and update you on what happened the rest of the day. Possibly even what happens tomorrow as well, if I survive.
I hope you all make it through the night.
I’m downstairs in the kitchen in a pool of my own blood. I know it’s my own blood because it tastes like type AB. Janessa, the girl I woke up to yesterday, is gone. Where she went is anyone’s guess.
We used tables, chairs, anything to block off the windows and doors yesterday. Luckily, I had a seemingly infinite supply of nails and screws to take care of all of it. And power tools. Don’t remember buying those, but then again, who cares. This is my zombie experience.
We went to sleep very late. After nailing things to walls, killing a zombie, and losing the remote, Shawnee knew I was a man. We slept together, but we didn’t have sex. I didn’t have a condom, and the only reason I didn’t use one the night before was because it was her first time and everyone knows you can’t get pregnant the first time.
We both awakened in the afternoon. The sun was shining through my blinds. An actual bird woke me up this time. The first thought that went through my head was that everything had been a dream. But I turned the television on and saw even more wanton destruction. It seemed that the zombies’ numbers were growing. My area was relatively safe, but if the zombies ever broke into a jog instead of that pussy little limp dragging shit that they do, my whole entire community was going to be screwed.
Mary sat up, “Charlie, you’re my hero”. She smiled. I could tell that she was in love with me.
“I enjoy sandwiches too, Cheryl,” I said. It seemed like a subtle tip-off: If she wanted to be with me, she was going to have to make delicious sandwiches for me. In return, I would show mild interest in her. Maybe make some fleeting eye contact. She hopped out of bed and I gave her a little pat on the butt, “Chop chop”.
Ten minutes later, I heard a scream. “She better bring it to me in bed,” I muttered. But it soon became apparent that the screaming wasn’t a beckoning call to the downstairs table, but a call for help.
I cocked my shotgun. I hurried down the stairs, yelling for her to shut the fuck up. If she kept screaming, well, it would then confirm that she wasn’t just being a total bitch. Of course, she kept screaming. I cocked the gun.
“Freeze!” I yelled. There Christina was, butter knife in hand, going face to face with a zombie. I cocked my gun and started to scream and yell at the zombie. This did nothing for Jane’s case, however, as the zombie seemed to have hearing problems. Cocking my gun, I charged at him. “I said shut the fuck up!” I yelled, hitting the zombie over the head with my shotgun. The butt of the gun lodged in his brain. “Throw me the knife!” I called to the buxom blond beauty.
She tossed me the butter knife. I attempted to catch it, but her breasts must have thrown her off because I didn’t catch the knife. Don’t give me shit about that being my fault.
This terrible throw only put me in even more rage. In one swift movement, I balled my right hand into a fist and thrust it towards the zombie’s head. My fist penetrated the zombie’s forehead. I opened my hand and ripped its brain out. The zombie went limp but I, but I kept my hand in its head, held high above the ground. I kicked the zombie in the stomach and the gun became dislodged as the zombie fell Single-handed, I cocked the gun, flipped it around, and shot it in the head. Blood sprayed everywhere, creating a mess that my housekeeper was going to have “mucho funno” cleaning on Monday.
I bellowed a battle-cry, “Weeee!” and tore a piece of brain with my mouth, swallowing only to take another bite. Avery was slack-jawed. She wasn’t used to this shit.
“You’re not used to this shit, eh Melinda?” I inquired. I already knew the answer before she even said it.
“My name is Jessica, asshole,” she said. She was obviously unhappy.
“It’s not nice to call the guy who saved you from a zombie an asshole, cunt.”
“That wasn’t a zombie, fuck bucket,” she replied.
“Then who was it?”
I started to go dizzy. “You just ate my father’s fucking brains,” she said, “you just killed him.” Everything was getting darker. No way this was happening. “I was screaming in joy,” she said. How could this happen? How could this girl just back-talk to me like that?
I passed out.
And here I am now, Day 2 of this zombie invasion not even over. Reader, I hope you get this before it’s too late and send help. I’m hearing scratching and moaning, and my parents are on vacation so it surely can’t be them. The television is still blaring upstairs. Sirens grow louder. There’s only so much more of this shit I can take.
The shooting has stopped. The bombs have finished falling. The Sun is coming out again. I mean, the Sun was never really gone. It goes away at night, but that’s a given. Zombies had nothing to do with the Sun being gone for an extended period of time is what I meant to say.
When I woke up this morning I was in the hospital. I wasn’t in a room however– I mean– Christ. Fucking semantics.
Okay, I was in the bathroom. I don’t fucking know why I was but I was. There was an I.V. connected to my right arm, and somebody (or maybe something) had placed a blue wool blanket on me. There was cold pee on the blanket. I know it was pee.
You can always tell when it’s pee.
Crawling up a full-sized mirror, I looked at myself. Here I was, using a pee-covered blanket to keep warm in a hospital bathroom. Zombies have killed everyone. I would never met another human-being again. This was it. I looked in the mirror.
I looked like shit. My left eye was swollen, a cut on my forehead looked too real– too clean– to be fake. No bite marks though, that’s what matters.
It’s now dawned on me that nobody in the entire world will experience the joy of being tickled ever again.
Wish a clean swing of my right fist, the dirty mirror I was standing before shattered. Glass skittered everywhere. Some of it stayed in my knuckle.
“Dinner”, I said aloud.
The entire hospital was empty, much like a movie set. But in the interest of ending this, I heard a noise coming from the 24th floor. It must have been a television. I ran to the room I assumed the television was in. A television was on. It was a rerun of Lizzie McGuire. At this point, I lost all semblance of sanity. I had screamed for help, but it was useless. There was nobody around for miles that didn’t want to taste my dirty-as-fuck sunburned flesh. And then a way out of finishing this story appeared.
A nurse came rushing in. She was good-looking, no doubt about it, but she also seemed to be worn down. Her hair was a blond and stringy mess. Her lipstick smeared on her face.
A bite mark on her arm.
I ripped the I.V. out of my arm, because I never mentioned taking it out earlier. Blood fountained everywhere. The nurse charged at me. Thinking fast, I jumped over a hospital bed to a nearby window and sprayed it with blood. The zombie nurse sprang forward over the bed… and out the window. Shattered glass littered the inside of the room as I heard her final call, “Preciousssssssss!” These things are like fucking animals, I swear.
Another nurse came in. This one wasn’t an Undead Warrior, I could tell. Don’t really know why I had a hard time telling with the other nurse, but whatever. My story, not yours. Anyways, she walked in laughing to herself.
“You think that was fucking funny?” I yelled, “Do you know how much of this zombie bullshit I’ve dealt with in the past, what is it, four days?” The nurse kept laughing. “I’m not afraid to kill you,” I screamed, “I’ll push your ass out of this goddamn window just like that zombie!”
The nurse stopped laughing. She was still smiling as she said, “That bitch was some retard from the mental ward! We let her dress up as a nurse! HA HA HA!”
We both laughed together. The music started to kick in and the lights dimmed. We were still laughing as I poured the two of us glasses of some bubbly. She began to undress.
She unbuttoned her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra, so every button was just another step closer to glory. Six buttons and her shirt was open. Her breasts were full, definitely size D’s. She pulled off her skirt. She wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“How do you like my shaved pussy?” she asked. I nodded my head. Words weren’t needed for this. The nurse walked over to me and started to rub me. “You’re hard,” she said. No shit, this was fucking awesome, I thought.
She started to kiss me, all tongue. Before I knew it, all of my clothes were off. She jumped in the hospital bed. her legs were wide open, her mouth gaping.
“Ohhhh Charlieeeeee, fuck me pleaaaaaaaase! Fuck me rawwwwwwwww. Give it to my pussy baby oh baby baby. Yesss”
Just as I was about to jump on top of the nurse, the music stopped. We both heard a small bump. Then a large one. A zombie burst through the middle of the bed, its body ripping through the nurse’s torso. One hand was up as he held her heart like some prized trophy.The other hand was holding part of her spinal cord, torn from a formerly fine piece of ass.
The nurse didn’t even have enough time to scream. I cocked my cock and said the only thing I could: “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? WHAT THE FUCK MAN? DID YOU HAVE TO WAIT FOR HER TO BE NAKED BEFORE YOU STARTED TEARING THROUGH HER GODDAMN BODY LIKE FUCKING ALIEN? NOW I’VE GOT BLUE BALLS, JESUS FUCK. “
The blast from my unit decapitated the zombie. Game over.
It wasn’t until a pencil hit me in the back of the head that I realized I was in class.
Yelling and screaming about fucking nurses fucking zombies fucking me.
The teacher looked at me, awestruck. “What did you just say?” he asked, all negative-like.
There was no use lying. “I said WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? WHAT THE FUCK MAN? DID YOU HAVE TO WAIT FOR HER TO BE NAKED BEFORE YOU STARTED TEARING THROUGH HER GODDAMN BODY LIKE FUCKING ALIEN? NOW I’VE GOT BLUE BALLS, JESUS FUCK, sir.”
A little girl was crying in the seat behind me. Oh no. I had fallen asleep as a Teacher’s Assistant at the local preschool.
Children were throwing up everywhere.
One kid was repeatedly hitting his head against the desk. “Why is he doing this to us?” cried the child. “What did we do wrong?”
“I’m, uh, going to go now,” I said.
I walked out of the room, out of the school, into my car. Everything was fine. It was all a dream. Sure, I was going to get charged with sexual harassment, but it’s better than being eaten by a zombie.
Or a retarded nurse.
Lets be honest:
Don’t you like it when people say “lets be honest”, “I’m being honest here”, and “honestly”? I do. I do so very, very much. What it does is let me know that everything the person was saying before they say the phrase was complete and utter dog shit. You think you’re getting on a more personal level with somebody when you say that? It just pushes us smart people away. We smart people know better than to trust somebody that ever uses the word “honest” in reference to what they are saying.
We smart people.
Honestly though, seriously,
I love that too, the Seriously Thing. It’s [usually] a pointless reaffirmation of something that was being taken seriously in the first place.
-[While I’m on it, we need to get rid of second place. Second place has always been considered the first loser and this kind of negativity in America can only serve to hurt our childrens’ and athletes’ morals. And it’s a fucking downer. You always feel bad for second place because theyalmost made it. Third place came in last by at least 10 points and never stood a chance. Not to mention they get bronze, which is really just a darker, dirtier gold. For more information on our society’s deplorable use of second place, see the phenomenon of sloppy seconds.]
“Seriously” is always said before something that should be taken seriously in the first place. It’s always something like “Seriously, the cancer is spreading to my asshole” or “Seriously, I can’t believe he hasn’t even gotten to the point of this blog thing yet” which are two Seriously Things that I’ve recently heard. I’ve yet to hear it before something that actually warrants a “seriously”, however. It’s never “Seriously, a clown finger-bangs me in my sleep” or “Seriously, fix the cankles you fat sack of shit”. These are great examples of proper “seriously” use and should be used as a reference from this point forward.
We’re all adults here, so we’ve all dealt with this: The guy whose last name is “Wiener”. Somewhere around the time we stopped calling our collective wiener a wiener, we stopped remembering that people with the last name “Wiener” have given all of us a gift: the gift of laughter. Wiener is the funniest word in the dictionary, bar-none. Find me a word funnier than wiener and I’ll show you my—never mind. Forget it. Point is, people like example-guy Joseph Wiener have been receiving our kindness and sensitivity towards his last name for far too long. Joe Wiener goes to bed at night knowing that people aren’t going to make fun of his last name because that isn’t what adults do, apparently. Adults don’t make fun of other peoples’ last names, but why?
Your last name is euphemism for a dong, and it’s the funniest thing in the world, Joe Wiener. You need to be reminded of this each and every day because it is one of the few givens in the world that could make any person smile. This name holds you back from everything you want to be, Joe, and you know it. Joe, when you ask your girlfriend “Who’s your daddy?” in bed, does she scream “JOE WIENER. JOE WIENER IS MY DADDY”. No, because you don’t ask questions like that in the sack because your last name is Wiener. Joe Wiener can’t google his name at work because he runs the risk of getting fired. Joe Wiener would like to become a CEO at some point but can’t because he will run the risk of getting the job and then getting “Mr. Wiener” engraved on his door. So very formal. Really, the only last name that could be funnier than “Wiener” is “Poop”. So this one’s to you, James Poop, wherever you are. Everybody might be adult enough about the last name Wiener, but your last name is Poop, and that’s hilarious.
James Poop. ahahahaha. So rich.
Anybody who knows me knows that my favorite thing in the world is the movie Crank. And anybody who knows me also knows that my second favorite thing in the world is its sequel, Crank: High Voltage. When Jason Statham brought his most believable hitman to screen back in 2006 I was blown away, partly because I hadn’t seen a Transporter movie and partly because I thought Jason Statham made being a hitman believable. The other part? Probably some pent up homosexuality that my therapist neglected to inform me about.
Nonetheless, since 2009’s Crank: High Voltage, we’ve heard nought of another sequel. I’ve since given up on directors Neveldine/Taylor bringing Chev Chelios back to life on the silver-screen. But I haven’t given up on that dream. Then again, I still think Amanda Bynes is going to live to see the New Year, so maybe you should go back to reading something else on the internet.
The next movie in the series should be called Crank 3: Burn Notice, and that’s because, well, Chev Chelios lit himself on fire at the end of the second movie. I can’t really remember why he lit himself on fire but it was simulatenously equal parts badass and awfully badass. Anyways, the Crank movies all involve Chev Chelios needs to continually abuse his body. In the first movie he only has a day to live because he has been injected with “Chinese synthetic shit” that will slow his heart down to a complete stop. So what he does to surive is he drinks a bunch of red bull and does coke in a whore-house. And then he then kills the motherfucker who poisoned him whilst falling to his death from a helicopter. In the second movie, Chev is still alive and has to continually electrically shock himself because his heart has been replaced by an, uh, artificial one. This is elegant story-telling.
Pictured: Cinema at its most elegant. Fucking peerless.
So in the third movie, Chev needs to keep setting himself on fire. Take that concept and throw in Jason Statham gratiuitously calling everybody a cunt and everybody else screaming “Fucking Chelios” and you’ve got yourself this summer’s next blockbuster because it’s only August 16th and these movies can be shot and edited on a cellphone in a matter of minutes. Oh, and it’s going to be in 3D. Crank 3D.
But then that leaves the question of yet another sequel. Where do we go from there? The answer is Crank 4: Son of Crank (although the marketing guys will call it Cr4nk because they are paid good money). That movie ends with Jason Statham riding the El Niño, howling to the moon, “Release the Cranken!” before killing the moon. Screen fades to black. I haven’t figured out a gimmick for keeping Chev alive in this movie just yet, but rest-be-assured that Jason Statham will be getting too old to be in movies by the time of its release so maybe mediocre CGI will be the thing keeping him from at least looking like he’s on the brink of death.
Then we have The Bride of Crankenstein. Chev Chelios has disappeared but his girlfriend Eve– now played by Michelle Rodriguez– must follow his footsteps. She dies soon and everybody gets to go home early.
There won’t be a Crank 6 because we already said what we needed to say with the first five Crank movies. That won’t stop us from making Crank 7, which will be a reboot. The marketing guys are throwing around The Dark Crank Rises and Crank Almighty, in which Jason Statham becomes God and relies on antiquated beliefs to remain immortal and call everybody a cunt.
Of course, what good is a series of movies without spin-off TV shows and obtusely related tie-in products? Don’t worry: a partnership with Pepsi-Cola will bring movie-goers the chance to get hyped up on Mountain Crank and Diet Mountain Crank while waiting in line at Wal-Mart to get the direct-to-DVD holiday movie It’s A Wonderful Crank. Pepsi-Cola took a pass on sponsoring the spin-off Million Dollar Crank, however, mostly because it is a porno and not about boxing on drugs.
Finally, we want to bring Crank to television audiences weekly. And we’ll do it in two flavors. First, we’ll have history’s first spin-off of a tv show that is also a combined spin-off of a movie. That dream will be realized as Crank & Order. The premise: in the criminal justice system, the worst criminal offenders are pursued not by members of an elite squad but by Jason Statham hopped up on Red Bull and coke. These are their stories.
And then we’ll have an educational show for children. I haven’t thought about what we’ll call it yet (we have an excellent marketing team, yet we don’t have lawyers that can help us get away with Sesame Crank) but it needs to have the feeling of a Crank movie whilst carrying a positive message for kids. Here is an example script:
Doc: You need to drink water to survive, Chevy
Chev: That’s Greek to me, Doc. What are you trying to say?
Doc: Eight glasses a day, motherfucker!
Chev: I’ve gotta go, Doc.
Chev runs out the door and kills everybody, but not before calling them cunts.
And that’s it for Crank. If you want more, however, I know a guy.
Leonard came over after work to sell me some weed, not gay blowjobs— although I’m sure I could have swung one of those in there by the end of our unspectacular transaction. I called Leonard up a couple hours ago and he started to tell me about all the kinds of weed I can buy from him.
“I’ve got all the fatty purps,” he told me, “Afghan Kush, A.K., Alaskan Thunderfuck. Those are just the A’s, too”
“Indo-China Pussy Hash?”
“Tons of it,” he said, which was a little weird because I made that shit up, but I’m a sucker and was pretty much sold at that point.
“Bring some of that shit over,” I said. “Lets talk homework.”
So Leonard came over with a duffel back filled with all types of weed. It was a nice duffel bag and the weed wasn’t too bad either. But more about the duffel bag: it was an old one from my old high school.
“I didn’t know you went to Tesoro,” I said.
“I went for like half a year and then got expelled for selling pot out of this duffel bag.”
“And they let you keep the bag?”
“Sure did. It’s my lucky bag now.”
I don’t consider luck being expelled, but then again I don’t consider luck to be your first drug dealer not named Aaron either. “It’s the little victories, Leonard,” I said, “Good for you.”
Leonard wasn’t nearly as shifty as Aaron 4 but he is still a pretty shifty fuck. All drug dealers are shifty and I was actually hoping he would be on the lower scale of shifty by the end of the drug dealing. But, just as he was leaving, Leonard let something slip that I can’t let go. In fact, I may find another deal because of it:
“Later Leo,” I said as he left Apartment J. “That was a good drug deal,” I said, giving him a low-five.
“Yeah man, no worries,” he said.
“See you at work on Monday— just don’t bring that red duffel bag around.” It was a joke. But he stopped walking at looked at his slung duffel.
“Oh, it’s red?” he asked.
“School colors, broseph,” I said.
“I’m color blind,” he said. And like, be color blind all you want but the bag says “Titan Red” on the fucking side. Holy shit.
“Really?” I feigned, “That’s funny, Leonard.”
Leonard chucked, “I’m not joking though. It sucks.” And off he went. Honestly, I don’t know how I felt hearing Leonard was colorblind; he just spent so much time telling me how the Jamaican Pig-Fuck I bought from him had all the “fatty purps”. That bothered me. But it was the last thing he called out to me from downstairs that really got my goat.
“Hey, if you need a blowjob, give me a call after eleven but before three.”
“I’ll blow you til your dick is red.”
I gave him Todd’s number.
After losing Aaron 4 I’ve had a bit of a hard time finding my own personal dealer of drugs. And after losing Phil I’ve kinda felt less comfortable about chugging robitussen. Can’t really trust that Klaxxon-Smith shit anymore, you know? And all the medical marijuana clinics have been moved out of Lake Forest and Laguna, so I’ve been kinda screwed there.
Leo stopped by my desk today, however, and left me a note. It said “Mr. Nice Guy” and had a phone number listed. “Gimme a call,” he said, “you know, if you’re either into that shit.”
Either he’s trying to sell me pot or it’s gay blowjobs.
Guess I’ll find out tonight.
I broke down today and told Chaz everything; that I’m moving; that Phil died; that I don’t know how to properly use semi-colons.
Everything is better now. He forgives me.
“You can make it up to me,” he said, “by finding us a new drug dealer…”
Nobody but Chaz knows I was there. And you. And I didn’t kill him or anything. I think.
Todd’s calling me. Hold on. Maybe Todd deals drugs now. Not worth picking up the phone to find out, though.
Okay, anyways: Phil died but my mind keeps going to other places. Like, this one time Katy and I were having sex and I called her a whore.
“You whore,” I said.
It wasn’t dirty sex or anything, but Katy was being a whore.
“Don’t—” she said, “don’t call me a whore. I’m not a whore.” I pulled out.
“Dude, you’re having sex with me. Right now.”
“But that doesn’t make me a whore.”
“You were being a whore.”
“What does that mean?”
“You were blowing me not 30 minutes ago.”
“So what,” she said.
“So what,” I said, “So what is that you blew me to the song ‘Caress Me Down’”
Katy wasn’t having any of it. So much for sex the rest of the night— Katy wasn’t much of a slut.
“Baby, I didn’t mean—” she still wasn’t looking at me. “Hey, roll over, slut”. Katy rolled herself back over to look at me.
“Don’t call me a slut, either.”
“You were being one, though.”
“It’s just dirty talk, baby girl.”
“What? No, I couldn’t hear you.”
“It’s just baby talk, dirty girl.”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“I’m making a website about us.”
And then I keep going back to that Alan Thickhole guy. The skeleton in Katy’s closet. Maybe this is the reason I break up with her— I thought it was going to be about the facial hair. That was what this blog was about, originally: it was about how my girlfriend grows better facial hair than me.
“You would never write about that,” she said.
Fine, your next boyfriend can tell you about the mustache, I figured. I only first realized the facial hair thing when my blowjob had a little tickle to it. It was like getting blown by a Super Mario Brother.
Every girlfriend, January is the ringer month for them. Christmas happened and fate has always brought me Libras so by January 1…I’m poor. My last girlfriend said it came out of nowhere. Bitch, I wrote this joke two girlfriends ago.
And she asked me “how long have you feeling this way” and when it comes out of nowhere you never want to answer that question— neither the truth nor a lie will save your poor ass now— you can’t pay rent and your new home just became this corner.
And I just told her, to minimize the damage, “uh, a month or so ago” even though I’d been considering it since my first tickle-me Elmo blowjob. They hate that because even though you tell them something close to the truth you now become a sort of criminal mastermind. To them you planned out every last “I love you”, every kiss, and every conversation you’ve had in the last month like some sort of movie villain.
“Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?” Oh god, I hate hearing that. Followed by “I would have done anything for you. Anything for us.” What is this bullshit. Anything for me? I’ve got three things I don’t want to bring up in this break-up conversation that you won’t do for us:
1) Birth control
“And what’s the third thing?” they say in my head.
“The threesome with your best friend.”
Oh shit, did I say that out loud.
“You didn’t just say that.”
“You asked! I shouldn’t have told you, but those things are awesome. And if it means breaking up with you and rolling the dice with a gutter-snipe or two then so be it.”
I’m friends with none of my exes.
None of them date men anymore either— or boys in my case— that’s fucking the truest thing I’ve put on this website. When I told my therapist this he suggested it had to do with my mom or something. Doctor, don’t suggest Freudian shit in this day and age; you’re a fool. I know I’m pretty much claiming to be the foreman of the magic lesbian factor, but pretty much everybody knows that whole wanting to fuck your mom and kill your dad thing is bullshit. Right?
He’s going to be alright. Everything’s fine. A-OK. Alright alright alright: Phil’s dead. Dead as a dead man is dead. Flip a coin— heads he’s dead and tails he’s dead. Shit; I don’t even have a quarter.
Phil reminded me via text that he needed a ride to work. Since I’m no longer driving Roz I figured I could step it up and pick up that toothless bag of shit-bones. He gave me the address so I went to get him ‘round 5:30 am. Once I got in front of his ramshackle one-story I laid into the horn like a horn rapist would.
But no Phil. I laid into the horn again. It was the Bay of Pigs of horn honking, I’ll tell ya, I’ll tell ya. Horning fucking all over the place. But still no Phil. So I texted him the following:
Phil, I could have masturbated at least twice by now. Get out here.
Five minutes go by with no response, so I tested the theory out. Definitely twice, I learned. And hold your judgment for another day: it’s not like Phil was going to notice he rode in a puddle of semen to work until at least two in the afternoon.
After finishing up I wiped my seed on the passenger head rest, got out of my car, and went up to Phil’s door to wipe off the rest of my jizz on his door knob. I decided to go into the house; I figured, you know, either he’s asleep or I’m at the wrong place. I’ve got nothing left to lose after honking my horn like a psycho and masturbating in the driveway. The least I could do was walk in the house and show the poor Mexican family I had been terrifying for 20 minutes what a complete lack of shame looks like.
The man didn’t even have a doorbell. How Phil of him. I woulda knocked but I didn’t want to get a splinter which would have ruined any chance I had to jerk it before work.
“Knock knock, motherfucker,” I said, pushing the crum shit splintered door right open. There were no lights on. Not good. On the bright side, I thought, now you don’t have to drive Phil to work and be forced to smell his awful offal. To think if I had just turned around then…
The place just reeked of laundry— generally a positive. The house was well-kept, too, which would have been surprising if it wasn’t shit-pants-Phil’s place. Phil’s house wasn’t the complete shit hole I thought it was, but then again I never expected Phil to live in a house.
Should really stop talking shit on a dead guy right now and just get to the part where he’s dead.
No lights on, though, so I just started to kick shit…but not on purpose. It was hard not to kick anything because, as the backlight on my phone showed me, the place was just littered with dildos. Shapes, sizes, battery compartments for AAA’s and D-cells. You could do a google search for dildos and the first three pages would have nothing on this place. Easter Island of dildos— don’t know how they got here or why, but you want to know. And I had to know. And I should have turned around then. I shouldn’t have followed the Hansel and Gretel trail of dildos down the hall to… There was a light on. A room down the hallway was cracked open and its pale, dim light led me towards it.
It was definitely Phil’s place because I opened the door and saw him passed out on the ground, covered in dildos. He’s in a red shirt and army camo shorts. He looks like he just slept in a tree and not on top a throne of dildos.
“Okay, Phil, if you’re still in bed I’m going,” I said, aghast but hardly surprised at the entire situation.
“Goddamn, Phil,” I said “It smells like laundry in here, man.”
Phil rolled himself over. “Hello, Chrishhh,” he slurred.
“Still Charlie, bro. Char-lee. Lets go: it’s time for work,” I said.
“I can’t…can, just— give me a shecond. I’m really drunk,” he said.
“That’s not news but okay,” I said. Phil tried to stand up but collapsed again, grabbing hold of his bed post. “Fuck, dude, you’re schmammered. What did you drink last night?”
“This morning—,” Phil corrected me, “I drank that entire bottle of whiskey.” He pointed a shaky hand toward his bed stand. On it sat a handle of Maker’s Mark. A full bottle of Maker’s Mark.
“Phil,” I asserted, “That bottle isn’t even open.”
“Sure it ish,” he said, “What else could I have drank?”
“Robitussen. Remember the bottle I gave you on Thursday?”
“I remember it wearing off ‘round three AM.”
“And when did you say you started with the whiskey?”
“Jesus, Phil,” I exclaimed, invoking a deity that could not save the man at this point. The man had started drinking while still on his robo-trip. “That’s no way to keep the high going,” I said. And he didn’t start drinking anything…wait. My eyes darted around the room, looking for what Phil could have drank instead of the whiskey. My legs had to stay put, however; I didn’t want to step on anymore dildos.
I really hope this shit isn’t incriminating.
Under Phil’s bed I saw a bottle of bleach on its side. Fuck. No doubt the bottle was empty. I thought about reaching under his bed, but then again, the dildos.
“Phil, have you thrown up?”
He didn’t respond, his left hand still white-knuckled around the bed post.
“Phil?” I said again. Still no response. He just stopped responding forever.
Most people would have performed CPR but Phil didn’t have teeth, so I wasn’t particularly ready to save a guy God gave up on 32 teeth ago.
I went home to write about a man who drowned in a sea of dildos.
1) Is Charlie responsible for the death of his co-worker. And if so— why?
2) Are you familiar with Good Samaritan laws? Was it smart for Charlie to not perform CPR on Phil?
3) Who let the dogs out?
Hey buddy, how’s it going? Honestly, I don’t care, so shut the fuck up. This isn’t one of those ‘o mi gosh i want a pony’ letters. No. I already wrote that letter. Last year in fact. And what did you get me? Honestly, you didn’t seem to care, so shut the fuck up.
There I am, Christmas morning. My mom’s out of work, my father still dead after getting caught in the chimney last year trying to impersonate you. This was supposed to be a great Christmas, since it was the last one I was going to spend with my mother who was dying with cancer at the time (thanks a lot, jackass. She asked for new earrings, not acute t-cell carcinoma). I go downstairs to open my gifts from you and what’s there:
Axxon. Axxon is clearly one of the worst Bionicles to have ever been created by Lego.
“What the fuck, Santa,” I said, under my breath. My mother looked at me.
“Did Santa give you what you wanted this year, honey?” she said, coughing. This was one of her long coughs. We always grew tense when these coughs happened.
“Fuck no, mom,” I said, “I didn’t want Axxon. Axxon is dog shit. I wanted Takutanuva. Not Axxon.”
For reference, Santa, this is Takutanuva:
“I guess Santa,” she paused to cough, “accidentally messed up this year. I’m sorry.” She started to cry.
“Don’t be sorry mom,” I said, “It’s that fat asshole’s fault. Don’t take it out on yourself. Santa’s just a mean old cock sucker for thinking I wanted Axxon. I hope he dies in his sleep.”
There was another box, which I assumed to be an Playstation 3. But was it an Playstation 3? No. It was clothes. Clothes, St. Prick. I wanted to immerse myself in the world of games, but instead I’m getting immersed in itchy cotton and onesies.
What the hell were you thinking? You ruined my last Christmas with mother. You are such an asshole, man. All I wanted was Takutaunuva and a Playstation 3. That would have made me happy. My mom didn’t have enough money to buy me a Playstation 3, so I assumed you would have. You should have. But you didn’t. Nope. My mom spent Christmas crying because I didn’t get the toys I wanted.
And now she’s dead; she took her own life. This is an excerpt from her suicide note:
“I did so much for you and yet you just turned around and called me an asshole and you wanted me to die in my sleep…after all I did?”
So not only did my mom do a whole lot of things for you, but you turn around and give me utter shit for Christmas? Blow me, Santa Claus. Blow me hard.
This is horseshit,
It’s not original to write a whatever this is on status updates on facebook. No, wait. First of all, it’s blazing hot outside and my neighbor is blasting “Mele Keliki Maka” at full volume. It’s not funny Rob. It will never be funny. Rob you fucking idiot, it’s ninety shitting degrees at night. THE SUN ISN’T EVEN OUT YOU CRAZY SHIT.
You guys are doing this facebook status thing wrong. I know it sounds like I’m accusing all of you again for minor discrepancies, but minor discrepancies lead to things like occupational dermatitis, and God knows you don’t know what job can lead to occupational dermatitis. You may already have it.
Don’t update your status about an earthquake when one has just happened. Everybody on your friends list is probably in the same geographical region as you, so they’ll already know an earthquake has happened. They don’t need to be reminded when they go online because it’s hard to forget the world as you know it suddenly shaking back and forth between your very eyes as if you were in an earthquake.
As for the friends outside of your geographical area: They don’t need to know about earthquakes unless you want to share a horrifying experience like that with them via a private telephone conversation. If the quake is major they’ll hear about it from the news so you still don’t even have to update your status. If you’re in an affected area they’ll already assume you weren’t trying to update your status during a 9.7 magnitude earthquake in a computer lab in the basement of your community college. They’ll assume everything is alright and you’re not trapped under fourteen Dells and the entire library.
That E.E. Cummings quote about laughing being good for your soul or some gay shit like that? There’s a time and a place for that quote and the fact of the matter is I don’t even know the time and the place for it. Wedding vows maybe, I don’t know. But keep it away from the internet. This place is a filthy nightmare and there’s something wrong about having such an insightful piece on the healthiness of laughter next to midgets banging hairless donkeys. Whatever’s good left inside you will die the day that happens. On accident. Again.
Oh. My. God. It’s like Final Destination.
What if your status is now God’s Final Judgement? You’ve already made it this far, hear me out for only two more thrusts: You get to the gates of Heaven and Peter’s there and there’s a line and shit but it’s Heaven so like, whatever. I guess, you know? It’s only a couple more minutes. Theme parks were training for this bullshit.
And you get to the front of the line to get into Heaven and Peter’s all tripping balls in your fucking face and goes “Tell me what your last facebook status was.” Shit, and now you’re all pissed because Peter’s an asshole but then you remember that life’s entirety was training for this bullshit. So like, screw this cake fucker. Slap him down with some knowledge.
You give him your answer: “The most wasted of all days is one without laughter. It’s an E.E. Cummings quote.”
Peter gazes down at his magical book of life information. His eyes dart back and forth, searching for information about your life. You don’t say anything because it’s probably been a while since you’ve seen a book. Useless objects, you think. So glad President Obama called for The Burning in 2013. That was so cool, a nation united together, purging themselves of their most inefficient vessels of information while simultaneously giving the finger to the Ozone. Man, and who even knew Delaware was a state anyway—your mind drifts off. Peter has been looking at the book for an undetermined amount of time. His lips curl.
“You fell out of your computer chair laughing so hard.”
“Ahahahahaa,” you’ll laugh again, you stupid son of a bitch.
“You broke your neck.”
Is that irony or a coincidence, you’ll think, but “What was I laughing at?” is what will escape your mouth. “I’d think I’d remember how I died.”
“You were reading one of Jenna Rash’s status updates on facebook.” Your mouth hangs agape. You feel a sudden burning sensation in your heart. A little bit of you has died again. Peter just rolls his eyes.
“You’re the third guy we’ve had this week.”
This is how your journey to Hell begins.
Btw, don’t post poems because they don’t format correctly—especially haikus. Thx :3
Phil was acting differently at work today. First I had assumed that he had finally figured out how to use a computer— or maybe he had finally learned how to read— which meant he could finally go to my blog and read all the things I wrote about him.
You should have seen him: his perpetually shaky demeanor had been replaced by one of…oh what is that word…it’s a metaphor for “calm”. Chamomile. Phil seemed tranquilly chamomile. And his shifty eyes weren’t jumping all over the place— from floor to ceiling to your crotch to hiscrotch to the pregnant receptionist’s gigantic tits. When he talked to me he never broke eye contact but he was finally blinking like how a normal person would and not how a person suppressing a record-length epileptic seizure would.
It didn’t take long for it to become clear to me that Phil hadn’t read my blog— no. He still seemingly can’t read or use a computer, I thought, but he was sober. For once. I was surprised because it didn’t make much sense to me for a man with a job to effectively remain sober.
I had to know what was up.
So I followed Phil to the gas station at lunch. He was buying a lottery ticket— two, in fact. This meant he was twice the loser I thought he was. And for a split second I felt bad for Phil. But that moment passed.
And then — goddamn, another split second of remorse. All because of the second lottery ticket.
“Phillip,” I called from the back of the line, “Let me buy these Cheetos.”
Phil turned to look at me.
“And lunch,” I continued. “Let me buy these Cheetos and then we can do lunch. It’s on me.”
He just smiled— a toothless, ugly grin. Goddamn second lottery ticket, what did you get me into?
We went to Mcdonald’s— a regular place for me but probably the highlight of Phil’s life— only second to his death. I let Phil get whatever he wanted besides crack.
“What’s going on?” I asked. He was quick to the point: he was out of drugs.
“And my latest dealer wasn’t such a nice guy,” he said. He took three Chicken McNuggets and stuck them in his mouth— something that would have been impossible for a person with all their teeth.
“Maybe I can help,” I said, because, even though I didn’t have a drug guy anymore I figured…well, I was starting to see a bit of myself in Phil. Stuck at a job that sees no real progress. Addicted to drugs. Stupid. All of this scared me.
I pulled a bottle of robitussen out of my purse. “Ever hear of robo-tripping?”
His mouth was still full— he had to suck on the McNuggets because the lack of teeth— but he shook his head.
“Swallow this whole bottle at once and you’ll start tripping within half an hour. It’s the cheapest high you can get next to murder.”
Phil’s eyes started tearing up.
“Are you choking?”
He shook his head and finally swallowed.
“No, Charlie, this is the nicest thing anybody has done for me.”
This just killed me. And so did the next thing he said: he asked if I could pick him up for work on Monday.
“I have prior commitments,” I lied. “You know, Roz,” and now I realize I’ve never explained Roz to you, dear reader.
Please let me explain; I know you’ll let me explain.
So I pick up this lady and take her to work every morning. It’s no big deal: that’s why I never mentioned it before. But she did tell me the first day I drove her that she had a sexual tryst with Marvin Gaye.
No big deal.
And I also drop her off from work a few times a week. First I figured I’d drop her off at her house— you know, the one I pick her up from in the morning. No big deal, right? Wrong. Because it doesn’t matter where I pick her up when I have to drop her off at the following places:
1) The back of the Costco parking lot.
2) Freeway exits.
3) Freeway exits.
Now I’ve been doing this for a couple months but not until last week did I realize that this bitch may be homeless or crazy. Or both.
Last Tuesday she asked me to drop her off in the Costco parking lot. So I took her to Costco and drove to the front entrance. She started squawking at me as soon as her vagrant brain realized what was going on.
“No no no— drop me off in the back!” she said, all animal-like and shit. What’s weird is this was the first time Roz had ever criticized my driving in two months. Well, that and the fact she could be so adamant about being dropped off in the “right place” in a parking lot. She still got out of the car anyway because I reasoned with her that I was getting a fifty cent hot dog and a dollar soda while I was in the area.
You need to be a member of Costco to get in for the cheap food but I’d mistakenly lost my members only jacket when I moved into Apartment J. So I just told the door greeter that my mom was inside even though she’s dead.
After retrieving my jumbo hotdog and soda combo I hopped into my 1990 Ford Tempo and went toward the exit of the jumbo-sized lot.
There are a couple corners at the exit so I figured I’d play a quick game of “Corners” when leaving. If you don’t know how to play corners— it’s simple. When you see a person or a group of people at a corner you just tell yourself how long it would take you to beat them all up. So in this situation for example, lets see: Right corner is a homeless guy with a sign. I could take him, 30 seconds tops I’d be dragging him by his beard with my bare hands. I like playing this game because you always win; it’s only a matter of time until you do.
Left corner. Hm. Homeless lady. Five seconds, tops. Wait. Wait a second. That crazy homeless lady on the East corner is Roz!
Make it two seconds.
I threw my hot dog to the panhandler on the right corner and— I don’t know— he must have thought I was throwing it at him with the intention to hurt him because he tried to fight my car with his bare fists at the nearest stoplight. I could take him in a second if I were allowed to stay in the car.
“That’s no way to treat a person who has a roof to protect him from the rain!” I continued. He swung at my bumper and missed. “I live in a house and not under a bridge, you savage!” I finished before speeding away.
It was all still coming together and I didn’t know everything was apart in the first place. Roz is homeless. That’s why she never comes out from inside “her” house when I pick her up in the morning. That’s why she likes getting dropped off near the freeway. That’s why she smells like Phil.
The next morning at O-Dark-Thirty I picked Roz up from in front of the house she was fronting as her own. She still hadn’t come out from the front door, the side yard, or the roof like a normal person would have. But she did change up where she wanted to be dropped off at after work.
“Charlie,” she said, “Can you drop me off at Saddleback College today?”
“Sure… It’s kind of out of the way but I can do that,” I said.
“I’ll give you some gas money, don’t worry,” she said. She never gave me gas money before but, then again, I never asked for it. But I was out of pot so I kinda needed the money. And a dealer. Yet, Roz criticized my driving and it took all the kind bones in my penis not to criticize her living situation. And let me be clear: I’ve no personal vendetta against the homeless. It’s more of an economic vendetta more than anything. This lady should be able to afford lodging— I know what she makes paycheck-wise because we have the same job. And I pay for health insurance while she doesn’t. And she doesn’t pay for gas. Her getting by without a home makes no economic sense to me.
I took her to my failed education’s old stomping grounds as promised. Instead of being an outright dick and dropping her out front I just asked her what she needed to do at the school. “I’m taking a computer class there and they messed up my grades. So I have to straighten that out,” she said.
“That’s weird,” I said.
“Yes. The school’s data valve is plugged so I’m thinking, you know, once I learn Microsoft Excess I may be able to fix they’re problem.”
“The school,” she continued, “can’t fix their own problem that they’re paying professors to teach students. This is a problem.”
“Your problem,” I said.
“It’s all our problems, Christopher,” she said.
“It’s Charlie,” I said.
“The Vietnamese didn’t cause this problem, though,” she said.
Ok, what? I get not understanding computers but not remembering the guy’s name who has been giving you free rides to and from work for the past two months is buttfucking ridiculous with a capital Buttfuck.
I pulled to the back of the school’s parking lot to let her out. “Don’t stop here,” she said, “I need to get to the office.”
Make up your mind, crazy pants. Smelly pants. Sheesh.
The rest of the week was pretty normal with Roz, considering the situation with her was hardly normal. I mean, the only major minor annoyance was that Roz was being more of a backseat driver than normal. And she didn’t want to play Corners to-an-from work. No big deal.
Until today. I was a bit late picking her up, you see.
“Sorry,” I said, “I was stuck at the McDonald’s drive-thru,” which was a complete lie— I just didn’t want to tell her I woke up this morning and masturbated in bed for 15 extra minutes.
“Don’t go too fast, Chris,” she said, “We’re already late.”
“It’s Charlie,” I said.
“Don’t blame the asians for how fast you’re going on the freeway,” she said.
“This isn’t Irvine, Roz,” I said, “This freeway does lead to Irvine but asians don’t rise until the sun does. But that’s not the point: Where am I dropping you off today after work?”
“You want to know now?”
“Yes, I have plans this evening,” I said. I was going to smoke pot alone on my couch in an apartment that smelled like cats. Can’t be late for that.
Roz didn’t respond for at least a full minute and she didn’t even answer my question. Instead, she asked me on of her own: “Who is this artist,” she says. That’s when it hit me like a jumbo-sized hot dog: “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” was playing on the radio. And anybody could tell you who made that song famous. Especially the woman who used to suck that artist’s dick— probably while he hummed the bass-line in her ear.
“Marvin Gaye,” I said.
“Oh he’s such a wonderful artist,” she said. Oh my God, I can’t believe this is happening I thought. I’m actually driving a real live crazy person to work. And we work at the same place.
“Roz, I said, “this whole driving you to work thing isn’t, uh, working out for me,” I said. Except I didn’t say that. I’m just not going to pick her up anymore. Fuck that noise.
Upon rethinking all of this, I told Phil I could drive him to work on Monday. That would be great. It would be my pleasure.
Skype was interrupted by Todd last night.
Katy asked what was going on but my phone started ringing. Todd, again.
Who is it?” she said.
“Nothing, I said. “Nobody.”
Todd has started a blog— as I’ve found out via facebook. Here’s his most recent post:
Me and Charlie haven’t been getting along recently so I decided to call him from the very same phone I took an awesome picture of Kurt Fucking Angle whilst following Kurt Fucking Angle around the mall because it’s not often a wrestling superstar like Kurt Angle visits the public arena. I figured Charlie would at least be excited as a gay little boy should be.
“Who’s Kurt Angle?” he said through my holy phone.
“It’s Kurt Angle, dude—Don’t you remember? I think it was ten, twelve years ago. Rowdy the Rodman Piper threw his Olympic medals into the Hudson at Hell in the Cell XVI.”
Charlie still didn’t know what I was talking about so I followed Kurt Angle to the bathroom and then masturbated in the handicapped stall. I’m not gay—I was just really excited and I didn’t want Kurt Angle to turn around while I was following him and he see me with a boner.
Today was also the first day I tried supermarket sushi. No women approached me because supermarket sushi is kept at the front of the supermarket.
Sound familiar? I didn’t even speak to Todd on the phone and now he’s making shit up about the things that we’ve said to each other. Uh, and the supermarket sushi thing? I did that first. I was the one that came up with it and wrote about it first.
Fucking hack, I can’t believe it.
And another thing: I know who Kurt Fucking Angle is. And it wasn’t Rowdy the Rodman Piper at Hell in the Cell XVI— it was Macho Man Randy Savage who did the deed.
Todd better not run into me conveniently in the next seven posts, I swear to God.
I have to tell you about yesterday.
Could I cheat on Katy? If I had a superpower, I would choose the ability to break up with my girlfriend. Second choice? The ability to cheat on her.
I returned Susan’s computer to her today at work and she gave me profuse thanks— and then an invite to her place.
“For what?” I said.
“Have a couple drinks and maybe watch a movie.”
Red flag: Susan’s in Alcoholics Anonymous. This wasn’t an invite to enjoy a film with her: this was an invite for a bonafide boning session. And you know me: I said yes.
“I don’t don’t know where you live, though,” I said.
“Well you can follow me or I can drive,” she said.
“How about you drive,” I said, “at least I can sober up a bit on the ride back,” I didn’t say, but figured it was implied.
“Bangin,” she didn’t say, as well.
“I know,” I also didn’t say. There were a lot of things I didn’t say today, come to think of it.
After work I met Susan in the parking lot and hopped into her beat up 89 Ford Tempo. Here we go, I thought. I’m going to bang a woman 30 years older than me who drives a car a year older than me. This is how your relationship with Katy falls apart, ever so conveniently. I had a huge boner, though, so I didn’t want to argue with it. This is the respectable way to go about this, I thought.
She didn’t live far from work— or under a bridge as I had hoped. Her place was a first floor apartment in a gated complex— stucco walls on the outside and white linoleum walls on the inside. The second I stepped inside her place I knew the mood was set.
Susan poured me a rum and coke. She actually poured three and I looked for a possible roommate or hostage but realized that one rum and coke was for me and the other two were for her. Damn, I thought, I’m the one that’s going to have to excavate ancient pussy right now. Get me another one too.
“Why don’t you pick a movie for us to watch,” she said, gliding toward what seemed to be her room. “Do that while I change into something more naked,” I think she said. Susan pointed toward a stack of VHS tapes she was using as a makeshift hybrid coffee table/ashtray. She went down a long dark hallway— one too dark for 3:50 PM.
“Well shit,” I said to nobody in particular. I picked a movie off the top of the stack— Cast Awayfeaturing Tom Hanks. A sure winner, no doubt. But when I picked up Cast Away I noticed something peculiar: All of the tapes comprising this table were Cast Away featuring Tom Hanks. And this wasn’t just a makeshift table/ashtray: the couch and, indeed, the entire apartment seemed to be a makeshift ashtray. The entire place was coated with a thick layer of ash.
I popped the tape into the DVD player and waited on the couch, finishing my drank in nearly three gargantuan gulps. What was taking this old woman so long, Christ. “I could have masturbated at least twice by now,” I said aloud. Almost as if on cue, Susan made herself less scarce— and immediately more scary.
She was in a black nightie that pushed her tits up and made it seem like her roast beef hung low. Yep: I could see her pussy. From down the hallway.
“Hey big boy,” she said.
“Really, Susan?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“You sure know how to turn on the ladies,” she said, walking closer to me all sultry-like.
“The sun is still up,” I said as she finally reached a nose’s length away from me. She put a finger on my chest.
“I want to fuck you,” she said.
“I want to fuck you too, Susan.”
“Then fuck me,” she said. “Fuck me, Charlie. Fuck me.”
“Fuck you, Susan,” I said. “I have a girlfriend.”
Susan grabbed my right hand and put it on her vagina. It was warm, like a can of Dr. Pepper left out in the sun too long— but not nearly as enticing.
“Feel it,” she said.
“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice,” I said.
“Don’t you want to ride this pussy?” she cooed.
“I hate horse-rides, Susan.”
“God, baby, you’re turning me on so much right now.”
“When you call me a baby it makes me want to shit in a diaper.”
Susan pushed me away onto her couch. Ash broke my fall. It was then I realized that Susan didn’t actually have a couch— she had a makeshift couch made out Cast Away featuring Tom Hanks videotapes.
She got on her knees.
“Just hold still, Charlie.”
She started to undo my belt. You’re going to just let this happen, Charlie? I thought. Do something. My pants were coming off but Susan’s head was still down. Her back was horizontal, so I did what any guy in this situation would do: I used her head as a coaster.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t spill my drink.”
“Please don’t spill my drink.”
Susan might have had a perplexed look on her face, but I wasn’t sure because she was facing down. She was actually trying not to spill my drink.
“Don’t move,” I said. “Keep balancing this, Indian woman.”
“Is this a game to you?” said.
“God, I’m horny.”
“Good. Now just hold that thought.”
I scooched over to the side of the “couch” and re-did my belt. And then I made my way to the front door.
“That’s a good little indian.”
She didn’t say anything as I opened the door.
Susan moved her head to look at me. My drink spilled all over her and the floor.
“What the fuck, Charlie.”
“What the fuck indeed; I told you not to move and now you’ve spilled my drink.”
“I thought we were playing a game.”
“Play stupid games and win stupid prizes, Susan.”
Her face scrunched up. “I don’t get it.”
“What’s there to get?”
“Why are you doing this to me.”
“Please don’t show up to work tomorrow,” I said.
“It’s my job.”
“Don’t show up.”
I opened the door and walked out, but before slamming it I mentioned one more thing:
“I didn’t fix your computer because it wasn’t broken in the first place. The only thing wrong with it was the pictures of you.” Then I slammed the door and ran all the way back to work,Cast Away in hand.
Listen, I want pussy but I don’t want any of that mummified shit. If I’m going to cheat on Katy then I’m going to do it the right way and not with Boris Karloff’s last living fuck-buddy.
So I went home and made a sandwich. It was pastrami. And, for once, I couldn’t hear Torrie crying. Sweet silence, punctuated by Tom Hanks screaming at a goddamn volleyball.
Nearly a week without my own pot supply.. Moved onto Robitussen. Going through a bottle of this shit a night.
And Susan messaged me again today. She wants me to bring the computer to her place tomorrow— not just to give it to her at work. So it sounds like she wants to bang. You know, besides the part where she clearly wants to bang me.
Today’s message on our work’s instant messaging system was awkward:
Do u want 2 C me naked?
I mean, I responded “yes”, but I can just check out Susan’s laptop any time I want if I want to see her naked. And I’m starting to get the feeling that Susan is either retarded or very horny because there’s absolutely nothing wrong with her computer.
Still haven’t told Katy about Susan. What’s weird is that Katy knows I have a blog but she hasn’t asked to see it or anything. Sometimes I send her the drafts of what I’m writing to see if there’s anything wrong with my phrasing…but she never asks for my blog’s location on the web.
I mean, I’ve been smart about which blogs I send her— sometimes I send her things I’m not going to post, like this:
St. Patrick’s Day is stupid. I don’t think anybody knows what it’s about. Every year people give me a different reason or fun fact about what St. Patrick’s Day is really like or how they really do it in Ireland. They always tell me it’s another reason to drink or it’s another reason to celebrate Irish culture through drinking or how it’s another reason to look at all the idiots who think that Irish culture is about drinking. Personally, it was a terrifying day on the road because it is a Sunday and everybody has work tomorrow so they’s alls gots themselves all blotto-like during the dey thime; it wasn’t like I could hide from the drunks on the road because they were going to be asleep at night.
But then I was reminded of something my therapist once told me: “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”
And that I did. At the local Wal-Mart.
Wal-Mart is a fantastic place but it’s really hard to maneuver when you’re high as an Indian kite. The chief issue is concentration—all of those bright lights are designed to fuck with consumers and confuse them when they’re making their purchasing decisions. They end up taking more time in front of items trying to decide which model they want—the pricier one or the cheaper one. The more time they spend in front of the pricier one the higher chance they will buy it. Also, the bright lights make it hard to focus on just one item; you are likely to purchase other items that become unintentional souvenirs of your Wal-Mart visit because your eyes don’t have an easy place to rest in a store that isn’t a number trying to sell you something for “cheap”.
All of this makes Wal-Mart one of the more confusing places to be walking around high already, but on St. Patrick’s day the place reminded me of an orphanage that also doubles as the city pound that can’t afford separate cages for the animals and children.
Actually, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
There was a commercial on the television today for the Spicy McChicken sandwich at McDonald’s for only $1.00. In my area we haven’t had Spicy McChickens before, thus I’ve never had one because I am a hermit. Now, I don’t trust commercials but I had been a rampaging McChicken and McDouble pervert only six (6) days prior.
Well, the Spicy McChicken was actually a dollar but I didn’t spend just a dollar because I got two Spicy McChickens, a McDouble with no onions, and California State sales tax. It was like three (3) dollars.
I didn’t just go into Wal-Mart earlier all high-like just for fun, by the way. I needed a bike helmet so I could go biking. Forgot I had one on the balcony for three years. Or, was it two on the balcony for five? Division was supposed to make this easier to remember. Get back to me on the details—I’ve got two bikes, OK?
I want to go biking so I need to buy a helmet or I will get hit by a car and die. Getting hit by a car is not an option but dying is. Buy a helmet, motherfucker. You’d do it if your dick was on your forehead. But that imaginary dick on your forehead isn’t so easy to imagine if your brain can’t will it because of cerebelleus-rhectioid damage, and your skull can only do so much to a Cadillac’s grill. For itself.
Again, buy a helmet.
The night will be ending, I guess, after Katy signs onto Skype and tells me about her day. We promised to talk at 10:00pm her time and it’s…10:30pm our time. My time.
Hm. Will get back to you on that, imaginary readers. I imagine you guys with imaginary dicks on your foreheads. But I have to imagine the dicks on your foreheads for you because you didn’t heed my warnings about buying helmets earlier and now you’re stuck, as a vegetable, reading this. It’s not easy imagining all of these dicks on your foreheads but I’ll do it if I have to. To prove this point. To prove any point.
I think I had like, 30 cigarettes today.
And this shit doesn’t bother her at all, apparently. Or worry her. Maybe I’m with the wrong person.
Aaron4 hasn’t returned my calls in three days. I’ve drank all the beer and smoked most of the weed. Chaz let me nig a few bowls but now he’s running low, too. We don’t know what to do. I mean, if Aaron4 was going on vacation he’d tell me, right? And you’d think he would text or email me his new number if that changed. Do drug dealers even have business email? I’ve never seen one, come to think of it.
Groupon for weed would be great, too. I’d murder a person to see groupon for pot— Groupot, if you will. Hell, I’d murder somebody to see groupons for murdering somebody who could make groupons for weed a thing. Maybe there’s a kickstarter just for me out there.
And now all I want to do is talk to Katy. I’m getting worried about her and the things she could be doing with that rockin’ body of hers.
She was already signed on Skype when I finally got my laptop set up. Her most recent status update on Facebook was, by the way, “tired of all the mexican food in Argentina”. Katy worries me sometimes.
We were having some incredible sex in her car once and she whispered into my ear, “I want you to cum inside me” and I was like
“Sweety, I’m wearing a condom. Do you want me to, uh, cum through it or…” And taking off the condom was going to be so unsexy in the back seat of a dark car that it would have involved me being in the unsexy position of having to pull the condom off of my uncircumsized penis as if it were some kind of diseased leach and then disposing of it and then getting back into the moment where she’s interested in me coming inside of her.
Katy started today’s Skype session in a familiar way: I couldn’t see a goddamn fucking goddamn thing.
“Take the sheet of paper away from the camera and just tell me what it says,” I said. Katy’s visage flooded my bandwidth.
“It’s a wedding invite,” she beamed.
“Who’s getting married?” I asked.
“Sure you want to know?”
“Sure you want to hear about my Saturday?”
“Nothing— just tell me.”
“It’s your ex,” she said, “Your ex-girlfriend Samantha.” This was indeed news. Sam was my ex-girlfriend, sure, but she was also— or is also— friends with Katy. They have nicknames for eachother. Even Katy and I don’t have those for each other. This was serious.
“I’m so happy for her,” I lied. What a slut. How dare she find true love before me? “Who, I said, “Who is the lucky guy?”
“Some guy named Sam. I think he was her rebound from you.”
Seriously? Who rebounds to marriage? And she’s been dating her rebound for five years? And her rebound has the same name as her? Come on. That’s not fair at all.
“Good for her,” I said. So happy for her. Just tickled. Glad somebody finally wanted to lock it down with Milk-Breath. She, by the way, had milk-breath. That’s why I we broke up. I mean, that’s why I broke up with her.
Update: In a fit of relative sobriety I let Katy know I’m moving to Truckee.
“I’m moving to Truckee, I think,” I said. I knew but let her think I was only thinking of it.
“What’s a truckee?” she said.
“Cold place in Northern California.”
“My parents called me today,” I lied, “and offered to send me to college up there.”
“Really?” she said.
“Yeah, I really wanna do this,” I lied again.
“Good for you,” she said, starting to balloon up like her old self.
“We’ll find a way to work this out,” I continued to lie.
“Sure we will. This will just turn out to be another adventure.”
“Yes, an adventure where I go somewhere and you stay in the same place doing the same things every single day.”
“Day in, day out.”
“No, I didn’t hear you.”
And that was that.
I guess this is my last post for a while. Traffic on this blog has been pretty scarce and it seems like I’m recycling my own content over and over.
Maybe blogging isn’t for me. Maybe there’s something better out there for me. Like, today I googled the phrase “Tums Pie” because I wanted to make a pie out of Tums. Well, wouldn’t you know, GlaxoSmithKline don’t make no Tums Pie. They also don’t provide instructions on their website as to how to make a Tums Pie. There’s a form you can fill in with requests (or questions) at http://us.gsk.com/html/contact-us/index.html . I tell them they are big pussies every single day.
Thanks to my loyal readers; you have been loyal like dogs. It has been an absolute blast just entertaining all you filthy animals these past few weeks on this wacky old corner of the internet I like to call Daddy, and I hope you can all be the keepers that this island needs. It just seems I’m recycling my own content over and over, and now it has gotten to the point of compiling garbage colloquialisms together with some cusses thrown about, all whilst skewering the very language— English , fucking turkey Christ—that I love so very much.
But before leaving, I figured I’d give you guys a heads up of where this could have gone.
Day One-Hundred and Six.
“Why haven’t you made a move on me yet?”
It was a good question. I didn’t try to hold her hand during the movie— and we were already on our second date. She seemed like the perfect girl: she had seen Star Wars and could even do the cry of the Wookie. That would make things kinky, later on, I thought. She was the first person to actually bring up an attraction to social manipulation at dinner. And she even, and I quote, “Loves to give blowjobs”. Wookie blowjobs are awesome.
Oh wait, that was the reason I still hadn’t made a move.
“I love to give blowjobs,” she had said in the passenger seat.
“But I can’t give them anymore.”
“Is it because of your teeth?” I asked. Personally I didn’t know what teeth had to do with it especially since I’m a “no teeth guy”— except when it came to that dead fuck, Phil— but I needed to say something to fill up the awkward silence in the car since it became clear a blowjob wasn’t going to do the same.
Now on our second date in as many days, I knew this would be the last one; I had to tell her the truth and I thought the truth was blazingly clear this time around.
We were at a sushi bar that she said was one of her favorites, which seemed a bit overreaching on her part because we had to print out directions to get there. Nay, she had to print out directions to get there. I don’t need to print out directions to find my favorite places but that’s mostly because I’m not a huge fan of the clitoris.
Maybe I can lie to her, I thought. I could tell her that it was scary that our first date was at another sushi bar but she had neglected to inform me that she was deathly allergic to horse-radish. What if I had taken her to a sushi place that just used green-colored horseradish for its wasabi? Hell, I didn’t even know how to positively identify green horseradish from wasabi. And then if she ate it and I had to perform CPR on her? Not to mention then I would get HPV from the her. Save a life and damn your own, right?
But other than the HPV thing, she was the perfect girl for me. Where Katy and I were polar opposites, this girl and I weren’t. We both enjoyed Star Wars where-as Katy hadn’t seen any of the movies. Katie had an aversion to social manipulation where this girl actually brought it up on the first date. And where Katy was a college graduate— this new girl was dumber than a cum-sock. A match made in heaven, we were.
In fact, the only downside to this girl was that she wasn’t a fan of spicy or hot food but that was partly because she was allergic to horseradish. Actually another downside— I was going to be moving to Truckee in thirty days and she was going to be dead in less than 30 minutes. But we were determined to make something of this relationship, HPV be damned.
“Seriously, why haven’t you made a move?”
Now I’m thinking about my teeth comment from earlier. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that; that was definitely the wrong thing to say. Probably left-over Phil thoughts, God rest his dead soul.
I thought it was pretty obvious her having HPV was the reason I hadn’t made a move. We were a done deal: if I made a move then she would soon be blowing me in the parking lot, making Wookie sounds. And like, I know that statistically I’m going to end up with HPV but I’m moving to Northern California in 30 days; I can’t can’t go being the Johnny Appleseed of sex diseases.
Obviously I didn’t say that to her because I was still— some part of me was at least— still holding out for that blowjay. What would have been the worst that could have happened, though, if I let her down truthfully? I maybe I could soften the blow. Honk honk.
All this time thinking and I hadn’t given her a reason, I guessed.
“Listen, Jane: there’s a reason you’re dating online and this is your first date with somebody you met in person. There is a reason you live in your hometown yet you have to use OKCupid to date people in your area. In our area.”
“What are you trying to say?” she asked.
“The irony that we’re both red flags never hit me until now,” I said. “I need somebody to anchor me down. To be my rock, you know?”
“I don’t…I don’t get it.” Her eyes were starting to well up.
“Like St. Peter. Jesus needed St. Peter in a different way than St. Peter needed Jesus. But that imbalance worked for them.”
Tears were now streaming down Jane’s face. I would have offered my napkin but it was covering my boner; a woman in tears gives me some raging wood. “I’m looking for Peter…not…you,” I finished, rather smoothly, if I do say so, myself.
“Is this it? Are you b-breaking up with me?” she stammered.
“What? No. No— we were never boyfriend and girlfriend int he first place.”
Her eyes continued to pour streams of hot and sexy liquid all over her face. And her eyes were getting really red now. And her face was starting to swell up— kind of like how Katy’s would when she was angry.
“Did you eat the wasabi?” I asked.
“I tried it just for you,” she said.
“You’re allergic to horse-radish,” I said, “why would you try to eat the wasabi?”
“I thought—” she started coughing, “I thought you were interested in girls that try new things all the time.”
“I am,” I told her, “I’m interested in girls that are interested in trying new things that aren’tdying.”
“But it’s just wasabi.”
“It’s fake wasabi. It’s green-colored horse-radish.”
“Wow, that is a pretty good wookie.”
“No I— I think I’m dying.”
What was I going to do? I obviously called for the paramedics but the girl had eaten nearly half a roll of quarters’ worth of fucking horse-radish. She was going to die, right there in front of me. And she did. This was the second person to die in front of me in nearly fifty days— if you consider Phil a person, I mean. I don’t, but you might.
They weren’t able to save Jane in time. Nothing could save her at this point— not even pumping her stomach.
“She has HPV,” I told the paramedic before he started performing CPR on her.
“Son, get out of the way!” he said
“I’m just trying to help you out, bro. From one bro to another, you know what I mean?”
And then she died. Just like that. Her heart stopped, like mine did when Katy broke up with me nearly sixty days ago. The bitch.
Actually, now that I think about it, I think I’m going to see this blog through to its end; I could get a blowjob out of this.
My friends are pretty worried about me. They gave me a sort of emotional intervention today. An emotional intervention involves sharing your feelings— it does not happen like other interventions where people are secretly angry that you’re not sharing your drugs with them. I’d gone over to Bryguy’s and most everybody I kind of care about was there.
“Charlie, we’re worried about you,” Krisandra said.
“Yeah, Charlie. You’ve been very depressed recently— ever since Katy left,” Jaye said.
“Really?” I said, right before ripping on the bong for a record two minutes. They continued while I inhaled.
“We just want to make sure you’re OK. Are you?” Exhale.
“Sure,” I told them with smoke still coming out of nearly every one of my orifices. “That was a mighty bong rip,” I said.
“Sure was,” Bryan said. He had a look of pain on his face. Must have been a hernia or something. A hernia. That’s definitely what it was.
“Tell us how you feel,” Jaye reiterated. And I’m not one for sharing my feelings unless it involves my hatred of horses. Horses are terrible animals. For one, they can’t swim— at least, all the horses I’ve been taking out to the ocean can’t swim. And two, you can’t look a horse in the eyes. It’s impossible; you can only look them in the eye one eye at a time. Shady fucking beasts. Three: They’ve got huge pupils— so huge that they must be taking ecstasy and not be sharing it with you. What kind of a friend is that? A friend that doesn’t share their ecstasy with you, that’s who. And it bothers me when people say that horses are like big dogs because horses aren’t like big dogs. Horses are like big land manatees that can’t control when and where they shit. And when and where do they usually shit? On the shoes you bought them. On the shoes they need. Dogs don’t even wear shoes.
I figured I’d throw ‘em all a bone and maybe it would help me bang Bryan’s girlfriend. Or anybody. I miss pussy.
“Just tell us you’re not suicidal,” she said. Shit, did I forget to respond?
“I’m not suicidal. I just…you guys see me on Wednesdays. Wednesday is the darkest day of the week. It truly is the eye of the storm: two days to the weekend, and it doesn’t matter if time is going forward or backwards.”
“That’s true,” Bryan said, like the good friend he is. Shame I want to steal his girlfriend.
“And if I was planning on killing myself,” I continued, “I’d be starving right now.” It was time for another bong rip of the holiest acumen. Nobody said anything, but I could feel that everybody wanted to know what I meant.
“What I mean is, if I kill myself I will probably poop myself. Doesn’t matter if I hang, cut, or shoot myself to death: poop will be there.”
Bong rip. Exhale. Good weed. Gonna have to let Aaron 4 know. I pulled my phone out and texted him.
Thanks for the help with the homework. It got me high as a fuck stick.
“The body,” I continued, “will begin bloating from the death action. My buttocks and leg areas will absorb the shit water and I’ll start to smell.
“I don’t want you guys to find me dead because of the terrible smell that comes with my death crap. I want you to find me because you miss me.”
“That doesn’t—,” Krisandra paused, “Bryan, you tell him.”
Bryan still looked uneasy. Now I was staring to get what what was going on: he didn’t want to do this intervention. Krisandra was putting him up to it.
“It sounds like you’ve thought about killing yourself,” he said.
Nobody raised their hand. “I’ve thought about it but I haven’t planned to do it, either” I don’t blame them for thinking that I was considering suicide— and sure, I am, but I’ve always been suicidal. In fact, I was in a much more fragile emotional state when I figured out Santa Claus wasn’t a fan of Jews.
“The best way to kill yourself, anyways, is to do it like the Egyptians did: by swallowing tons of salt.”
Everybody looked at me.
“I mean, by trying to swallow tons of salt. So if you see me starving myself for three days andcollecting salt packets then you’ll have every reason in the world to worry. But until then, let me be at peace.”
“OK Charlie, well thanks for listening,” Krisandra said.
“You didn’t say much of anything so it was particularly easy,” I said.
I’m going to go now. All that emotion from earlier made me tired. I won’t respond to any comments tonight too because I don’t want anything to disrupt my planned masturbation to any video tagged under the category “Flapjack circus titties”.
And I have to hide all this salt I’ve been collecting.
Letting Katy know about my offer was a tepid experience. Here, I saw it as so:
1) Let Katy know
2) Tell my roommate I’m not going to be around to pay the rent much longer
3) Hide it from my bosses and co-workers until my “last” paycheck
4) Call Aaron 4, my fourth and current drug dealer named Aaron.
The first thing on that list was to call my drug dealer, Aaron, so I did that first. Aaron’s a different kind of drug dealer— he asks you to call him an
Aaron’s a stupid piece of shit. I can’t stand Aaron’s shit, no siree.
Aaron’s my drug dealer. He’s a lingerer too. He comes by maybe twice, five times a week and he stays for nearly an hour each time. I can’t believe it.
“Aaron,” he says, when he picks up the phone. Yeah, I know that’s your name.
“Hey man,” I say, putting on my best stony voice, “Can you uh, help me out with 20 pages of homework?”.
“Sure man, no worries,” he says.
And then there’s an awkward pause. What am I supposed to say? Should I tell him to hurry up? Do I tell him I’m leaving in an hour, so hurry up? And this boner-salad on the other line leaves the conversation open with something like “Sure man, no worries”. Of course there are no worries— I’ve got nothing to worry about. That’s why I’m going to buy pot from you. And you don’t walk around with a gun on you, skin-and-bones, so I know you’re just a pussy.
I mean, while I’ve got you here in this awkward pause, remember a very short while back I asked Aaron for help with 20 pages of homework? God damn please don’t be stupid: I wasn’t asking for help with homework, I’m sure you picked up on that; Aaron would be the worst kind of help for homework. Aaron’s a Class-A Day Tripper harboring paranoid delusions involving cops coming around every corner with uzis. Oh, and that’s straight from the horse’s mouth. Because he’s worried the government will link our next pot deal to 9/11 or something, he makes his clientele ask for help on homework or assistance with blowjobbing. So, “Aaron,” you’ll say, “20 pages of homework. I need you A-SAP. Also can you break a 50?” basically means, “I would like 20 dollars’-worth of marijuana. Also, I’m writing you a check.”
And the awkward pause is over, and it looks like I come up to bat with something stupid to say. “Take your time man, I’m doing nothing all day.”
Might as well have written him an invitation to prop his feet up on my ottoman and pet Bruce for an hour-and-a-half.
Bruce is one of the cats.
Why not; it’s my story.
Was that proper use of a semicolon? I wasn’t too sure because the “why not” part deserves a question mark— but then again it doesn’t because the part of the sentence that’s before the semicolon needs to be justifiably related to the part after the semicolon.; both sections unite and become one Super-Sentence capable of describing how to use a semicolon while somehow still miraculously failing to use it correctly.
“Charlie Brown,” God booms from the clouds, “Now it seems it is YOU who is the boner salad.”
Aaron takes his time, man, because I’m doing nothing all day. He gets to my house 45 minutes after I asked him for help with my homework, which I might have actually needed help with 13,140 hours ago.
This scraggly motherfucker knocks on my door all discreet and all, like he’s going to pull a fast one and not get busted by a cop with a rocket launcher. I go to the door and let him in, making sure not to open the door too much so as not to let Bruce out.
“Hey man,” he says, going for the fist bump. Man, this guy is thin. Aaron’s got a white-power buzz-cut and is always sporting some aviators. And he is thin—good lord. He’s always wearing childrens’ sized clothing that still manages to look baggy on him.
Of course I fist bump back; I want my weed.
“What’s up man, how’s it going?” I feign interest.
“Nothing much man, got some Super Silver Haze for you,” he grins back, looking around my apartment like you’d expect a paranoid drug-dealer to. Except he’s not looking for cops; he knows the place is safe.
“Yeah well, here’s the twenty,” I say, stepping in front of his general view of the apartment.
“Where’s Bruce?” he asks. Oh no. No no no no. He loves this cat. And he only met the cat yesterday, since we got the cat yesterday.
“I think he’s in Chaz’ room,” I say.
Good, I think as he leaves the living room. Now I can talk to Katy on Skype. I check my laptop— she’s not signed on. Great. Just what I needed: more paranoia.
Maybe this Alan Thickhole fellow is just a darker skinned version of me. That’s it. Maybe she hooked up with him once and she’s just not over the heavenly night he gave her. That’s the theory.
Plan 1) Create a new Facebook. Tag Katy and Alan in a picture. Have Charlie wait it out.
Or Plan 2) Get Alan’s phone number. Call him from a pay phone and pretend to be Katy or one of his friends and ask him about Katy. Ask if they’ve had sex or something.
My head is spinning. I can’t believe I’m thinking about this. But I want to know why she wanted to see him again.
3) Forget about all of this. It’s nothing. It’s just the weed talking at this point.
She’s fucking other guys. I know it. And it’s not just in Argentina: it’s here in Orange County, too. That isn’t the weed talking; That’s Charlie Brown putting the pieces together and figuring it all out for once.
And while I’ve been sitting here writing all of this…Aaron still hasn’t left Chaz’ room. He must really like our new cats. Or Chaz.
No, wait. 4) Ask Katy, simply, “Did you hook up with anybody when we broke up?” Plain and simple. Right? Honesty is the way to go at this point, God help me.
No, wait. I can tell her I had a dream about it. Have to fix this. Or forget this.
5) Create an alias and add his friends and then message him on facebook and ask him what he thinks about Katy and if he knows if she’s single or not or if she’s a good lay or something.
A. Fake profile. Add Thickhole.
B. Profile asks about Katy, “Hey man, is she single?” He responds back “why would I know that?” Respond back with the following:
“Haven’t you two, um…”
He’ll spill after that. He’ll have to. Hard to get out of that one, I think.
Why does this shit matter to me?
6) Do nothing but monitor the situation.
7). Do nothing. For real.
What if she made a mistake or she’s embarassed? And that’s why she’s hiding it? She mentioned him to be but…yeah, lied about who contacted who first. Maybe she just doesn’t want to hurt somebody like me. Or me.
Seriously, what’s taking Aaron4 so long? And Katy still hasn’t signed on. And nobody knows I’m moving but me.
I need to stop making lists. They make me seem crazy.
No. The first person I’m telling I’m moving is Chaz, my roommate.
I know I’m going to move to Goochland, Virginia without even taking the trip there. Yes, Virginia, the home to not only one city named Threeway but home to another city called “Needmore”, which may explain why it has two Fourways. Hey, it’s better than living in a Waterproof, Louisiana, which seems spiteful towards Mother Nature, the bitch.
West Virginia is a freak show, by the way. They’ve got Left Hand, Pinch, Hoo Hoo, Big Ugly, Gay Bash…OK, I made that last one up so I’ll take responsibility for it. But I refuse to take responsibility for Big Chimney, West Virginia. I almost skipped over Boring, Oregon but I needed something the polar opposite of Surprise, New York. That’s where Al Queda could have really sealed the symbolism deal, by the way. Yonkers has always bugged me as Cat Elbow, which might as well go by Pussy Weenus, New York.
Where were we?
Another craigslist ad was already printed it out so I could show him I could be assertive while sober— a fallacy, by the way. So I knocked on his door with the ad folded up in my back pocket and my pants in my bedroom.
“Who is it,” he said.
“The fuckin’ Gestapo— Chaz, open the door,” I nazi’d. I heard the knob lock click and the door opened. Smoke billowed out of the room.
“Come on in,” he said— so I did.
“Sup bro,” he said, hopping onto his bed, reclining with his legs out, shoes still on, all unsanitary-like.
“When did you get the hookah?” I said.
“I didn’t,” he said.
“What about all this smoke?” I asked.
“What smoke, Charlie.” Fuck, Bald Knob, Arkansas.
“Well, I mean, the smoke is gone because you opened the door, Chaz-hands.”
“There was never any smoke in the first place,” he reasoned.
“Okay, great. I must be crazy.”
I forgot to mention Whynot, North Carolina. Probably because it’s so close to Tick Bite, North Carolina and so far away from Horneytown, North Carolina. Christ, I need to get back to the topic at hand. I mean, I can’t tell you which states Eighty and Ninety Six are in, but I can tell you that the City of Town and Country is nowhere near On Alaska, which happens to be in Wisconsin.
Seriously, where were we?
“Must be,” Chaz said. “What do you think about cats?”
“They’re shitty animals,” I didn’t say.
“I want to bring kittens into our apartment, he continued, “They’re free so I’ll pay for them.”
“Sure man,” I feigned, “I’m down for motherfucking kitty palace.” He must have missed the three months I had prior spent bitching about the smell of cat piss the previous tenants had gifted our carpets.
“You’ll love it once they’re here,” he reiterated.
And it’s like, it’s not like I don’t know how cats act after 23 years of sharing this planet with the inferior species. I know they’re capable of holding kitty grudges and making kitty casseroles out of their litter boxes. I also know they’re incapable of paying the bills as well as showing true compassion for something they can’t possibly kill. But if you’re more interested in the pros and cons of kitty ownership, then know that they are truly interested in licking their entire bodies from the highest and most obtuse place in your house. Also, most cats can’t sniff out cancer like the ones on TV because if they did then my mom might still be alive.
They are awful pets. Just a crappy species, on a whole. So Chaz brought them home this evening and he tells me he’s going to pay for their food, water, shoes, etc etc. Which is great, but it still doesn’t change the fact that kitty casserole is on the menu for the next 16 years.
Wait. No. Just three months. Because I’m out of here in three months.
Did I mention to you guys that South Dakota has room for Potato Creek and Pringle. And that Vermont found room for Breadloaf, Mosquitoville, and a little place known as Satan’s Kingdom?
I forgot to tell Chaz I’m moving. This crack thing needs to stop.
My stepmother— my father’s fourth wife— Marilyn called me earlier today with a proposition: move in with her and my father to Possumgrape, Arkansas. Move in with them and they’ll pay for my college tuition. Apparently my life is lacking substance— ha— and going back to college will be the right thing for me to do next. Oh, and they’re going to pay the tuition so long as I’m not “smoking dope in the house”. A generous offer, indeed.
Her name popped up on my cell in the middle of a monster bong rip. I let the phone go to voicemail just so I could finish my record-breaking toke uninterrupted.
“Give us a call back, Charlie. It’s Bob and Marilyn. We want to talk to you,” she said. Oh God, a surprise. Ever since Chaz “surprised” me with cable I’ve never liked surprises. I mean, come on: cable is an expense.
I gave it two minute’s thought and then finally exhaled my Olympic-size pool cloud of smoke. I guess I had to call my parents back. This would be so much easier if they were dead.
Marilyn picked up, “Charlie, can you hold on one second, Just a mo—” I heard a loud crashing sound on Marilyn’s end of the line followed by rumbling. There were cries for help in the background. If I didn’t know any better I would have thought Marilyn was saving kids from a burning building but— “Sorry, Charlie, I needed a moment to save some kids from a burning building. ”
“Marilyn, you’re a fucking superhero.”
“Charles,” she said, “your father and I have a proposition for you,” she was interrupted by screaming in the background.
“Fucking orphans!” a voice boomed.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“Just your father, don’t worry about him,” she said. I could still hear my father yelling “Tiny little fucks!” in the background but I ignored him.
“What were you saying?”
“Your father and I have a few extra rooms here in the mansion we bought here in Dimebox, Texas. If you want… you can move here and you won’t have to pay rent and we’ll pay for college.”
“Shit!” both my father and I cried in unison.
“Mr. Costello,” I said, “With all due respect: School’s out.”
“You don’t have to make your mind up now but we’ll fly you out to Woonsocket, Rhode Island in a couple weekends with your brother if you want. You know, see if you like the place and all.”
“I’ll definitely have to think about it,” I said.
“Give it some time. Your father has mellowed out since he kicked you out.” My father swore on cue as if he were actually paying attention to his wife (or any one of them) for once.
OK, but you can’t stop me from doing things like starting bands called “My Uncle’s Throbbing Member” or using one of the guest rooms to develop cooking alternatives like “Yeast! (But Not What You Think!)”
“Alright Charlie, but—” Marilyn stopped because my dad was telling her something. “Okay, but no smoking dope in the house.” Ah Christ, they got me where it hurts.
“Well,” I said, “It’s been a good liver.”
“So I’ll see all the boarding information for my flight in my email by 8 in the morning tomorrow?”
“Don’t talk to me like that mister, but yes; probably by 4AM. I’ve been up real late recently. I’ve been worried about a lot of things that—”
“Thanks Marilyn!” and I hung up without saying goodbye just like in the movies and then I smoked a doobie in front of a fire hydrant.
Things I need to consider:
1. What about Katy and me? Does this mean the end of us? Maybe I can see about having her move either with me or to the bottom of the ocean— with me.
2. What about Orange County? And by that I mean, what about my friends, my family, and my favorite Mongolion BBQ place? I don’t think I’ll miss Bernice or her fiancee Hickory Stump or anything but I might miss Garrett coming out. I used to call him a faggot before it wasn’t not OK to call people faggots. And he just accepted being called a faggot and we were good friends. But then everybody, including me, stopped using it because it was a hurtful word. So Garrett never had a person call him a faggot after that even though he was a faggot. Is a faggot. Once he comes out then things will go back to normal and I’ll have my best friend back.
3. How do I tell Chaz that I’m going to be moving out as well?
4. How do I sever ties with Aaron, my drug dealer. And how am I going to get drugs after I do that?
5. Drugs, again. And Katy. I really don’t know what to do about us. I can quit whenever I want to. But not the drugs. I can’t quit those whenever I want to.
6. Is there a bottle of Robitussen around here?
“Who stole my Malibu?” Gordo from Lizzie McGuire screamed from the kitchen. It wasn’t actually Gordo from Lizzie McGuire but it makes it easier on everybody if that’s who I tell you who it was.
One of Morgan’s parties. The first one of the year— Halloween or July 4th or something. Whatever yesterday was. Everybody was there: Bryan, Allan, Garrett, Sam, Brett, Morgan, Sarah with an H, Sara without an H, Andrew & Adam, Marco, Taylor, Mike, the girls from Panda Express, Josh, another Josh I didn’t know, tons of people I also didn’t know, and Gordo fromLizzie McGuire were there. All the people, basically. And Carl.
Carl needed me to pick him up. He said he needed a DD— and I wasn’t even planning on going to the party in the first place, actually— but I figured this could be an opportunity to truly disappoint him later in the evening after getting shit-faced, unable to take him home. It was a red-carpet opportunity, almost like ruining a small child’s birthday by telling them they’re ugly. You know what I mean: the afterlife and shit. You know what I mean, right?
So everybody was there and I forgot to mention the guy who does the voice for Little Foot inThe Land Before Time was also there. This actually was (and is) the voice of Little Foot in The Land Before Time so it is (and was) worth noting that he is the person who wakes up and sees that person in a mirror every day.
“We Are Young” by Fun. was playing in the living room and Little Foot was telling me about how he once killed a guy in Russia— “I won’t tell you how or why but I did”— when
“Where is my FUCKING Malibu?”
Who’s hand was I holding? I turned my head a tad to the right so as to not alert the animal—phew, it’s Morgan. Thank God. It’s Morgan. Not Katy, sure, but also not the worst choice to go with. And this was the kind of party where everybody that was there was a friend of mine or a friend of a friend of mine who’s not friends with Katy or friends of friends of Katy’s. So I can, you know… You know what I mean, right? I mean, things aren’t going so well with Katy.
I can do this. I can get away with this, to be a bit more clear. It’s not cheating on Katy. Katy is gone. She went on a date with the Brazilian Alan Thickhole, after all. I can do whatever I want, now. Free pass.
The screaming became less kitcheny as Gordo from Lizzie McGuire staggered into the living room.
“Morgan, somebody stole my fucking Malibu,” he said.
Morgan pulled her hand away from mine and stumbled over to Gordo from Lizzie McGuire. Shit, I thought, she’s stumbling. That means she’s drunk. I don’t think I can do this. I can’t do this. I can’t get away with this.
Sidebar: Why would a 35 year old bring Malibu to a party full of 20 year olds?
Morgan asked Gordo fromLizzie McGuire where he left the Malibu. He said he put it on the counter. Somebody stole it, he said. Somebody stole his fucking Malibu and he wants to know who did it.. He wants to check peoples’ cars. He wants to look in trunks.
One of the Joshes spoke up: “Dude, who could have gotten a bottle of Malibu to their car without anybody noticing?”
Me, I thought. I did. Fuck Gordo from Lizzie McGuire.
“I’m going to call the cops,” Gordo from Lizzie Mcguire said.
“You can’t do that,” Morgan said.
“Why not?” Gordo from Lizzie McGuire said.
“If you do that we’re going to have to kick the high schoolers out.”
Sidebar: Why the fuck were there minors at a party full of drunk 20 year olds?
Gordo fromLizzie McGuire wasn’t ready for that. He walked up to the other Josh. “Did you take my Malibu, bro?”
“No, Josh said, “And back off, bro.” Josh pushed Gordo from Lizzie McGuire away from him as if to say “back off, bro.” Gordo took the inertia he gained from the push and went towards the Panda Express girls.
“Did you see who stole my Malibu?”
“Que?” Carmen said.
And this must have gone on for about ten minutes before he made his way to me.
“Did you steal my Malibu?”
“Where’s Carl? Carl?”
“He’s the guy I gave a ride here. But he doesn’t have access to my car,” I jingled my keys, “you can check my trunk if you want but it’s not me.”
Gordo from Lizzie McGuire looked me in my Christmas eyes (I’ve got green eyes so when I get high it’s like Christmas).
Be cool, I thought. You got this. You didn’t steal the Malibu so you have nothing to hide. Which wasn’t true, by the way. Not by a long shot; after all, I stole the Malibu based on the principle of the entire matter. After all, what’s a 30 year old doing at a party filled with high schoolers.
He furrowed his brow and moved on.
“Where’s Carl?” he asked Morgan.
She didn’t know. She was actually getting pissed at this point— not at the thief (me), but at the fact that her party was starting to get this awkward vibe where everybody realized they didn’t want to be there anymore except for the high schoolers because, well, alcohol was there. Alcohol is the coolest guy at a party when you’re a high schooler. And this time, the coolest guy was in my trunk.
“Alright,” Morgan called out, stopping all the Fun. “If you’re under 18 you have to leave.”
It took nearly 30 minutes to get all the scoundrels out of the house. In the meantime, Gordo from Lizzie McGuire checked nearly every cupboard in the house for his missing pussy liquor. He should have checked the washer and dryer. Or my trunk.
“Where’s Carl?” he kept saying.
At this point I was kind of worried for Carl— he never told me he was leaving and now it was making sense that he actually left the party. Of course, we didn’t check the washer and dryer for him either— which is where he was later found. But not with the Malibu because that shit was in my trunk. It still is. Hold on.
Throughout all this ruckus I forgot about trying to bang Morgan. And, in doing so, Morgan must have forgotten about trying to bang me. The party continued but Gordo fromLizzie McGuirewas angry the entire time. He even got in a fight with Allan.
“I didn’t steal your stupid bitch drink,” Allan had said.
“It wasn’t just a drink. It was a whole bottle you fucking faggot,” he said, throwing a punch at Allan. Of course, Allan’s a marine so he took the punch in stride and didn’t throw one back. Doing that would have meant killing Gordo from Lizzie McGuire or— at the very least— risking his entire military career. Can’t say the same about Gordo from Lizzie McGuire, though. His career ended when I was nine.
Long story short: I didn’t cheat on Katy.
Haven’t been out of the house since Crack-Fest 2014. It was a one-day thing buy my mind is still reeling. I mean, man, I could get a lot of shit done smoking crack. I didn’t get a lot of things done but still, it’s the crack-thought that counts, right?
It made me wonder why stepping on a crack is such a big deal for your mother’s back. What is the correlation between stepping on cracks and my mother’s spinal column? Instead of “step on a crack and break your mother’s back” it should be “knock your mother’s picture over and break your mother’s back”. That makes much more sense to me. I knock my mother’s picture over at least twice a day— sometimes on accident— and nothing bad ever happens to her. Then again, bad things don’t happen to people who are already dead.
Katy and I got in a fight over Skype yesterday. It wasn’t much of a fight, though, since I’m the only one thinking we got in a fight in the first place. She told me she went on a “kinda date” with some guy. The girl said she didn’t even know it was a date until the guy went in for a kiss.
“He doesn’t even speak English, Charlie; don’t worry,” she told me. So I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t worry so well that my internet accidentally turned itself off by itself and we never finished the conversation. That’s how we do passive aggression around here.
So what if he doesn’t even speak English? I consider that cheating. It is cheating so far as I’m concerned. Who the fuck goes on a date with another person when you’re already dating Charlie Brown? Not the future Katy Brown, that’s who.
Morgan’s throwing a party tonight. Going to go to that and see what’s up. Burn off some steam and try to forget all of this. I’m out of weed again too, so maybe somebody can smoke me out while I’m there.
Ugh. Carl is texting me. And Todd called again.
Wait, I actually had a pretty good day today.
Went to the dollar theater (total cost: 2 dollars) with Krisandra, Jaye, and Carl. First time anybody let me out with their girlfriend since I started masturbating to Facebook pictures. Is there a correlation? I hope not.
Didn’t stop Todd from calling me and it definitely didn’t stop Carl from calling me, texting me, and— I think— getting one of his guys to show up and stalk us. That may have been Carl, the crafty Mexican. He’s not even Mexican— that’s how good of a Mexican he is. So Carl called and he asked me if I could pick him up to hang out. I pretty much coughed “yes” back into the phone because I’m a masochist. Let me be clear: I hate Carl. But I love pain— sometimes all the time.
“Is it OK if to smoke in your car,” he asked from the backseat.
“Yeah, I mean I smoke so go for it. Be my guest.”
I should have said “smoke what”.
Carl was Jaye’s— is, I’m sorry— Jaye’s dead-beat boyfriend. First of all, he’s German. Second of all, he’s got a GPS tracking anklet on because (thirdly) he’s had four DUI’s in 2 years. He’s been on house arrest for two years but that hasn’t stopped him from smoking crack out of an apple in my car.
Carl passed me the still smoking apple— “I’m driving, It’s okay,” I lied. It wasn’t okay to smoke crack in my car and I really wasn’t driving anymore; the crack was.
See, Chaz smoked me out a fat crack bowl earlier in the morning to take my mind off of the fact his girlfriend smoked all our weed again.Lets just— never mind, we’ll talk about it later. I would have smoked the crack but I didn’t want Jaye and Krisandra to think I am a crack-smoker; Katy would have found out.
Listen, I don’t normally smoke crack. I don’t smoke crack. But Chaz smoked me out this huge crack bowl earlier to take my mind off the fact his girlfriend smoked all of our weed again. Lets just— never mind, we’ll talk about it later.
Jaye is a mormon, which is weird too. Sure she’s a pot-smoking mormon but she still wears the magic underwear and the church still considers her a “trusted source”— whatever that means. But to me it’s weird that this mormon girl would be dating such a dead-beat shit-sucker like Carlos.
Carl is writing a novel about his life. Was, I mean.
“I had to restart,” he recalled from the back seat, “ the typewriter I was using burned down.”
“You mean your laptop crashed,” Krisandra said.
“No, I used a typewriter.” Carl thinks he’s brilliant And he thinks his novel is too. “It’s kind of a semiautobiographical novel about my about my life until I turned 21.”
“You’re 23,” Jaye said.
“Two years are the ‘semiautobiographical’ parts.”
I think Carl has actually killed somebody now that I think about it— maybe twice. Nothing bothers me more than a person who thinks their life is interesting enough to document before the age of 25. Court cases or not, I can guarantee that anybody alive today who is under the age of 25 and is writing their autobiography is just a hack-narcissist.
Anyways, the movie was good and so was the crack. See, Chaz smoked out a fat crack bowl earlier to take my mind off the fact his girlfriend smoked all of our weed again. Lets just— never mind, we’ll talk about it later.
I really need to smoke some weed. Maybe I should hide my weed from now on. There’s a good place under my lamp nobody will look. And behind the blinds. The blinds are a good place.
Today was weird. For the first time in three years I received a phone call from a female before 9am. And it wasn’t a call from my girlfriend or my dead mother whom— by the way— didn’t even even call me for my birthday last year. Fine, mom. See if I call you on Mother’s Day.
It was Krisandra and Jaye who wanted to go to the dollar theatre and see a movie.
“You’re on speaker-phone with Charlie,” I speaker-phoned.
“Charlie, what’s up,” Krisandra said.
“Who is this?” I said.
“It’s Krisandra and Jaye. Did you wanna go to the dollar theatre and see The Lego Movie with us?”
And that was my Saturday.
Today was a monumental day for me. This has been officially seven (7) days since I’ve eaten at McDonald’s. Most people would scoff at this amazing feat but I’ll have you know that I’ve eaten McDonald’s consecutively 94 (ninety-four) days before this, with one week off for a hospital visit before 254 (two hundred and fifty four) consecutive days of dollar menu McDoubles and McChickens. Today it’s 10:05pm right now—it has been a rousing success because of this. McDonald’s is closed and I’m too drunk to drive to a 24 hour location. Good job!
I also called in sick to work today. See, I couldn’t find my work shoes. Just don’t know where they are. So that gave me enough reason to call in sick.
“I’m dying,” I told my boss.
“But what’s wrong with you?” she said.
And that’s how you get out of work. Nobody wants to argue with a man who knows exactly how much time he’s got left on this God-forsaken shit-rock. Good job!
Katy’s best friend Jaye knows I’ve been a bit depressed since Katy left so she picked me up and took me to Total Wine, which is this place that totally doesn’t sell just wine. This place has a million beers. And, like 97% of them aren’t on ice. That’s 970,000 (nine hundred and seventy thousand) beers that need to be put in the freezer right this instant. Putting them in the freezer will shorten the time it will take them to be prepared for mouth to mouth resuscitation.
We couldn’t find the beer I wanted, though. See, I was looking for Totality IPA and, in a fit of clarity and/or confusion I knocked over an entire display of beers designed to look like an Egyptian pyramid. But I’m not taking the blame for this; if Jews had built this beer pyramid they totally wouldn’t have fallen down, I’m sure of it. Alas, all the Jews in this town work at BevMo, not Total Wine. It was a terrible scene, but not as bad as the time a girl in a wheelchair wouldn’t date me because I was “too short”.
“You’re always sitting down!” I exclaimed.
“I don’t want it to look like my kid is pushing me everywhere,” she said.
“You have a kid? We’re done.
It was a terribly short relationship, as you can see.
After The Total Wine Fiasco we headed over to our friend Bernice’s house. Her name isn’t really Bernice but she won’t let me use the fake name I wanted to use for her so she gets “Bernice” instead. I was doing her a favor enough using a fake name, sheesh. Anyways, we were heading over to Bernice’s and Jaye was driving and I didn’t feel comfortable about it because Jaye was really getting into this new indie dubstep band called “Soul Seizure” or something and all of the ecstasy from her younger years has affected her ability to not shake like an old person knocking on Death’s Door when she’s behind the wheel. And I was her co-pilot. We made small talk, discussing how we both miss Katy and how we hoped she was having fun without us because she doesn’t need us to have fun, she’s so cool.
Bernice’s boyfriend, Hickory Stump, is into watching sports so for the first time in my life I got to watch sports and not pretend I object to it. It was exhilarating—the kind of high promised on the front of the Lucky Charms’ box (I also wanted to make it clear that Hickory Stump is not the same Hickory Stump that has an obsession with playing video games. I didn’t hang out with him once during my two day shut-in of playing video games. The reasons for this are simple: he has multiple sclerosis. It might seem like an asshole reason but I play video games to have fun and feel a little bit better about myself and this Hickory Stump plays video games because it’s literally the only thing he can do. And what make it less fun to play video games with him is that he’s actually better than me. So if I play him in Street Fighter and win then the only bragging rights I’ll have is that I beat a guy with multiple sclerosis in Street Fighter. And if I lose I feel even worse because I lost a game of Street Fighter to a guy with multiple sclerosis. Basically: it’s a lose-lose scenario for me. But that’s a different Hickory Stump.) .
I even got to watch pre-season baseball which is exactly like regular season and post-season baseball. Edit: Never mind, it was a regular season game.
Jaye started freaking out about an earache that came out of nowhere, by the way, so I did the respectable thing and had her drive me back to my car while she was six beers deep. I’m not insured for her car and the weed was affecting her more at that point anyways. Safest ride in town.
When I got home I realized another happy accident had happened. Not that there was a happy “accident” or any sort of acci…I see what you’re doing here, OK. I know when I’m being judged. I don’t care, man. It’s 10:05pm now and I haven’t had a single cigarette the entire day. No McDonald’s and no cigarettes—and, wait a second, did I forget to mention that I had supermarket sushi for my first time today, too? I think I did!
On top of that— Torrey hasn’t smoked all my weed and she’s not crying in Chaz’ room, the living room, or any room for that matter: the bitch went out of town for the weekend. This is the kind of stuff I live for.
Overall, this day was a 10/10. Not just because I made a step towards a healthier lifestyle but because I actuallytried today. I went out there and they asked me to bring my A Game and I brought my A+ Game, none of this fuckin C— bullshit you see on the courts these days. Fuck that.
Today, I am a giant standing upon another giant’s giants shoulders getting my giant dick sucked by a giant giant.
Today was exquisite. In fact, the last couple of weeks have been exquisite. Case in point: I beat a videogame. Wait, scratch that because I didn’t just beat one videogame. Hell no. I beat 18 of them. Four Call of Duties, Two Halos, Two Grand Theft Autos, every God of War, and both Manhunts. I can’t remember what the other games were but they trained me to kill people too. There is a man under my stairs that is going to stab me, too, I swear to God. He’s waiting for me.
I would have called Katy on Skype but I beat three of those Call of Duties with a team of 14 year olds online today so I think everything is gay. I mean, I don’t but the fact that I thanked the pizza delivery guy for bringing me extra ranch by calling him a “faggot” is enough reason. For bringing me extra ranch! I’m the faggot, if anybody is. And the irony gets me so hard.
Last night I got ten thousand words into writing Winning Raffles For Dummies before I realized that writing a book in this sort of economy was tantamount to failure. Nobody wants to read books about winning raffles when they can go on the internet and read the information on there. That means all of my work is just trash.
And that’s why I haven’t updated every single day. It’s been about playing video games, talking to Katy intermittenly, and listening to Torrey cry in Chaz’ room, our living room, and in my sleep. And smoking pot. Torrey has been smoking lots of our pot around here. Almost more than usual. Since I’m ignoring my friends’ phone calls I’m using all my extra phone minutes to call Aaron 4 and pizza guys.
I also began to write a story about getting a tattoo, reproduced here in its entirety:
Day 25. Sunday.
Never did I ever think this day was going to happen: I learned how to say “it’s cool” in German. It’s “ist krieg”. And it’s tattooed on my taint.
Wednesdays are particularly dreadful because no matter how you perceive time—forwards or backwards—the weekend is still two days away. Weekday stress is most concentrated on Wednesdays. Depressed people like me have no hope to find on a Wednesday. My friends know this and like surprising me with fun activities on Wednesdays because I let them believe I like surprises even though I don’t like surprises. What? I never said I was a particularly adept sociopath; I can’t control everything. Luckily, today was a Sunday.
Jeremy rang my blower today ‘round 4:30pm. “Me and Bryan are going to be by soon to pick you up.”
“15 minutes,” he said before an abrupt hang-up. Oh God. I’ve hated suprises since my parents “surprised” me and with cats— which is not to undermine my parents’ divorce by any means but I really hate cats.
“Whatever,” Jeremy said, “You haven’t eaten yet, right? Lets get lunch somewhere.”
“Sure man, I could eat some food.” And thirteen minutes later and I was hopping into the back seat Jeremy’s beat up 2012 Hyundai Aluntra and we were on our way to get me a tattoo.
“We’re taking you to the tattoo shop,” Bryan said as we pulled away from my apartment complex.
“Dude, I can’t afford a tattoo!” I said as Jeremy sped through one of them yeller lights.
“Don’t worry,” Jeremy called back to me, “We’re paying for it.” He pointed at Bryan and then back to himself. “Show him the cash,” he said. Bryan threw a phat stack of cash at me—like the kinds you see in the movies that have to be wrapped in rubber bands. It was a stack of twenties.
“Oh my God, how much…?” I started.
“One thousand dollars,” Bryan said.
“No way, a thousand dollars? Do they take cash like this at the tattoo store?” I asked.
“No,” Jeremy said, “We’re going to pay for the tatau by card. That thousand dollars is for you.”
My heart skipped a beat, my throat sank, and my hair went white. Oh no… “I don’t want to getthat tattoo,” I said.
“Sure you do,” Jeremy said.
“Sure I do,” I repeated back, unable to disagree with my best friend. See, I had drunkenly given my word three years ago that I would tattoo a vagina on my taint if Jeremy, Bryan, and/or any other backer had a thousand bucks to give me— on top of paying for the tattoo.
Bryan turned to me from the passenger seat, “Charlie, is the ‘Phil’ guy on your blog based off of me?”
“No, I have a co-worker named Tim that it’s based off of but I can’t use his real name so I had to change it to Phil.”
“I just really identify with the guy, you know?” he said.
“It’s because he can snap like a motherfucker, right?”
“Yeah, and I snap like a motherfucker and just like, he’s toothless too and you know me, right?” This was indeed true; I had forgotten that Bryan was also missing roughly half of his teeth.
“It’s nothing like Tim, though, Bryan. Tim- I mean, Phil, he has no teeth and you at least have twenty. And on the flip-side, Phil has a job and you don’t.” Bryan winced. He never liked me bringing up his lack of employment but I always liked bringing up his lack of employment, so it was hard to find a happy medium for the two of us to reach during conversation.
Jeremy kept driving and Bryan stopped talking. I wanted to balance my karma out before the tattoo so to make Bryan feel better I reminded him that Phil was homeless. And off we continued. Went. Kept going. To Mount Tattoo Taint. That wasn’t the name of the tattoo shop. I was just trying to make a joke during this stressful time.
When we got to the place it became clear to me that Jeremy and Bryan had been planning this event for a long time. The nurse up front had all the paperwork already filled out with my name and Jeremy was able to produce a forged parent note saying it would be OK to tattoo a realistic-looking vagina on my taint even though I could bleed to death (“You don’t have hemophilia today,” Jeremy assured me back in the car).
The nurse led Bryan, Jeremy, and me to the section of the warehouse where our doctor was going to perform the procedure. Nothing could have prepared me for the Matrix-like device they had waiting for me in this corner of the building. Now, I had been to a tattoo warehouse before so I was used to seeing the amalgamation of dentist equipment, workout equipment, and torture-sex equipment that the doctors used at similar shops, but I’d never seen the contraption they had set up for me before. Basically, imagine going to the OB-GYN except you don’t get to wait in the car this time.
It was a reclining chair that hard large chromium arms coming out from the bottom, all angled toward the leg-and-ass section of the chair. This thing was going to spread my legs wide open and hold them in position, while a long rope dangled from the ceiling above the seat.
I didn’t want to act like I didn’t know what I was talking about when the nurse was there so I waited for her to leave before giving Jeremy my analysis of my new temporary throne “I think I’m supposed to tie that rope around my balls so I don’t have to hold them up for…for how long? How long is this going to take?”
“Five hours the first day, I think,” Jeremy said. “We’ll have to come back in a couple months to do another session and get the coloring perfect.”
“Really, Jeremy? I’m going to have to do this more than once?”
Bryan interjected, “Your taint is going to be a bleeding mess five minutes into this thing, Charlie. They’re going to do as much as they can but there is no way they’re going to be able to get the entire vagina on your taint today.”
“Why are they tattooing such a big vagina on my taint?”
“It’s not about tattooing a monster key-lime pie on your taint so much as tattooing the perfect key-lime pie on your—” I cut Bryan off.
“So I mean, are you guys going to watch?”
“Yeah, I mean, we’re not going to stare at your dick, taint, and hairy asshole for five hours, but we’ll watch,” Jeremy said. Bryan nodded.
“We’re going to see your asshole, regardless,” Jeremy said,”We’re just not going to stare at it for five hours.” Five hours. This is really happening. Everything was hitting me hard. And quickly. The doctor was going to be out soon and then it was going to be time to show him my penis. And then he’s going to have to stab my taint with his electric tattoo machine. For five hours. I could already hear the cries of the lambs.
As if on cue, Dr. Jaime appeared. Dr. Jaime, was a short Mexican man. Pretty skinny, no tattoos himself— immediately a warning sign and by the shocked look I was making on my face it was clear to him I had noticed his lack of ink. He brought out a hand to shake, “Hey, I’m Jaime and I’m going to be tattooing this monster cunt on you.”
“Thanks, Dr. Jaime,” I said, shaking his hand, “But you’re not going to be tattooing a, uh, monster cunt on my taint.”
“Sure I’m not,” he said, winking. I wasn’t sure he got the point.
“No, Dr. Jaime, you are not going to tattoo a a giant vagina on me. It is going to be a normal-sized vagina tattoo.”
“Tatau,” Jeremy interrupted.
“Shut up with that tatau shit, Jeremy. This man is going to spend more time around my asshole awake than any person on this planet Earth has and will. Can we just make a couple more memories together before this one?”
I’m having a hard time getting the words on out this one. See, I mentioned getting “it’s cool” in German tattooed on my taint instead of the vagina at the beginning of the story, so that is fine. But I’m having a hard time figuring out how I would have convinced Bryan to get the tattoo of the vagina on his taint instead while I still end up with ist krieg on my gooch.
They say to “write what you know” so it should be understandable to you that I just don’t know how to describe getting ist krieg tattooed on my taint because I didn’t get ist krieg tattooed on my taint— I got a tattoo of a vagina on my taint. And so what? Katy gets to go fly to fucking Zimbabwe and I’m stuck here in Orange County with my thumb up my ass trying to make new and exciting experiences for myself.
I’m just at a loss.
I miss the way she used to walk— or hobble if she was in a bad mood. I miss her eyes, should she ever look into mine again, I would be a happy man. Boy. Man.
And that puss.
One time she asked me what my ultimate sexual fantasy was. It was awkward because, for one, I lied to her about it.
Me: In a giant robot. I want to have sex in a giant robot.
Katy: With one or in one?
Me: In one. Like a giant EVA unit from End of Evangelion.
Katy: What’s End of Evangelion?
Me: The movie version of one of my favorite TV shows. We talked about it on the way here.
Katy: You talked about it. And anyways, sex in a giant robot would be impossible. I’m talking about a fantasy we can live out in this hotel room.
Me: This is a non-smoking room, though.
Really, my fantasy was to bang her and her sister together— and if that wasn’t doable then I wanted to have a threesome with her and her best friend, Jaye. “And I can drink as much as I want and pass out while you and Jaye still have sex with me. And each other,” I never said.
What would you have done? Giant robots seems like it would be the go-to answer for me.
You know what’s weird is I can remember my lie but I can’t remember Katy’s sexual fantasy. I didn’t even ask her, come to think of it. But she definitely didn’t say “have a threesome”. She didn’t even ask if that’s what I wanted.
“Lets do the teacher fantasy,” she’d say.
“Only if you’re teaching special ed,” I’d say.
So we did that.
I knew signing onto Skype to talk to Katy was going to be a tense disaster. Son of a bitch, let me explain. I know you’ll let me explain. Here:
“Charlie,” she said, “I got my first piece of mail here in Argentina!”
“That’s exciting,” I said. I always tell Katy things are exciting because that’s the only synonym I know for “stupid”.
“They got they address right and everything. It’s from our old high school,” she beamed.
“Our high school mailed mailed you? What are they asking for, donations?”
“No, check this out, it’s actual physical mail.” Katy unfolded a white sheet of paper and held it up to the camera.
“I can’t see it, sweety, you’re—,” she held the paper closer, “you’re covering the camera with the sheet, Katy.”
“Look at it,” she whined. Katy didn’t understand I was going to have a hell of a time trying to read 12 pt. font text through a webcam. I decided to give it to her straight.
“Listen to me: tell me what it says. There is not a kind bone in my body capable of explaining the technological limits of reading 12 pt. text over Skype.” Katy pulled the paper away and set it down in front of her. She looked…shit, she was starting to get fat. Getting fat meant getting angry. Hives, too.
“Fine, you fucking jerk,” she shot back, “It says I’m invited to our high school reunion in June.”
“Really?” I said, “Not that I care about our high school reunion but how come you’re invited and I’m not?”
“Who says you’re not invited?” she said.
“Katy, you’re in Argentina and you didn’t even change your address and the invitation still made it to you in April. I live six miles away.”
“Maybe yours is late in the mail, Charlie. Maybe Chaz accidentally picked it up.” Preposterous. Chaz, my roommate, would never have picked up my mail because he has little hands.
“Sure, Katy. Little Handy Andy stole my high school reunion invitation.”
“Why are you being such a dick tonight?” she said. Her face was now a yin-yang symbol but instead of evil and good it was hives and not-hives.
“Because we went to the same high school, Katy.”
“That’s no reason to be such a twat,” she said.
“Katy, you’re breaking out in hives.”
“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”
“You know you break out in hives and seem fatter to me when you’re angry.”
“That’s so fucking insensitive, Charlie, I can’t believe you would actually say that to me.”
Maybe it was insensitive. Maybe it wasn’t. All I knew was that Katy and I hadn’t been in a fight like this since the last time I broke up with her.
Day —Minus Two Hundred and One.
“You’re breaking up with me?”
You could just smell the finality in the air — and even the tears streaming down her cheeks if you were a dog.
“It’s not— Katy, I’ve made my decision.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Can’t you smell the finality, baby?”
“I’m not some sort of dog, Charlie,” she said.
“Actually,” I asked her, “What is that smell?”
“Buffalo wings,” she whimpered. “I got you your fucking goddamn favorite food for dinner.” She didn’t whimper that out, actually. At least she wasn’t breaking out in hives. Tears of pain, sure, but no hives.
The rumble of thunder in the distance elicited a quizzical look from her for just a moment before her face began to contort back into a wretched look of a look. She began wailing. We were still standing in the same places we had been when I told her “[I] couldn’t do [this] anymore”.
All of this was terribly awkward. This, after all, was the second time I had broken up with Katy.
Day Minus Nine Hundred and Eighty Two.
“How can you do this to me?” she asked.
“I have to, Katy. I’m my own person—as are you. We’re just going down different paths in our life.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. I thought you loved me, Charlie,” Katy said, taking her hands off the wheel to wipe away a tear. Christ, I forgot, she was driving—this shouldn’t have happened when she was driving. What are plans fucking for, Charlie? For getting them right, not for forgetting them, alright? Fuck.
Actually we can get back to that one later. Focus, Reader:
Katy backed away from me and retreated further into the living room, collapsing on her couch. “Great, it’s going to start raining,” she said. “Perfect day.”
“It’s not going to rain, Katy. It’s August in Southern California; It was sunny as all fuck when I got here. It sounds like a helicopter.”
“You’re fucking crazy” she asserted—and not for the first time.
“Don’t call me crazy. Look, out the window, it’s not raining outside.”
“I can’t look out the window!” she screamed.
“Maybe it looks like it’s raining to you because of all the tears.”
Katy took a deep breath and then threw the pillow at me. “You told me you loved me!”
She was starting to get fat. Still, no hives.
“You told me you loved me!” she repeated, turning up the heat.
“Katy, it’s just that you don’t listen to me. Like this helicopter thing, for instance. It’s not raining outside. You can’t see that because you’re crying; everything looks like it’s raining to you. And it’s a goddamn helicopter!”
“What are you even saying?” Katy screamed. A surge of hives made themselves apparent on her newly-embiggened arms. The girl wasn’t yelling because she couldn’t understand me, either: her house was now shaking from the helicopter.I shouldn’t have done this at her house, I thought. Goddamn plans, Charlie. Goddamn plans.
“It’s thunder, Charlie, not a helicopter!” she screeched. I distinctively heard the sound of windows shattering upstairs.
“Holy shit!” I called, “the windows upstairs must have exploded or something.”
“That was lightening, Charlie” Katy continued, her hives now covered the visible majority of her visible skin. She stood up and shook her hands at me, raising her voice over the whirl of the SWAT team that was apparently storming the second level of her house. “How long have you been lying to me?”
Of course, I hadn’t been lying to Katy about being in love with her. At least, not for too long. Maybe a week or so. But she wasn’t willing to hear that.
“I haven’t been lying to you, Katy. I loved you for a long time. But this is getting to be too much for me.” Another window crashing punctuated my sentence.
“I planned my life around you!”
“Katy, I think that this is a conversation that definitely needs to happen!” I yelled to her, “but I am about 99% sure that a SWAT team is going to rush this downstairs area in about—”
Katy interrupted me—”You’re fucking crazy, Charlie. You’re right: we are done!”
That proved to be the last time Katy would interrupt me— at least until we got back together 48 days later. It was almost too late when I saw the lasers train themselves on Katie gigantic and massive titties.
“Abbot and Costello!”
“They have lasers pointed at your tits! Duck!”
“I can’t feel them!” she cried back.
“There is not a kind bone in my—” I stopped for a second. The SWAT team should have killed us both by now. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to argue about inability to understand physics.
“DUCK!” I screamed. And Katy, God bless her heart, actually tried ducking. Case in point: Katy tried to duck and knocked herself out with her tits.
That left me off the hook. So I ran as fast as I could out of her house before I could get shot or get knocked out by titties.
We’re perfect for each other.
“I didn’t read it,” Katy told me. She knows about the blog.
“Is it because of the break up stuff?”
“I’m sure readers will like it. And I even thought the fighting part was funny. But I don’t like going back to our break ups,” Katy said to me. No hives or anything, but she sure sounded like she’d been shot in the tits.
“It’s not real though,” I said.
“And I don’t appreciate you calling my breasts ‘Frank Zappas’, either.”
“I called them Abbot and Costellos.”
“What thefuck is that even supposed to mean?” she said. And, again, the hives started coming out.
“It was like, the first thing that came up on Google when I was looking for synonyms for breasts. I’m not a fucking genius or anything, Katy.” She was starting to get on my nerves. This was, after all, the fourth fight we had gotten into in this blog post.
“I’m going to do you a favor,” I told her,” You’re starting to break out in the hives again. Every time you break out in hives it reminds me of our break up. So stop breaking out in hives: It’s unattractive.”
“Tons of people find hives attractive, Charlie.”
“Then go join a hive hive—er, a hive colony or something. You’re more than welcome to google the subject.”
“I hope they forgot about your invitation to the high school reunion, Charlie, I really hope they did.”
“You’re going to regret saying that, I swear to God.”
“This is the third time you’ve mentioned God in this blog post, Charlie. And the dialogue is starting to get repetitive and even more nonsensical by the syllable”
Things started getting really hazy because I couldn’t remember when I was actually having this conversation with Katy. In fact, I’m pretty sure that we didn’t even have this conversation so much as text it to each other and then I tried to turn it into something that actually happened.
Guys. Come on. Work with me on this one.
Dictionary.com has a “Word-A-Day” that is featured every day. It features—Guess what? Vivify! That’s today’s “Word-A-Day”. It’s a transitive verb which means God fuck it all– some kind of verb. It means to endue with life; to make alive; to animate. And just like that, you’ve learned a word today!
This is a wealth of knowledge, persons. Did you know that taradiddle is a noun which means God fuck it all. Some kind of verb. Did you know what taradiddle meant before Wednesday, February 10th, 2010? When I found out what “taradiddle” meant on Wednesday, February 10th, 2010, I drank a gallon of milk whilst delivering a litter of puppies from a talking goat. You guys who found out on that Wednesday know what I’m talking about.
Of course, it’s hard to not use words like billet-doux and not seem like an articulate child-molester. Then again, I’m the guy that tried passing off taradiddle in the last paragraph. Are you guys kidding me? Who the fuck is inventing words nowadays.
Taradiddle basically means a lie. One of the shortest words in our dictionary is now a ten-letter behemoth capable of padding any Clown School Applicant’s entrance essay.A three-letter word is turned into a horrific reminder for every girl named Tara with daddy issues.
You know, you have to take risks in your paragraphs. You go for a Clown School joke and a rape joke all in the short span of two sentences. There’s nothing really redeeming—emotionally, I mean—about making Clown School jokes. Clowns are people too. Clowns are silly-ass motherfuckers. Think about a Clown that can’t afford Clown School tonight before you go to bed. Imagine the Clown in the same position as you, but clutching its pillow tightly, grasping for something it can never afford because of Clown School Taxes. Pining for the sound of a honking nose, but only hearing echoes of the past in dreams laced with liquor and deep-rooted hatred for a nonexistent Clown Daddy who never existed. But a Clown can never cry Clown Tears because it always has a smile painted on its face.
I don’t know where this clown shit is going.
Nobody uses words like mondegreen, flibbertigibett, or constitutional anymore. I propose we ban use of these words in common lexicon from this day forward. These extraneous words only serve to clutter our vernacular selves. Oh shit, I just pulled a vernacular.
What to do with the words? First, I just want to say:
Give them to me.
I want these words. You guys never use these atrocities of the tongue. I want to do something amazing with these words. I don’t have any solid plans right now but one idea is to have a million kids and name them all of the funny names. Logorrhea Brown, I dub thee my first child! People will think that’s a riot. It’ll surely attract a girl with the same sense of humor into my direction. All I gotta do is wait until the first day of kindergarten so I can drop Little Logorrhea off at Pre-School and meet all the hot moms.
I mean, if you guys show child services all of this writing, you can surely stop this from ever happening.
Susan bothered me about fixing her computer again today. Guess I should really get on that. And check out this weird conversation we had over work chat:
Mon 11:29 AM SueB29: What do u mean cheese?
Mon 11:29 AM AManIsMorissette: Never mind it was a joke
Mon 11:29 AM SueB29: Your so funny chuck
Mon 11:30 AM AManIsMorissette: thank you, but I found that joke on my facebook feed
Mon 11:31 AM SueB29: Wanna bang?
Mon 11:32 AM(AManIsMorissette has signed off)
That’s right: I didn’t respond. But I’m an idiot because I still saw Susan around the office twice after her invite; after all, we work in the same building. And sit next to each other. And we eat lunch together.
Anyways, I think she wants to bang. Guess I should really get on that. But she’s like, 30 years older than me. It’s an opportunity some people would tell me not to pass up but I’ve got Katy— even if she is 3,000 miles away.
The reviews on Amazon inspire one to ask: Has anybody listened to “R______” after spending their hard-earned money on it? Or is everybody here because R______ asked them to review his album on his blog?
Kanye- sorry, I mean- R______ claims to be a “driving force” in underground hip hop in Orange County and claims to have been so for the last 8 years. Maybe R______ is confusing himself with people who actually record music that isn’t filled with references to the movies, tv shows, and comic books he consumes in his free time.
I almost wanted to make a reference about how this album sounds like a lazy man’s version of “Illmatic” , an old NAS album that anybody who enjoys hip hop should know by now. Well, one of those anybodys is R______, who’s homage to that brilliant record comes in the form of “Golden State of Mind”. Everything in here begs one to ask: does Kan- sorry, how could I forget – R______ come up with any original ideas of his own?
Does everything need to be a reference to a reference?
The album is also over-produced. Nary a second goes by when R______’s voice isn’t slathered with effects that only serve to remind the listener that R______ doesn’t actually have any vocal talent. Half the time it sounds like he recorded his vocals underwater, which is a feat in and of itself because the sound of a person drowning is usually quieter.
I know that rapping doesn’t always have to rhyme. Everybody knows that. And R______ knows it so well that he eschews every opportunity he has to rhyme by NOT rhyming. Example lyrics (from “Submarine”): “since you like drinking to break the tension /”i love you” /is your favorite sentence”. If I didn’t know better I would say this would have been LFO’s greatest record, but Rich Cronin is dead and we’re here to listen to his greatest impersonator that nobody asked for.
The opening track is probably the funniest thing I have ever heard in my life, though. A disembodied, booming voice (probably R______) claims that R______ was betrayed by those he loved and that he soon became apathetic to the things around him. “And consumed by depression”. The booming voice then declares that everybody has been waiting for him to “once again, light our darkest hour”. R______ then proceeds to metaphorically turn off every light in your house for the next 30 minutes.
What was I expecting? This is a guy that hands out free razor scooters and backpacks with his logo (with his name) plastered all over. This is a guy who writes his own Amazon reviews when he can’t get his friends to do it for him. Enjoy buying your reviews, R______, because I definitely didn’t enjoy buying your record.
Or listening to it.
I took the checks Chaz gave me to the rent office to pay by hand. No way I’m getting fucked over again.
Update: The checks didn’t bounce! Looks like we’re in the clear again— and now we have learned a lesson about Chaz being a tricky dick. And I guess now is the best time to start looking into finding a new person to be my new roommate.
This is what I’ve put on craigslist:
$730 Master Bed/Bath w/ Already Furnished Rooms (Laguna Niguel)
This apartment is in a gated apartment community. Your neighbors will be english-speaking marines and spanish speaking day-workers. Nobody talks to each other and nobody dislikes these circumstances.
My roommate is not going to be able to make rent soon because he— get this— has a nice job where he makes enough money to pay rent. He just doesn’t pay rent because he’s a total cocksucker. I’m not saying he’s gay. What I’m trying to say is if he was gay then even the gay community would reject him for being such a gigantic dick-hog.
Rent total between the two of us is $1460— and that includes water. Utilities cost another $60 dollars which is something we can split down the middle.
The open room is a master bedroom with a balcony attached. It’s about 140 square feet. We’re on the second floor, too, so it’s not some sort of lame patio thing. Even though my cocksucking roommate is going, the couch and big screen tv and book shelves and fireplace get to stay. The fireplace was going to stay anyways but the point is that the place already looks like your dream apartment. And I get to keep the glass dining room table.
Remember the big screen tv I mentioned up there? Remember that? Remember it.
The place smells like cats but we don’t have cats. If you’re a cat person and you want to bring cats into the mix…don’t. Cats are all about licking themselves on nice furniture; they do not make good friends. But if you aren’t a cat person then you’re going to be in good company. I will not lick myself on any of our furniture.
I’m sure you want some specs. The entire place is about 1090 square feet. Parking requires a pass but we have a garage I don’t use because my roommate has been using it to park his bullshit Jetta in. The garage is yours: I don’t need it.
Some other cool things about Apartment J:
– Big Screen TV
-There’s a kitchen with everything kitchens usually have.
-Wireless internet. But I’d need somebody to help go in on paying that. I need help paying it now because of my roommate too, so there may be some bills we have to take care of before we can start a new internet plan.
-The furnished patio is attractive.
-What? Yeah, I said “fireplace” a while back.
-The college is nearby.
Once again, the college is nearby. If you can’t get to Saddleback within five minutes of leaving this place then you’re going the wrong way. Traffic or otherwise.
My roommate cannot find the USB cord to connect his camera to my computer, but in all honesty pictures won’t do the cat-smell justice.
Hopefully the room will sell. Soon.
Ask your students the following questions pertaining to the last chapter of “My Girlfriend Is Out of Town” that they read:
1) What can Charlie apply from what he has learned to the future?
2) Is Chaz-hands to be trusted? He seems like he’s up to something, right? (examples needed)
I miss a lot of things about Katy. I miss Katy, for one. I miss the way she used to laugh— although I missed that long before she left; she stopped laughing weeks ago.
I miss her smile— another thing she didn’t do often around me.
I miss…the sex. We’d whisper sweet nothings into each others’ ears:
“Beggars can’t be chooser,” we’d whisper, together.
“I’m going to quit shaving my armpits,” she’d whisper.
“Why would you do that?” I’d whisper-ask.
“It’s an artificial social construct and I don’t want to be held down anymore.”
“Your armpits are a decision we should both make together.”
“The both of us? Fuck that, it’s my body,” she said.
Katy began to get larger, in my very own arms, no less. She always seemed to gain weight when she was angry at me. “Stop getting angry,” I said, “Nothing sexually or emotionally helpful comes from it.”
Katy seemed to shed off a bit of her jiggle almost immediately— especially from her chin area. I petted her slowly to calm her down some more.
“That’s a good— good baby, what an inspiring feminist she is,” and she fell asleep like how an angry cat would. “Let’s bang and talk about it in the morning.”
So that’s what we did. We banged and didn’t talk about it in the morning.
This whole Katy going out of town thing has been about a lot of firsts. For the first time in years, for instance, I get three paychecks in the same month. What luck!
So for the first time in three years I decided to stay in on a Thursday night and not spend any money. And for the first time in ever I decided to do my taxes— and actually did them. And I owe the government $201. What luck!
While doing my taxes I called Katy on Skype to see how she was doing and her tits. The call rang for thirty (30) seconds until it finally picked up. It was a difficult thirty seconds— she could have been finishing a guy off for all I knew.
An old lady answered. She had wrinkles and did not look happy.“Katy,” I exclaimed, “What happened to your face? We are breaking up, holy shit, what has Argentina done to you?”
“Hola Charlie,” Katy’s voice said from off-screen. Everything was coming together. “That’s my—,” she started, but I cut her off.
“It’s your grandmother!” I exclaimed. Thank goodness, that was a close one.
“No,” her grandmother said. Her face got older and angrier looking, “You do not call me Grandma . You call me Blanca.”
“Really? You want me to call you White? Like, White Lady? Grandma Pelota, como se dice ‘that’s doritos locos’ en espanol?” I asked.
Katy pushed her Blanca aside and took the center of the screen.
“Hey love,” she said.
“It’s so good to see you sweety,” I said. “It’s been ten whole days.”
“Did you notice anything different about me?” she asked.
To be honest, I was just going to say she lost weight but I hadn’t noticed that…I figured maybe I wasn’t able to tell because of the camera or something. So I told her that.
“No,” she shot back, “I dyed my hair.”
“Katy, I love you but I can’t tell on Skype. You dyed your hair right before you left; I’m not going to be able to tell the difference on Skype,” I calmly asserted.
“We need to talk,” she said.
Oh no, I thought. Do we? “Do we?” I asked.
“Yes, we haven’t talked to each other in nine days. We need to at least talk to each other.”
“Well if that’s your rationale then OK; We don’t have to talk. We should talk. But that’s still subjective—we should talk because it would be good for our relationship. Now whether or not our relationship is good for us is a matter of objectivity as well. So for our own selves, should we talk to each other?”
“I can’t hear you,” Katy said, looking down, “You’re breaking up.”
“I know, I’m trying to,” I said.
We talked in circles like this for about an hour before we told each other that we loved each other and good night. She kept mentioning how sad I looked and I told her how it had to do with me missing her. But that was only half true—actually, it was about 13% true; I was 86% unhappy because of my taxes, 13% unhappy because she was gone, and 1% unhappy with my upbringings as usual because fuck you dad.
This happened a few weeks ago.
Katy was telling me some story that only served to remind me she wasn’t pretty enough to marry. Somebody could marry her, I thought, but this shit isn’t going to be worth it. Such a boring shit piece, this story was.
That’s not to say I wasn’t paying attention. Basically, the story was about how a friend from her UCLA days texted her so they could catch up on life over some coffee, as if one coffee cup could be enough. “And he never shows up!” she says. “Who instigates a meet-up and then bails on it?”
“Serial rapists,” I told her, in my head. I didn’t say anything aloud because her story was so incriminatingly boring I was starting to think about killing myself under the Indiana Jones pinball table when she wasn’t looking.
“Still,” I said, “Who wants to kill themselves at Patsy’s?”
“What?” she said. Oops. Must have let part of my suicidal slip.
“Nothing. That guy is a dick,” I said, not knowing it was a guy who had texted her. “Nobody stands up my Katy and gets away with it but me and serial rapists.”
Katy laughed at that because she thought I was making a joke— as if I’d ever do that.
“Yeah, she’s a bitch I guess,” she said.
We both ordered a couple more drinks and watched Bryan reintroduce himself to everybody he already met at the bar. Bryan didn’t have the best memory unless the subject was money or tattoos— which are difficult to forget because they are permanent.
Katy had to piss, I remember. “I have to piss,” she said, I remember. Bryan had left. And Katy had left her phone on the table. Obviously, she was hiding something. But what? I had to know.
First place I looked through was her texts. Don’t know what I was looking for, but I was determined to find it. I love secrets and I was hungry for more. Some secrets to sober me up, ya know?
And what do I find? She’s the one that texted him first. Alan Thickhole was his name. I’m all about changing names on this blog but not Mr. Thickhole’s.
She texted him first.
She texted him first.
It’s not that big of a deal on the outset…but she shouldn’t have had to lie about it.
I want to find Alan Thickhole and I want to know if he’s more attractive than me. I want to know who he is. And there are like, 30 Alan Thickholes on Facebook so it’s hard to tell which ones are the ones she’s trying to bang. So far it’s looking like 30 Alan Thickholes are the ones she wants to bone, though. I’m gorgeous but these guys are beast-men. Fucking lumberjack attractive. And black. Most Alan Thickholes are black.
Susan at work wants me to fix her computer. And normally I wouldn’t update my blog from work but she told me that she has naked pictures of herself on this computer. Now I have to fix it. So I’m just letting ya’ll know from work.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Chaz says, the nerve of him. He found out about rent today. I mean— he found out I know he hasn’t been paying rent. Our rent. Not even my half.
That’s right: he’s been taking my rent money for three fucking months and he hasn’t been paying any rent.
“I’ll have my dad write you a check,” he says. What a fucking disaster.
“Why,” I asked, “haven’t you been paying rent?”
“I messed up bad— I’m bad with money— I’m sorry,” he said.
He blamed his girlfriend who was, by the way, crying and smoking all of our weed in the living room.
Chaz put his hand on my knee, like how your rapist uncle would. “Smoke a bowl, son,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
“It’s on me,” he said.
“No, I think I bought this sack,” I said.
“I remember giving the money to Aaron,” he said, invoking the name of our Holiest of Drug Dealers. I pushed his hand off my lap.
“Who’s money?” I asked. Chaz was silent. Maybe he gets the point, I figured. The asshole. But he proved me wrong next by saying:
“With my money.” He started grabbing for my knee again; like your rapist uncle who is also blind. I pushed his hand away again and yelled.
“You owe me three thousand dollars!”
“Technically I owe the rent office six thousand dollars,” he said.
“You’re not even the least bit sorry,” I said.
“I told you I was.”
“But you’re not.” He wasn’t, I promise.
Chaz paused, his mouth agape. “You have to pay the rent,” I told him.
“That’s— I could pay up what I owe. My dad will write that check.”
“And then keep paying rent like you’re supposed to,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he wasn’t, “I can’t keep paying rent” That was bullshit— he has a great job working for his dad’s company and for him to keep up paying rent he’d have to start paying rent in the first place.
“So what are you going to do?” I said.
“Move out,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
“You can’t do that,” I said.
“The lease doesn’t have to be renewed in August with me on it,” he said, taking a drag.
“No, the cigarette.” He took another drag.
“I can smoke,” he said.
“But not in my room. Get out,” I said. Chaz took another long hard drag and tossed his cigarette on the floor, stomping it out.
“You’re not being too cool about this, Charlie.”
“I smoke cigarettes too; I know what it takes to be cool.”
“No, you’re not being cool about the rent thing.”
“I’m being remarkably ‘cool’ about the rent thing right now.”
Chaz lit another cigarette.
“Stop that,” I said. He threw his cigarette down and stomped it out.
“I’m going to LA for the weekend, so we’ll talk about this later,” he said.
And just like that— like my father— he was gone again.
Now we get the “24 Hours To Vacate The Premises” notice. What the fuck. When Chaz gets home I’m going to talk to him about it; something doesn’t feel right.
Break at work today was the usual circus. I was staring out the window, looking at the pretty, pretty birds, when suddenly—in the corner of my eye—I saw a hand and heard an awful racket. It was Phil, and he was sitting on the other side of his cublet aisle, raising his hand to get my attention. Raising his hand and snapping his fingers.
And Phil may have been stupid but Phil sure could snap like a motherfucker.
At first I was going to pretend to not notice but my headphones weren’t on and, as stated before, Phil’s shaking hands made his snapping look like a signal for some sort of emergency going on in his body. I’d be runner-up for a Sociopath Hall of Fame nomination if I got away with “not noticing” this palsied spectacle.
“The birds, Phillip,” I called out from over the row of cublets, pointing out the window as I stood up to make eye contact with him from over the tiny desk-spaces. He was in his chair, hunched over his desk and looking at his hands while rubbing them together like a person only kind of trying to keep warm. Instead of business-casual attire, the chap is dressed in a red oversized t-shirt and dog shit covered jeans.
“Phil, you look like you just got fired from Target.”
Phil continued to rub his lousy hands together but he finally moved his head and made pathetic eye contact with me.
“How was the show, man?” he said.
The show? My mind started racing. This toothless motherfucker.What was he talking about? I want to go back to staring out the window. What frivolity.
“What show?” I asked.
“The Frank Black one on Friday,” he practically hurled out of his disgusting fucking mouth.
“No man,” I said, “that show is this Friday. I told you that last Friday after I got trashed at the Coach House last Thursday, Phil. On Thursday you told me the show was that night. And it wasn’t.”
“91.5 said it was that night,” he slurped back up into his mouth hole.
“No one listens to the radio, Phil,” I didn’t say. My God, this fucking savage. Radio? And what’s even worse is 91.5 is the local Classical music station. They would never advertise a Frank Black show on their station.
“Check this out,” Phil said. He pulled out a dark blue torpedo-shaped object about the size and shape of an electric toothbrush out one of the many holes in his pants. My first thought was, Is this something you smoke out of under a bridge or something? followed by Oh my God, that’s a Justin Beiber electric toothbrush. Holy shit, Phil,
I mean come on man.
Phil told me how he had obtained it. “I was over at my kid and his mom’s place and I found it under their couch when they left for LegoLand,” said, standing up to give me a closer look at the apparent breakthrough in science.
“Phil, your son is 16 years old. That wasn’t his,” I calmly asserted him. He pressed a button on the device and it start to emit, fittingly, a Justin Beiber song. And grinning like a toothless guttersnipe he was, Phil started to sing along with the electric toothbrush.
I pulled out a pen and started writing down what was happening on a sticky note so I wouldn’t forget—in case, somehow, I found the holy grail that would let me.
“What’re you writin’ downsh?” Phil seized at me.
“Phil, I came on a sock today. It was my last sock so I had to wear it into work. I did my laundry yesterday, too, Phil. It’s pathetic. Can I have a moment, please?”
I believe today was my second day in a row of McDonald’s. The ante was upped today, too—I ordered two Spicy McChickens, a McDouble with no onions and pickles, and I found a fry at the bottom of my bag. I smoked it like a cigarette because I was out of cigarettes but I had a free fry.
And they’re not serving the Shamrock Shake anymore. It’s a real shame. You don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone. Until next year, Shamrock Shake. We’re all lost without you.
I mean, I’m “home-sick” for my girlfriend but I also wish I could be Shamrock Shake sick.
“Chaz-hands” said he didn’t know what the letter from the rent office was about. He thinks they made a mistake. So he made a phone call and, sure enough, it was a mistake. This means we get to keep living in Apartment J. Score!
Was at work today and one of my co-workers, Phil, an old man who is both my co-worker and a hardly functioning alcoholic, told me that Frank Black was going to be playing at the Coach House tonight. I hit up the handicapped stall to check out Ticketmaster on my phone. Ticketmaster didn’t have Frank playing at the Coach House and—to be honest—I didn’t feel like googling the event, so I asked Phil if I could get the tickets for the show at the door.
“Is this foreshadowing?” Phil said.
“What are you talking about? Can I buy the tickets at the Coach House is what I asked.”
“Sure, yesh, of coursh,” he said through his toothless sock-hole mouth.
Cool. Show’s supposed to be at 7:00pm. Pre-game in my trunk at six, then.
I get out of my trunk at about 6:45pm and stumble my way to the front of the venue. “I’m here for Frank Black,” I tell the bouncer.
“Who’s Frank Black?” he said.
“The lead singer of the Pixies, man. He’s supposed to play his guitar here tonight”
“Why don’t you go check with the box office little man.” The box office didn’t show Frank playing.
“No way,” I said. Phil. That fucking drunk. He gave me the wrong date. “That old fucker said it was going to be tonight,” I said to a wall.
“Huh?” the bouncer said.
“I’m sorry, I’m a bit mixed up with my dates. Can I use your bathroom? I’ll go back to my trunk when I’m done.”
“Sure, kid,” he said. “You’re not driving, are you?”
“No, my girlfriend is the designated driver. She always is.”
Worst Friday ever.
Anyways, instead of driving home I accidentally drove back to the office. I can’t be incriminated for writing any of this, right? I mean, I didn’t kill anyone— hell, I didn’t even injure a person. Sure, I thought about playing Corners (if you don’t know how to play Corners— it’s simple: When you see a person or a group of people at a corner you estimate how long it would take you to beat them all up) but nobody got hurt.
I drove back drunk, hammer-schmammered— buttfuck wasted. Nobody got hurt, and if you weren’t interested in reading this then you would have stopped days ago. And it’s not like I’m bragging about being drunk.
When I got back to the office Phil was not there. No. What was there, however, was mouth sex. Even though it was nearly an hour ago I still have the image burned in my mind of…wait, yeah, it was Phil. Fuck that guy; he gave me bunk concert info, so what does it matter if I tell you he was sucking off the HR manager, even if it wasn’t him? Fuck that guy, again. My HR manager has a monster donkey dick, by the way. It’s unfortunate I had to see it but it’s even more fortunate nobody saw me.
I’m not even gay and I still prefer imagining toothless Phil getting down on the skin flute like Boz Scaggs over the reality of the situation.
Not gay. Just drunk and pissed that there wasn’t a Frank Black concert tonight. And where’s my fucking girlfriend?