Sunday, April 29, 2007

Spin the Bottle

Their eyes all followed in frantic anticipation as though an unidentified flying object was floating overheard, except none of them were looking to the sky. The table was where there focus lay. The last few drops of cheap beer spilled on to the linoleum as the cylinder appeared to be lifting off the table.

As it slowed, it’s true form became apparent. It felt like a game of Wheel of Fortune, but tonight Pat and Vanna were no where to be found and the only prize was the possibility of lip locking with a varsity cheer leader. Chuck Woolery should’ve been hosting.

The party was out of control that night, but since it was a small town, everyone knew each other. The cops were never called for fear that who ever turned them in might be humiliated by their teenager getting brought home in the back of a police cruiser.

It seemed to be a pretty typical high school though with it’s fair share of rumors and gossip that could be heard being whispered on Monday morning as the first bell rang.

The captain of the cheer leading squad was known as the sexual guinea pig of the senior class. As long as you fed her enough PBR, she’d be any guys cum dumpster by the end of the evening.

Unfortunately for the ladies, the star quarter back wasn’t as interested in the cheerleaders as he was the new running back that just transferred from out of state. The poor kid was oblivious to the whole infatuation and never seemed to understand why the QB kept getting his position wrong. He was a running back, not a tight end.

The teachers were off a bit as well, considering Mr. Wellington came back after summer vacation as Mrs. Wells. No one ever discussed it out loud, but no matter how fake and disgusting it seemed the boys couldn’t stop fantasizing about his perfectly formed 36 C’s.

Seemingly to be the most sane one out of all the faculty was the perky librarian who’s name would always be forgotten due to her mousiness. The only thing anyone really knew about her was that she use to be a nun and that she always wore long sleeves.

It was always so cold in the library that it was a fitting excuse for her to hide the cuts on her arms that she administered every night, after being ignored for another 8 hours. She considered it therapeutic. Plus, it was cheaper than going to see a shrink and it felt a hell of a lot more real than God ever did.

When the bottle finally came to rest the room got quiet. Not even the drunk, future Abercrombie and Fitch frat boy moved in for the kill on a kiss that was rightfully his. It’s as though in their hazy state they had a collective epiphany. The instant gratification of the debauchery that they indulged in today was going to hurt like hell tomorrow.

Naturally, they kept playing.

Friday, April 27, 2007

All work and no play...

When you get over dressed for work and take a two hour lunch break everyone assumes that you had a job interview, which is what you want.

I was actually having so much fun watching titty tassles fly around like helicopters and taking advantage of the "all you can eat crab legs" buffet that I lost track of time.

Needless to say, I don't think I got the job.

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

They moved in slow motion

Hustle and bustle of the city life knew no end, especially at rush hour.

The road felt like a warehouse assembly line. Cars inched to their next designated station, except nothing was being added to their vehicles, just time and peace of mind being detracted.

Honking horns and middle fingers, pissed off pedestrians and the shouting street vendors, that’s what makes up this 8am routine at least five days a week.

No one saw them coming, it was such a displaced sight, sort of like thinking about your wife while getting a lap dance at a strip club – it was out of nowhere.

Speechless – everyone’s voice seemed unavailable, but nothing needed to be said. The people parted like the Red Sea and the moment almost seemed biblical.

Horns ceased blowing, middle fingers changed to pointed indexes and those rushing by stopped dead in their tracks.

In a straight line, one after another they filed down the sidewalk like they were a part of this chaos. As though, they were off to work and wanted to grab a donut and a cup of joe like everyone else.

In that instance, everyone suddenly remembered what they fuck they were doing all this for. Truth arrived in the most simple of forms and the only thing anyone could manage to say was, “ducks?”

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

I love you.

He never once told her that he loved her, the entire time they were together and she carried that resentment around like she was nailed to a cross. When ever she got on to him about it he would just ramble some crap off about actions speak louder than words. What an asshole.

Her new boyfriend was perfect though, he always told her how much he loved her. It actually came to a point where it was annoying. After every phone conversation, in between meals and movies, at any point when they would part ways and especially when he would blow her off or ask for money. They were magic words that made everything all better. Regardless of what he did, at least he was communicating with her, at least he loved her.

His father always seemed to conjure up those three words when he would leave for weeks at a time. Or maybe after he had been drinking too much and smacked his mother around. He heard them for the last time through a thick glass window with receivers only a foot a part. He kept saying it wasn’t his fault. She provoked him. It was a crime of passion. I think he forgot that he was the one cheating on her. No longer could he hide behind the words and never again would his son say them.

Friday, April 20, 2007

I Love Dragons!

When I was 16 and a devout Christian I use to pray something that went a little like this, :cue the music:

“God, ruin my life for you.”

For those who don’t believe in a higher power that loves you, that just sounds silly and if you do believe then it might actually hit pretty hard. It also might hit a little harder if you lay down some bass tracks behind it, but when you really get down to it that’s a pretty fucking crazy prayer.

It’s easy to be extreme when you’re 16, you want to save the world or blow it up. But that prayer still haunts me to this day, whether God is real or not. Because regardless, I believed then that it was crucial. What would make a person believe in something so passionately that they would feel that way for another possible being or cause? Either it was true or I was being brain-washed. I’ve always felt like it was a little of both.

Thinking back to my prayer it struck me today that the idea of God for some people is love and hope, but for the majority I think God represents confusion, pain and abandonment.

I can understand that though.

Where is God when the shit hits the fan?

Where was God on Monday when some psycho was stalking the classrooms of a major university? That could’ve been any school. Those victims could’ve been anybody.

We could go on forever discussing some of these questions, but that's not really my point.

For some reason or another I still do have faith in an invisible God. Honestly, I can’t explain it. People have berated me and told me all the reasons that it can’t be. I’ve actually dug deeper than they have and told myself all the reasons I shouldn’t believe either. Here I am though, still believing in dragons, unicorns and an invisible God.

Almost 10 years later, thinking about the idea of God ruining my life, I’ve realized that whether He is real or not, I still want my life ruined for the cause and the idea of what He represented to me so many years ago, love and hope.

Life can be pretty fucking depressing sometimes, but despite what may happen or what others may say or think, love is the only thing I can come back to that doesn’t leave me feeling empty.

It may come in many shapes and forms for different people, but you can always spot true love a mile away, kind of like Superman. So if you don’t believe in God believe in comic book heroes. There’s about the same amount of proof to support their existence and they even wear cool, spandex, super suits. God might have one too, but He always seems to be invisible. Maybe he's like a chamelion or even a Predator!

Superheroes are usually good though and they tend to have the same values and morals of God, except the Punisher, he's a bad mother fucker, but then again God was too in the Old Testament. So rock on!

It’s good to have hope in something though. For me it might be God, for Yoda and Obi-Wan it was Luke Skywalker and a lot of people just play World of Warcraft and they are their own hope.

Unfortunately, no one is going to figure it out for you, but I've always considered that a good thing!

Monday, April 16, 2007

Words in a Knot

Words that form more than just a sentence, trying to birth a thought
similar to a string
that is trying to tie a knot

Once that knot has been made and it’s sure to keep it tight
understanding will then follow
providing all insight

But if that string is snapped and the knot is needed no more
then our communication is broken
and we’re back where we were before

Sunday, April 15, 2007

Better late than never...

Your sentences baked with false melancholy smelled like a burnt TV dinner. With every seasoned word I almost gagged from the horrible aroma. I wasn’t just being suffocated by it‘s rancid particles, but I could actually feel the rotten taste in my mouth starting to cling to the back of my throat like a rapidly spreading case of strep throat that birthed a new species of virus.

Infection was imminent, but my cure wouldn’t be as easily obtained as yours was.

Ocean Spray seems to have the monopoly on Cran-anything drinks. They still don’t taste good to me, but they always came in handy when you had a urinary tract infection. It sure as hell beat taking you to the gynecologist. You had spread your legs for enough men with M.D after their name. Why give you anymore opportunity?

Cranberries remind me of Thanksgiving which reminds me of you not being there anymore to prepare over-cooked turkey which reminds me of going to Hooters that November. They really don’t have good wings or even decent breasts for that matter, apparently you did though.

After 20 years of dealing with diapers, schooling and basketball practice, wouldn’t you want to stick around for the good times? This is the part where we can all go on vacation and appreciate everything and not bitch. No longer would you hear “Are we there yet?” or would we be threatened with “Don’t make me turn this car around!”. That’s only one of your many losses.

It’s what you wanted though and it took me a while to understand that, but I realize now, it was the point all along. We were only there for your satisfaction. My conception wasn’t even about me. You needed more attention and I was the means.

It wasn’t his fault. You could never understand that though because you are so self-centered, but it’s hard sometimes to utter a sentence full of elegance and grace to the one you are in awe of. He thought you were worth it. You fooled him good.

That‘s where he screwed up, it was his error, his lack of judgment for putting up with your bull shit for 27 years. He learned his lesson. We all did.

5 years later and we don’t miss you anymore. Your actions have proven you to be “tacky“, but not “delightful“. And despite how many degrees you have, you will always be “unrefined“.

Friday, April 13, 2007

Meat Market

There was something very familiar about this exercise. Getting dressed up in expensive clothes that I wouldn’t normally wear and trying to sell myself as the best. Well, maybe not the best, but at least not the worst.

Then there was the waiting. Thankfully, I didn’t have to stand in a straight line across a gymnasium, watching as I excruciatingly get picked over, one person at a time. They had bar stools and I could act like I was oblivious to the whole process through staring intently at the baseball game on the big screen instead of watching my chances go down some other asshole’s pants.

There were more than stagnant water bottles to drink as well.

“Scotch on the rocks.” I always wanted to say that. Never had any adult beverage other than wine coolers ever touch my lips before, but my roommate said Scotch was cool.

“Girls like dudes who drink Scotch. They think you’re sophisticated. It’ll getcha some!”

Referring to getting your brains fucked out by a post sorority big breasted blonde as “gettin’ some” didn’t sound very refined, but I felt more like a man ordering a drink that wasn’t the same color as Blue Berry Yum Yum Kool-Aid.

The place was starting to clear out and nothing was happening for me. So I made a decision to do what any desperately horny 22 year old male would attempt for attention: Zippo Lighter Tricks.

Unfortunately, I only knew how to do the "thumb squeeze" which my little brother taught me when I was home for spring break my senior year of college. Which was only last April, but no one had to know that.

Then it happened, my amateur pyrotechnic skills paid off. She was exactly what I expected and wanted: Blonde, boobs and sloppy drunk.

We didn’t go very long, but it was longer than I had ever gone before. Just like waiting to get picked by one of the team captains, the act itself was very reminiscent of the first time I was chosen to play basketball.

Dribbling and passing eluded me and the guys didn’t mind me committing fouls since it was my first time and neither did she, but only because she was wasted and asleep. Then again, I did always have a knack for putting it in the hole, no matter how ugly my game was.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Cream and Sugar

It’s almost done. The slurping straw can be heard at least 5 cubicles over. I’m going to be the first in line today. The new fucker who sits 3 cubes over got the last cup yesterday morning. By the time the second pot came to brew everyone was finished with their first cup and was coming back for more.

After I started the final pot I just stood there for 5 minutes with book in hand trying to appear as though I wasn’t trying to enforce “the first come, first serve” rule. If things around this office we’re based off “rules of thumb” these fuckers wouldn’t have hands or feet.

Reading Hannibal probably furthered my cause.

I will never make three pots of coffee in one day ever again, unless it involves a pack of cigarettes, hookers and a pile of cocaine, but I don’t do that anymore, either of them.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Distractions.

I’m usually late. Today I’m not only on time, but I’m actually a few minutes early. It’s weird being the first to arrive when you’re always last.

She’s pretty, but there seemed to have been a domestic dispute between her and the locks that usually sit nicely coiled on the top of her head. I’ve never seen her hair in a pony tail.

I’m craving a cup of coffee to help soothe this morning’s hangover, but she starts listing off all of the different soft drinks when I get distracted by a Chris Isaac’s song that is playing over head. He’s singing something about being so in love. I vaguely remember the video. It reminded me of a wet dream.

Being half naked on a desert island, but it’s not so bad because a super model is there too. Not only is she there, but she wants to fuck your brains out. Something I never understood about that video though was how they could pork leaning up against a palm tree. It just doesn’t seem comfortable. That wouldn’t be in my fantasy.

I order a Diet Coke.

The dining room is filled with muffled voices when a snort of laughter breaks the white noise. It’s as though the lady was clearing her throat to give a speech because from then on out I could hear every last detail of the story she was telling.

I’m still intrigued as to why someone would jokingly tell their mother that they were drunk every day when they were 25. I think she’s lying though. She probably made it up so she wouldn’t have to tell the truth about what she was really doing at that time in her life.

Being drunk every day sounds a lot better than bringing strangers home to finger bang you before they quietly rape you to sleep.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Counter Attack!

It wasn’t considered a kidnapping because they were kin and had been gone less than an hour. Nor did she appear suspicious due to the copious amounts of money she was spending on him. Finally, the fear set in and he fully realized the consequences of this arrangement.

He felt like Hansel, but there was no Gretel. He was all alone, but not necessarily being force fed. He enjoyed his dinner, but felt like he was being watched through the duration of the meal.

Whether the acts that ensued are considered torturous are still up for debate. Nevertheless, it still frightens most who have endured. Maybe it’s just a ritualistic act excused by the idea that it’s because “they’re coming of age” and all must participate or suffer. Yet it can happen at any point in your life which makes their argument obsolete. Truthfully, we know those responsible really just get a sick and sadistic satisfaction out of the whole ordeal.

You would think that their movement would be in a stealth manor, but like a beast that has cornered its prey they let their approach be known. Their attack formation is usually flawed, but good luck trying to break their ranks. Guards man every possible exit.

It’s unknown whether it’s a battle cry or a taunt, but their vocal arrival accomplishes both. Instead of trying to divide and conquer they clumsily surround, but it always brings home the victory.

As they utter the last syllable of mocking sarcasm they do not move forward with the final blow, but instead they present an offering - a plate of whip cream adorned by a lone candle, text is scrawled across the white, mountainous substance in Hershey’s syrup.

“Happy Birthday!!

Grandma and the Applebee’s staff!”

She had pulled one over on him. He wasn’t expecting this, especially from sweet Grandma. He had to retaliate, but how? He opened the filing cabinet of his mind. For an 8 year old, he already had a pretty thick file on revenge.

As he thumbed through the file his exterior blankly stared as everyone waited for him to make his birthday wish.

“Got it! It’s perfect!” He thought to himself. Maniacal laughter silently rang through his pores. He then proceeded to do what any 8 year old would do for revenge. He started crying. With wide-eyes and open jaws, the staff retreated with balloons between their legs. Victory was his.


He might have lost the battle, but he had definitely won the war.

Monday, April 09, 2007

The end is near.

Most people can’t handle the pendulum type swing, the roll of the dice or even the last card on the river.

What we fear is what she thrives on, the inevitable future that will bring all anxieties to their climax or to their end.

To her it seems that if everything has a place then all things must happen for a reason. Who knows the cause of the reason, but there is always is one.

For some it might be faith, others think science and some blame it on “Murphy”. She’s OK with that because it doesn’t really matter to her regardless of what you may base your opinion on.

If it’s going to happen anyway, why not welcome it? Why not watch the tea pot boil? Why not wait for the results in the mail?

Her mother often wondered why as a child she always danced around the TV when the winning lotto numbers were displayed on the fuzzy TV screen. “You would’ve thought she had bought a ticket.” She would mutter under her breath.

Never has it been about faith over reason or vice-versa for her. She has always thought that they worked together and we’re quite possibly synonymous. What’s important to her is seeing the event or deed come to fruition.

It’s when the swinging briefly pauses, the dice roll snake eyes and when the last card on the river draws the winning hand.

The end will always be important to her, regardless of the means.

Monday, April 02, 2007

Bench Warmer

“The kids a natural.”

Looking back over my life I can’t recall that anyone has ever uttered those words regarding me or anything that I can do. Nothing seems to come natural to me.

Maybe I’m lying. Talking comes natural. Rambling for hours on end about nothing particularly important, but maybe something that I find fascinating seems easy enough. My friends and family probably feel tortured as I indulge in conversation after conversation with my self regarding my opinion on why there are better odds of winning the lottery playing the Tuesday drawing opposed to the Friday one.

When I was in third grade my parents moved me, against my will, to Kentucky. There isn’t much to do there when you are a kid other than build forts in the woods or play basketball. Before the move, I had previously touched a basketball three times in my life. When I told my new found bluegrass friends that I didn’t know how to dribble a ball, they didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. They definitely made fun of me though.

I felt like the kid in the Sandlot who thought Babe Ruth was a girl. Kareem Abdul Jabar, who the fuck was that? I had heard of Michael Jordan, but who hadn’t.? The only time I ever watched basketball was during the 1988 Finals when Dad was rooting for Detroit. When he would cheer I would cheer. When he would curse I would say things like “Darn” or “Gosh!”

From 1989 until 1995 my friend who lived down the street would play me on 1-on-1. We would play to 20 and each basket counted as 2 points. For the first three years he would give me a 16 point lead. He beat me for 6 years before I finally got a check mark in the win column. Unfortunately, he had a broken collar bone when I finally beat him. It didn’t matter to me though. It was a milestone. The following year when he was in full health I managed to over take him again. After that it was pretty even matched.

I willed myself to win that basketball game in 1996 and it changed my life. There will never be anything natural about me being good at basketball. It could’ve been football if the Cincinnati Bengal’s didn’t always suck.

No matter what I do, for me to be good at anything, I have to work at it for a number of months, maybe even years. Some would say this builds character or patience. I think it builds frustration. Unlike basketball there are a lot of things that I haven’t worked to master or at least be average at, that’s not because of my natural ability. It’s because I don’t follow through and never learn how to do it.

Most likely my unnatural ability regarding anything has pretty much just made me a really, big quitter with great low post moves.