ennui

he sat on his futon, staring at the wall in front of him, one hand resting on the back of a purring cat, one hand holding a hot cup of licorice spice herbal tea. his body was a cacophony of stink, made up of various accumulated smells that clung tenaciously to his clothes and body. he hadn’t washed in three days and was wearing the jeans and t-shirt he put on three days before. the smells included, but were not limited to, the bourbon he spilled on his pants the night before, the rancid sweat from the twenty minutes he exercised the day before, and the cum from the masturbation earlier that morning.
it was sunny outside, there were things to do and places to go, but he sat, motionless, paralyzed by too many choices and too much time. time had lost all meaning, he didn’t have to be anywhere, no one was expecting him. he had a life that people dreamed of, and threatened to live if they won the lottery, but they didn’t know, couldn’t know, the painful torture and soul numbing agony of “no responsibility.”
perhaps man wasn’t meant to live a life of leisure, perhaps resting is actually rotting. the human body seems to be the only machine that improves and gets stronger the harder it works. people who seem to be the most productive always seem to have the busiest and fullest lives. having only a limited time to enjoy hobbies and “relax” makes people appreciate the time, and use it wisely, and fully live in those brief moments.
but his life was a vacation, and it was killing him.
his cat looked at him with soulful eyes, as if to say “i’m worried about you, you need to go out and do something.”
he took another sip of tea, exhaled deeply, and went over the list of all the things he could do, all the things he wanted to do, and none of them seemed all that appealing. he had too much time, nothing was important, there was no rush, he could do all those things tomorrow, or the next day.
the clock ticked, his cat left the couch, went over to it’s little bed, and resumed it’s important cat duties of laying about.
he sat there, alone on a couch, holding an empty cup, staring at the wall.

spit takes = great parenting

i’m thinking i should have done more spit takes when my daughter was young, i would have been a much better parent. at the time she wouldn’t have understood what was going on, she just would have known that every time she told daddy what she did at school, or about her friends, he would spit out the glass of water he was drinking and soak everything within a two foot radius.

first off, it would train her to stay on her toes, be alert at all times.   it would also help her develop a strong sense of patience and calm in adverse situations.  and it would have been hilarious.

ok, it may or may not have been hilarious at the time, but it would have really paid off years later, when she is an adult. if nothing else, she would have this insane story about her crazy dad who would do spit takes all the time. what a great ice breaker on a date or at a party. “you know, when i was a child, my father would do spit takes all the time.” it would make for seriously interesting conversation, and would give her pleasant, if not strange and surreal memories of me to grow old with. she could regale her kids with stories of crazy grandpa.
if i had to do it all over again, if i ever had to raise a child, i would make sure that, starting at about the age of three, i woudl do spit takes all the damn time. it would make for a much better adult, i think.

floating babies shooting lasers out of thier hands

her:  i’m gonna get to hold the baby today at work for like an hour.

him:  really? why’s that?

her:  cause Marcy has to go on a delivery and can’t take her newborn with her, and there is no one else around to watch it.  she asked me yesterday if i wouldn’t mind.

him:  and so you get to spend an hour with a baby?  should i be happy for you?

her:  yeah!  it’s a baby!  it will be so cute.  it might snuggle me, maybe it will sleep in my arms.

him:  maybe it will float around the office shooting lasers out of it’s palms.

her:  it might, but i doubt it.

him:  what if it starts speaking aramaic in a deep gravelly voice while you are all alone with it?  it could be possessed.

her:  you think?

him:  yeah, shit like that happens all the time, you just don’t hear about it because they can’t explain it and the atheist media and atheist academia don’t want to have to argue against proof of god.

her:  its a fuckin newborn.  it will probably just sleep and poop.

him:  what if it poops laser beams out of it’s butt while floating around speaking ancient languages in a booming deep voice?

her:  you’re an idiot.

him:  ok, but i warned you.

the magic of the snowday

snowdays are magical and awesome, especially when you get a snowday as an adult with a non school job.   sure you get weekends off, but to get a day in the middle of the week that isn’t a holiday is a surprise treat.     sitting around, drinking a 4,000 calorie coffee, with sugar and whipped cream and nutmeg, tasty waffles with butter and syrup and whipped cream, its just so damn decadent.  you are warm and cozy inside, everything is muted by the snow, its so silent, its a great day.

you get to sit around, doing nothing, and it’s ok, it’s a stolen day, an unexpected treat.

everything is quiet, things are slow, it’s like dream time.   other than having to dig out my car and move a ton of snow from my driveway to the side of my driveway, yesterday was pretty awesome.  after the shoveling workout there was the warm shot of frangelico, with a lunch of peanut butter and jelly on waffles, and a nap on the couch in front of some inane tv show.

i accomplished nothing yesterday, and it was glorious.  i didn’t feel guilty for not doing anything, it was luxurios and splendid.

and what makes it so much more special is, it is so rare, it doesn’t happen that often, so when it does, it’s a gift to be savored.

today everything is white, it’s a winter fuciking wonderland, but the sky is clear blue, and the sun is bright, reflecting off the snow, making everything even brighter.

yup.  winter is here.

the oracle

alone, lonely, bitter, harold sat in his home, drinking a bottle of wine, enjoying the tannins as they caressed his tongue while they fuzzed his brain and numbed his pain.  he tried to connect with other humans, he took classes, he joined groups, he hung around downtown, walking up and down streets, sitting in cafes, but it was as if he was invisible, as if he produced some kind of natural human repellent.  he could not “connect” with another living soul no matter what.

he spent increasingly growing hours online, playing games, reading, watching videos.  he tried chat rooms, he couldn’t seem to “break in” to the cliques, he wasn’t “one of them” and it was apparent.

by the end of the bottle of shiraz, harold was desperate, sullen, apathetic.  “fucking internet knows everything, why don’t i just ask the goddamn internet?”

harold went to google and typed in “what should i do?”   about a thousand things came up, one of them said “take a trip.”

fueled by fermented grapes, harold reasoned thusly:” nothing ever comes to you clearly, it is always wrapped up in some kind of riddle that you have to decipher , even jesus spoke in parables, he never just said “do this, don’t do that.  the answers must be interpreted.  and the internet wants me to travel.

so the next day he fueled up his car and drove for six hours, ending up across the state border in a good sized town.   he was hungry, he didn’t feel like eating shitty fast food, so he went into the small sandwich shop that offered organic foods.

it was a regular hippie place, the girls who worked behind the counter had red and blue bandannas tied on their heads like amish crips and bloods.   they were friendly, they looked in his eyes when he ordered, which was s first.  he realized people rarely look into each other’s eyes anymore when they speak to you.  again, keeping a wall up, preventing any connection.

harold ordered a veggie delight sandwich, the young girl who took his order asked him “hey, are you the guy who comes in here wearing the suspenders?”  “um…no, that’s not me,” stammered harlod, “i’m from out of town, just passing through.”  “oh cool, are you staying here or moving on?”  “well, is there any reason to stay here?” asked harold, trying to keep the conversation going as long as possible.  there wasn’t anyone in line behind him, he was hoping the girl would keep on talking to him.

“depends on what you like to do,” she said.  “there is live music at the goat tonight, supposed to be a good band.”  “whats the goat?” inquired harold, hoping the girl would tell him she would take him.  “the drunken goat, it’s a bar down on main street.  live band starting at 8 tonight.  they are supposed to be good.”  “are you going?,” asked harold, trying to play it cool and not seem too desperate or eager.  “no,  i’ve got plans” she said.  she walked to the back, where there were other girls making sandwiches, got his, gave it to him, thanked him, and the natural conversation came to an end.

harold took a seat at the table outside, and ate his sandwich, watching people walk by.  of course nothing happened, but it was closer than he had come to actual human contact in a while.  he was happy.  he got back in his car and drove home, getting in rather late.

he spent the whole day in his car, with a brief trip outside.  he drove twelve fucking hours for one brief conversation.  but it meant something, and harold figured he was on to something.  he logged onto his computer, got on google and typed in “what now?”

this led him to a blog, the author wrote about using a six sided die to make decisions for him, as he felt it was all up to fate and everything was random and chaotic.  harold decided to give this a try, he dug around his things and found a die from an old game.  put it on his nighttable and went to bed.

the next day whenever he was faced with a choice, he rolled the die to determine what he would do.  thanks to the die he ate a bowl of cereal instead of the fried eggs, he put on slacks instead of jeans, he let the die lead him through his day.

blah blah blah, stuff happened, and he died.  i dont feel like writing this anymore.

fuckin thieves

i don’t feel like writing anything creative. 

my shitty car was “broken” into and the shitty radio, a shitty $4 digital clock (cause my car dosen’t have a clock) and a tin of fucking altoids were stolen.   the $150 bike light in the back seat, the $300 tent and camp stove and equipment in the trunk weren’t taken, they were still there. 

i hated that crappy ass aftermarket radio, it came with the car when i bought it used.  they took a piece of shit radio that i hated and wanted to get rid of anyway.

perhaps i was asking for it.  i didn’t lock my car doors.  why should i lock the doors, i have nothing of value in the car and the car was in my fucking driveway at home. 

nothing was broken, none of the good shit that i care about was taken, why am i upset?

because i talked to the thief.  he came to my door selling something, which i didn’t want, but gave him a reason to be at my house and case the place.   i knew something was fishy and not right, but i didn’t do anything, i didn’t listen to my spider sense when it tingled.  THAT is what pisses me off most. 

and i just don’t like the idea of theft.  on one hand i think, “things are just things, not at all necesarry for life or happiness, every “thing” is replaceable.    if you have a problem and can fix it by throwing money at it, its not a problem.   perhaps the thief needs whatever i have more than i do. ” 

on the other hand i think, “motherfucker, that is MY shitty car radio that i don’t like, what the fuck is wrong with you, why are you taking shit that isn’t yours?” 

motherfucker must have bad breath, cause he took a tin of altoids.  i hope he chokes on them. 

so now i gotta buy a new car radio.  i probably won’t, i’ll just drive around with the big ass hole in my dashboard.  radio sucks anyway. 

and i have a watch, i don’t need a new $4 walmart digital clock. 

and i don’t really like altoids anyway. 

fucking thieves.

catholic school hippos

Tommy tied his tie (he hated ties and vowed he would never get a job that required one), put on his jacket (he also wasn’t a fan of polyester), and headed downstairs.  He had a math test today, he figured he would pass, it wasn’t like math was all that difficult.  the only thing that kept him interested in going to math class was Lucy, who sat behind him.   he didn’t mind getting in trouble for talking to her, she was so worth it, he loved to see her eyes squint up when she laughed.  His mom had his lunch ready to go, they got in the car, and fifteen minutes later she dropped him off in front of St Anthony’s Catholic School.  There was a huge crowd, obviously something was going on, his mom didn’t seem to notice.  she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and he was off to join the river of little kids pulling little suitcases, like a bunch of miniature airplane stewardesses all heading for their flights.

He got to the edge of the crowd, pushed his way through the crowd, and realized what the commotion was about.  There were two hippos in the schoolyard of St Anthony’s, and no one seemed to know how they got there.   Fater Mike was standing there giving orders to teachers and nuns, like a symphony conductor or an air traffic controller.

The hippos weren’t really doing anything, just standing there looking bored, uninterested in the crowd of humans looking at them.  They each had a placard on rope around their neck, it was their nametags.  One hippo was named Rufus, the other was named Firefly.   “those are strange names for hippos,” thought tommy.

suddenly, the one called firefly started to shit, and everyone began laughing and pointing and yelling and the crowd went wild.  who would have thought a hippo taking a shit would be such high entertainment?  “give the people what they want. it seems the people want shit,” thought tommy.

“what kind of prank is this, who would dump off two hippos in the school yard? ” thought everyone, stunned by the surreality of two large african beasts in a catholic schoolyard in Oklahoma.   there wasn’t a circus in town, there wasn’t a zoo anywhere nearby, there was no reason for this to be happening.

the schoolbell rang, the teachers herded the kids into class, and everyone tried to forget about the hippos outside and get on with the day as normally as possible.

but that is the thing, isn’t it?  we get all wrapped up in routine, when something so out of the ordinary happens, it makes us take a good hard look at our “normal” routine and we often realize what an insipid waste of time the majority of the crap we do really is.   tommy realized then that living life was a bold act, any lemming could exisit, but to live, to truly be part of this world, was to stir shit up, make shit happen, break the routine and the expected.

Inspired by both Rufus and Firefly, inspired by the weird unexpected events that happened that morning, Tommy decided to do something completely unexpected.  This was the day for it, those two hippos were clearly a sign, a green light to start living.   Tommy stood up from his desk, did an about face, bent down and kissed Lucy right on the lips.

She screamed and smacked him, the teacher freaked out and called the principal, and tommy was suspended for a week from school for “assaulting” a female student, which of course went on his permanent record.

for the rest of the day, all tommy could think of was “stupid fucking hippos.”

movie review of “Pirate Radio”

saw pirate radio the other day.   what a great cast, it had phillip seymour hoffman, who last i saw was a pedophile priest.  it had not one, but TWO guys named Rhys.  i’ve never heard that name before, and in one movie, there are two of them.  how cool.  and it had nick frost, the hilarious dude from sean of the dead and hot fuzz.  somehow simon pegg wasn’t in this, but still, what a great cast.

when i saw nick frost, i knew he looked familiar, and it took me about a third of the way into the movie to realize it was the guy from hot fuzz.  he was awesome in that, i laughed my ass off when he did the whole “shooting up in the air” like in the cop movies he watched.

that’s the thing…sometimes it seems the british are so far ahead of us in humor, they have a refined sense of it.  other than shows like Bottom or the mighty boosh, which are funny, but really really stupid.  i mean, the british version of the office kicks the american version’s ass.  it’s more dry, more subtle.  maybe it’s the accents that make british people seem funnier and smarter, but their humor seems so advanced, so far ahead.  we have fart and dick jokes, they have deeper humor that is filled with allusions to so many other genres and things.

take stand up.  eddy izzard vs. larry the cable guy.   please.

i’m not saying we don’t have intelligent humor,  kevin smith kicked major ass with clerks and his other movies.   it just seems, on the whole, we have lost the art of subtle dry intelligent humor, we seem to have dumbed down everything so the lowest common denominator could get it, but in doing so, we just lowered standards.  instead of having high standards that people can reach for, we set low standards and let our sense of humor atrophy.   we are slowly but surely becoming the world in idiocracy.

oh, but the movie.  sure it was predictable, but it was pretty fucking awesome and i loved it.   great music, great acting, great movie.

the girl with the magical ass

she worked in the cafeteria of the hospital, sometimes at the cash register, sometimes walking around taking food to patients, sometimes just cleaning the cafeteria. i’d see her on the weekends, we would say polite hellos and maybe there would be brief chit chat, small talk so small a pregnant ant couldn’t walk under it.

i never found out her name, but i can see her face as if i was looking at a picture. she had shoulder length black hair framing an elf like face, like a long V, dotted with a petite nose, and electric blue eyes. her whole body was petite, except for the one thing that made her so special.

her main asset, so to speak, was her magical ass. it was a presence, it was it’s own entity. a casual glance might make it appear to be just a big ass, but no, it was more than that. it sang, it beckoned you like sirens calling you to the rocks, it was a gift from the gods, a thing of perfect beauty, it demanded respect. it curved with precision and accuracy, no mathematician in history could graph and chart the arcs of her ass as perfectly as they had been created. it was big, and full of life, boisterous like a drunken frat boy, emanating enough energy to power a small village in asia. when she walked by, flowers bloomed, dark gray melted away into bright rainbow colors, music sounded better, people’s skin cleared up, cholesterol levels went down, and it was all due to her luscious and perfect ass. i lusted after her. i dreamed of being with her, of laying my head on her ass, frolicking in her butt, rolling around on her booty. i longed to hold it, snuggle up with it on cold nights, eat dinner off it, bask in it’s glory.

i don’t know if she knew what she had, if she realized what it was, or if she just treated it like a burden. she was shy, i think, and always seemed self conscious, as if she had a low self esteem.

that is the problem with the truly beautiful women, they don’t realize it, they think they are not attractive at all. part of this is good, it’s one of the things that make them so beautiful, if they thought they were this ravishing goddess, they would act like it, and that would immediately decrease their beauty by a hundredfold.

i don’t know where she is now, or what she and her amazing magical dream ass are doing. i don’t think i’ve ever seen an ass as perfect and wonderful as hers, before i saw her, or since. it’s strange the things you remember in life. i cannot remember birthdays i’ve had, times i’ve been successful, great places i’ve been, but i can still remember the girl with the magical ass.

the lords of karma are real cockbites

nothing is ever as easy as it should be.   i must assume in a past life i was some horrible dog raping arsonist who would beat up cripples, and now i am paying for it on a daily basis by having to deal with indefatigable incompetence, 100% guaranteed all times.   moments ago i tried to order a pair of boots online, because my daughter wants 14 hole white Dr Martens for her birthday, and they aren’t sold in stores.  I know this because i called all the stores where my daughter lives, which in itself was frustrating because trying to call a business is a hassle on it’s own, then trying to ask the young kid on the line about their stock is also a minor trial.   No one had them, so i had to go to Dr Martens online and order them so they would be here before i drive out to see my daughter to give her a pair of boots for her birthday.

my heart brimming with dread, i shuddered to myself as i dialed the number.  the lady on the other end of the line spoke extra quietly, so i couldn’t really hear her that well.  i placed the order.  i gave her my name, which she got, then my email, which is the same as my name, which she didn’t get, she misspelled the letters of my name in the email address.   then she asked the size, i told her 5.  she asked if it was uk or us, i said us.  US SIZE FIVE.  when we were done, she didn’t read my credit card number back to me, she didn’t read the order back to me, she said thanks and that was that.

two minutes later when i checked the email receipt, there it was, size UK FIVE.    what the fuck?!?!?!?

so i called back, got the same girl, mentioned i just placed an order on the phone a few moments ago.  she asked if ordered on the phone or the website.   I JUST FUCKING TALKED TO YOU FOUR FUCKING MINUTES AGO!!!!  i said i ordered on the phone and the size was wrong, i need to change the size, she asked my name, found the order, said we had to re-do the order.   she asked what size i wanted.  i said i wanted a US size five, the order was for UK size five.  she said they only sell by UK sizes, then told me that a US size 5 would be a UK size 3.    WELL, IF YOU KNEW THAT, WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T YOU ORDER A UK SIZE 3?!?!?!?  i explained i wanted a US Size five, so yes, a UK Size three.   she said she could just change it and we didn’t have to re-do the order.

i am quite skeptical, and now i am expecting the boots to arrive in the wrong size.

it is almost inevitable, i can’t tell if it’s me or them.  perhaps i’m not speaking english?  like when i went to the coffeepshop, ordered a black tea, and the girl gave me a green tea.   whenever i order something, more often than not is the wrong thing, and i have to go back and change it, fix it, or whatever.

i can only assume this is my payback, this is my penance, my hell.  i don’t know what i did in the past life, but really, i’ve learned my lesson, and i just want to be able to get something done right the first time.