Just how many people need to stop me on the street and telling me my recipe for egg salad sandwiches isn't all that great?
It all started at the county fair and to be honest, I was so nicotine poisoned I can't remember if I walked there or flew in on my 747 and landed in a trailer park and killed a bunch of trees and wells and farm animals and fences and basements and clotheslines and outhouses, but goddammit I was there.
As the bodies began falling from the Ferris Wheel and judges began pinning ribbons on said bodies, I made my way to the nearest game booth to find a middle aged man with a shotgun his mouth. I read the sign.
"GIVE THIS MAN ONE GOOD REASON NOT TO! WINNER GETS (1) SMALL PRIZE! TRADE UP! TRADE UP!"
I couldn't think of anything. He couldn't either. Not anymore.
Past the stables where people showed off their children in cages, hoping for an award, hoping someone from the local shirt making factory would buy them in an auction, I spotted the chance to made a little cash. But not before I was grabbed by the arms and escorted to the ringmaster's tent.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
6
Knowing full well what I was getting into, I proceded forward.
The Oriental golf pro from across the way decided to drop by and offer a series of Powerpoint slides to me showing how he was the center of the universe. The graph was very colorful; in fact, too colorful. It was a bar graph, showing every major event you can think of (except 9/11, because let's face it, every motherfucker on the planet uses that one), and one of the bars, colored in pastel blue nonetheless, showed his birth and rise from the ashes of enlightenment.
I'm standing there, wondering whether I really like saltine crackers or not, when he piped up with an offer.
"You can be my friend for half of the quarter of what you tithe to yourself before and after taxes."
I pondered this, and while he was powering down his film projector, I asked for more information while I tied my shoes. He remained silent, figuring he had said everything he needed to say. After zero interaction from both of us, he handed me a coupon for a free car wash and a gerbil massage from the local Italian eatery, which pissed me off to know end.
"Asshole. You know how many CLOSETS I have FILLED with these fucking things?" I said, throwing it back at him. I didn't have time to fuck around with this off-world runner because I had an appointment with the CEO of Worldtron.
I cancelled that one and decided to walk the circumference of the earth, only stopping to spin on a playground's merry-go-round until the colors changed. Eventually it caught on, and hoards of idiots just like myself walked with me, until finally the population of the earth in its mass stopped with me in a desert in some godforsaken corner of it all.
"Jump."
They all jumped.
"Keep jumping. And stay here."
I walked away, or at least I tried to. You try walking when 6 billion people are throwing the planet's axis off. I didn't think it would work until it started snowing...right there in the desert.
There is a god.
The Oriental golf pro from across the way decided to drop by and offer a series of Powerpoint slides to me showing how he was the center of the universe. The graph was very colorful; in fact, too colorful. It was a bar graph, showing every major event you can think of (except 9/11, because let's face it, every motherfucker on the planet uses that one), and one of the bars, colored in pastel blue nonetheless, showed his birth and rise from the ashes of enlightenment.
I'm standing there, wondering whether I really like saltine crackers or not, when he piped up with an offer.
"You can be my friend for half of the quarter of what you tithe to yourself before and after taxes."
I pondered this, and while he was powering down his film projector, I asked for more information while I tied my shoes. He remained silent, figuring he had said everything he needed to say. After zero interaction from both of us, he handed me a coupon for a free car wash and a gerbil massage from the local Italian eatery, which pissed me off to know end.
"Asshole. You know how many CLOSETS I have FILLED with these fucking things?" I said, throwing it back at him. I didn't have time to fuck around with this off-world runner because I had an appointment with the CEO of Worldtron.
I cancelled that one and decided to walk the circumference of the earth, only stopping to spin on a playground's merry-go-round until the colors changed. Eventually it caught on, and hoards of idiots just like myself walked with me, until finally the population of the earth in its mass stopped with me in a desert in some godforsaken corner of it all.
"Jump."
They all jumped.
"Keep jumping. And stay here."
I walked away, or at least I tried to. You try walking when 6 billion people are throwing the planet's axis off. I didn't think it would work until it started snowing...right there in the desert.
There is a god.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
5
Right around the time the government banned the use of quarters for use in soda and snack machines, I found myself at the local grocery store hunting for a new paint to color my kitchen floor with. I was looking for a dark color, because I figured if it was dark enough, I could dump shit on it and nobody with half a fucking brain would notice. That, and I needed for supplies for my nightly sleep, mainly products with ungodly amounts of tryptophane so when I hit the pillow, the colors of unsunned skies and textures of only dreamt-of Quake maps would flood the area between my pupils and eyelids.
"YOU CALL THIS VIETNAM?" I could hear the man down the street scream this to his wife constantly as he made his way to the community mailbox where mail was sorted *right* *there* and whether or not you received the mail addressed to you was horseshit because you were goddamn good and GLAD to have gotten anything.
Upon paying for my supplies, I was asked to step outside so the owner could put a revolver to my head and have me tell him why all the cool religious stuff happened hundreds of years ago, but all we have nowadays is a bunch of motherfuckers walking around in clothes of brown telling us they are Jesus, while the rest of us simply plop money into the coffee stained cups of despair. I had to hurry home to play this new Xbox game where upon inserting the disc, a list of reasons why you should set fire to everything you own slowly scrolled down the screen. Once that was done, you had to go to your window and publically acknowledge that yes, there was a sun and that once harnessed, you too could write your own Family Guy episodes.
Of course, none of that made a fucking difference in what's known as my life, so I ran for public office and won that very day. The first thing I did was quit followed by an impromptu singing of a random Fleetwood Mac song. Once done, I bowed and left, only to return home to see it was the same fucking color, in the same fucking neighborhood, at the same fucking time, every fucking day of my life.
On top of that? I couldn't even begin to tell you why the television played nothing but Air Supply songs over color bars. But it was a welcome change.
"YOU CALL THIS VIETNAM?" I could hear the man down the street scream this to his wife constantly as he made his way to the community mailbox where mail was sorted *right* *there* and whether or not you received the mail addressed to you was horseshit because you were goddamn good and GLAD to have gotten anything.
Upon paying for my supplies, I was asked to step outside so the owner could put a revolver to my head and have me tell him why all the cool religious stuff happened hundreds of years ago, but all we have nowadays is a bunch of motherfuckers walking around in clothes of brown telling us they are Jesus, while the rest of us simply plop money into the coffee stained cups of despair. I had to hurry home to play this new Xbox game where upon inserting the disc, a list of reasons why you should set fire to everything you own slowly scrolled down the screen. Once that was done, you had to go to your window and publically acknowledge that yes, there was a sun and that once harnessed, you too could write your own Family Guy episodes.
Of course, none of that made a fucking difference in what's known as my life, so I ran for public office and won that very day. The first thing I did was quit followed by an impromptu singing of a random Fleetwood Mac song. Once done, I bowed and left, only to return home to see it was the same fucking color, in the same fucking neighborhood, at the same fucking time, every fucking day of my life.
On top of that? I couldn't even begin to tell you why the television played nothing but Air Supply songs over color bars. But it was a welcome change.
Friday, March 11, 2005
4
As I walked along, everything subtly changed. The wind would suddenly stop blowing, or a tree would be there but then there would still be a tree there but not the same kind or where there was a walking path now was a 8 lane interstate highway system or someone you knew had a certain shade color of eyes but now didn't. All of this happened as I walked by because it sure as shit didn't change while I was staring right at the goddamn thing.
The people that hated you yesterday love you today and the people who never bothered to give you the time of day now want your autograph. I was lucky because, since my life's story from birth until death had already been published twice, I could enjoy having some poor schmuck walk around with me and tell when I'm going to fuck up and when I'm going to fuck up even worse knowing I'm going to fuck up in the first place. I found myself waiting to fall asleep so I could use that time to adjust who I am just so I can only hope to mean something to something in this world, when in fact all I got was the same caliber of persons telling me they were doing the same gig, and the only problem they could figure out so far is that AOL Instant Messenger doesn't allow for a contact list that large, so that's why we're doomed to walk around thinking we're not alone but we can't confirm that due to the restriction.
It was partly my fault due to my ego. Every morning I'd wake up and immediately pick up a copy of the script, race to the bathroom, and then count have many lines I was written for compared to the other co-stars. On the days I didn't get the most lines, I'd make it a point to go up to the other people and tell them shit along the lines of, "I'm going to help make this scene work! We can do it!". On the days I did get the most, I'd paraphrase what was written just to give the director a hard time because she worked so hard on it.
And THAT was just this morning.
The people that hated you yesterday love you today and the people who never bothered to give you the time of day now want your autograph. I was lucky because, since my life's story from birth until death had already been published twice, I could enjoy having some poor schmuck walk around with me and tell when I'm going to fuck up and when I'm going to fuck up even worse knowing I'm going to fuck up in the first place. I found myself waiting to fall asleep so I could use that time to adjust who I am just so I can only hope to mean something to something in this world, when in fact all I got was the same caliber of persons telling me they were doing the same gig, and the only problem they could figure out so far is that AOL Instant Messenger doesn't allow for a contact list that large, so that's why we're doomed to walk around thinking we're not alone but we can't confirm that due to the restriction.
It was partly my fault due to my ego. Every morning I'd wake up and immediately pick up a copy of the script, race to the bathroom, and then count have many lines I was written for compared to the other co-stars. On the days I didn't get the most lines, I'd make it a point to go up to the other people and tell them shit along the lines of, "I'm going to help make this scene work! We can do it!". On the days I did get the most, I'd paraphrase what was written just to give the director a hard time because she worked so hard on it.
And THAT was just this morning.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
3
"Hey, it's me. I figure since you don't return my phone calls, I'll go ahead and leave another message saying how proud I am you actually got around to hooking up the answering machine I sent you last September. I'm going in for heart surgery tomorrow, and I don't know if I'll be back or not, but if they do find anything, and I do mean ANYTHING in my chest resembling a heart, I will personally hold YOU accountable and will spend my days researching ways to get your next life's pass revoked. You hear me, asshole? . Other than that, have a great day and call me back. Take care."
2
"Christ, of all places, you picked this dump?"
I kind of enjoyed this bar. The open area of the bar consisted of the usual decor; The bar, stocked with the usual assortment of alcohol and a large white guy wearing nothing but blue jeans and a black leather vest who spent his offtime constantly polishing the glasses, bar stools each with a cut along the top cushion, rickety chairs and tables each with a cry for help carved into the seat, and the complimentary Wurlitzer jukebox stocked with the B-sides of every band you've ever known, complete with a bullseye on the top left-hand portion of the front glass so downtrodden men could come in, hit it, and have the jukebox come alive with music so they could pretend they were cool for the amount of time it him to realize nobody gave a fuck.
"Let's make this quick. I'm supposed to be 400 miles from here by tomorrow afternoon to counsel some other brainfucked idiot."
I sat down first, across from the bearded professional.
"The way I see it," he said, lighting a cigarette and then pointing it at me, "You got two choices. One, you could sell everything you own, take the money, put it into an account that only your goddamn kids can touch when they are older, and then steal a chrome cap gun from one of the many lovely fucking dollar stores around here, remove the orange tip, point it at a cop, and hope for the best," he said, exhaling.
That didn't sound good. Taking the orange cap off those shitty guns is a pain I would rather not endure. Again.
"Or," he said, taking out a worn frying pan, "I can take you out in the parking lot and hit you just hard enough on the head with this and knock you retarded. You'll still be alive, but you'll be able to collect monies from the government because you'll tell them you fell or tripped or walked into your bathroom door a little too fast."
I frowned. "Great, I'll still be alive," I said while accepting the unordered dish of food from a passing waitress.
"Yes," he said, grinning, "but you won't be able to function properly in society. At most, you'll be able to grunt and moan to communicate and you'll probably spend your days telling yourself how keen you are because you actually buttoned your fucking shirt correctly for that day."
I shook my head and ran my hand down my face, sighing. "And what good is that going to do?"
"Nobody can possibly accuse you of being an asshole, even if you are presently a recovering one."
I slid him the money.
With that, we stood up and headed for the door. Choosing a semi-lighted part of the parking lot, I took off my bandana and bent down slightly so he could get a clear shot.
"Okay, son." he said, taking a few practice swings. "This will only hurt for the rest of your life."
I stood there staring at the ground for what seemed like a minute when I slowly brought my head up to see him bent over with the frying pan, breathing heavily. He looked up at me and gave me a what-the-fuck look.
"Hey," I said. "When did you shave your beard?"
His eyes widened, face filled with failure.
"FUCK!" He said, throwing the pan at an early 80s conversion van. "That didn't do any good! You're in another world alright!" He began to pace back and forth, arms open, looking at the sky. "Just not your own!"
I stood there with my hands on my knees promising myself to find the asshole who thought up this shit up.
The man gathered the pan and cracked his neck. "I keep the money." he said, walking off. I nodded to him. Off he went to probably study his pan charts a little closer, leaving me in this technically new world, where nothing but that fucker's lack of a goddamn beard was different.
I kind of enjoyed this bar. The open area of the bar consisted of the usual decor; The bar, stocked with the usual assortment of alcohol and a large white guy wearing nothing but blue jeans and a black leather vest who spent his offtime constantly polishing the glasses, bar stools each with a cut along the top cushion, rickety chairs and tables each with a cry for help carved into the seat, and the complimentary Wurlitzer jukebox stocked with the B-sides of every band you've ever known, complete with a bullseye on the top left-hand portion of the front glass so downtrodden men could come in, hit it, and have the jukebox come alive with music so they could pretend they were cool for the amount of time it him to realize nobody gave a fuck.
"Let's make this quick. I'm supposed to be 400 miles from here by tomorrow afternoon to counsel some other brainfucked idiot."
I sat down first, across from the bearded professional.
"The way I see it," he said, lighting a cigarette and then pointing it at me, "You got two choices. One, you could sell everything you own, take the money, put it into an account that only your goddamn kids can touch when they are older, and then steal a chrome cap gun from one of the many lovely fucking dollar stores around here, remove the orange tip, point it at a cop, and hope for the best," he said, exhaling.
That didn't sound good. Taking the orange cap off those shitty guns is a pain I would rather not endure. Again.
"Or," he said, taking out a worn frying pan, "I can take you out in the parking lot and hit you just hard enough on the head with this and knock you retarded. You'll still be alive, but you'll be able to collect monies from the government because you'll tell them you fell or tripped or walked into your bathroom door a little too fast."
I frowned. "Great, I'll still be alive," I said while accepting the unordered dish of food from a passing waitress.
"Yes," he said, grinning, "but you won't be able to function properly in society. At most, you'll be able to grunt and moan to communicate and you'll probably spend your days telling yourself how keen you are because you actually buttoned your fucking shirt correctly for that day."
I shook my head and ran my hand down my face, sighing. "And what good is that going to do?"
"Nobody can possibly accuse you of being an asshole, even if you are presently a recovering one."
I slid him the money.
With that, we stood up and headed for the door. Choosing a semi-lighted part of the parking lot, I took off my bandana and bent down slightly so he could get a clear shot.
"Okay, son." he said, taking a few practice swings. "This will only hurt for the rest of your life."
I stood there staring at the ground for what seemed like a minute when I slowly brought my head up to see him bent over with the frying pan, breathing heavily. He looked up at me and gave me a what-the-fuck look.
"Hey," I said. "When did you shave your beard?"
His eyes widened, face filled with failure.
"FUCK!" He said, throwing the pan at an early 80s conversion van. "That didn't do any good! You're in another world alright!" He began to pace back and forth, arms open, looking at the sky. "Just not your own!"
I stood there with my hands on my knees promising myself to find the asshole who thought up this shit up.
The man gathered the pan and cracked his neck. "I keep the money." he said, walking off. I nodded to him. Off he went to probably study his pan charts a little closer, leaving me in this technically new world, where nothing but that fucker's lack of a goddamn beard was different.
1
And then it happened....
The Grammer Nazis saw fit to put up a red 5 man tent outside of the complex I reside in. It had a 5 inch window that was cut open with what could have been a butterknife, or extra-strength plasticware if you really want to get artistic. Peering out of my window, I noticed a lot of movement inside the tent, with different eyes presenting themselves in the makeshift window.
I knew this day would come, so I went to my top dresser drawer and got out my special notebook. 70 pages. Wide ruled. Cover torn off. I was ready.
Opening the kitchen window to my complex, I began the onslaught.
"CAT! K-A-T!"
No response.
"DOG! D-A-W-G!"
Rustling within the tent increased.
"TOILET! T-O-L-I-T!
A Geiger Counter clicking began. I figured it was enough for now. Everytime I hear a clicking like that, I sit around for the rest of the day waiting for Egon Spangler to run out in front of complex screaming about something chasing him.
Or not.
The Grammer Nazis saw fit to put up a red 5 man tent outside of the complex I reside in. It had a 5 inch window that was cut open with what could have been a butterknife, or extra-strength plasticware if you really want to get artistic. Peering out of my window, I noticed a lot of movement inside the tent, with different eyes presenting themselves in the makeshift window.
I knew this day would come, so I went to my top dresser drawer and got out my special notebook. 70 pages. Wide ruled. Cover torn off. I was ready.
Opening the kitchen window to my complex, I began the onslaught.
"CAT! K-A-T!"
No response.
"DOG! D-A-W-G!"
Rustling within the tent increased.
"TOILET! T-O-L-I-T!
A Geiger Counter clicking began. I figured it was enough for now. Everytime I hear a clicking like that, I sit around for the rest of the day waiting for Egon Spangler to run out in front of complex screaming about something chasing him.
Or not.
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