Tuesday, November 9, 2010

The Case of the Missing Saturday

Did you all know that last week only had six days? Seriously. It started out all the same, with Monday and whatnot, but right near the end, right where Saturday was supposed to be is nothing but blankness. Yes. Blankness.

It all started out last Friday night, see. I had to babysit these four kids from 5 in the pm to midnight or so. Best way to spend a Friday night, ever. So naturally Saturday, that holy first day of rest and nothing, was to be my personal salvation. Four children is a lot of children you say? I know, but I needed the money and they turned out to be very well behaved. Like really, it was madly impressive. In any case, they have nothing to do with the rest of the story. The only reason I mentioned them is because I was at their house when I got the news that my buddy had dropped off a couple baked goods for my girl and I. This was good news on a bad Friday night. The prospects of my Saturday just seemed to glow after that.

Then Saturday came. Then it went. Seriously, it like, just went. My girlfriend woke me up with a plate that had marvelous looking cheese eggs and this nicely sized, wondrous looking bar of cakey chocolate (we had been fighting, and this was her way of saying “I’m sorry.”). I looked up at her and smiled. This was going to be the best day ever. I had been working five days and two or three nights a week for the last month or so and Saturday was my first real day off. I was excited.

She took me by the hand and we went and sat on our giant beanbag couch. Yes. We have a giant beanbag for a couch. Yes. It’s that awesome. Then we ate, smiles on both our faces, anticipating a nice day with vivid colors, crisp autumn winds, and the kind rustling of fall leaves.

Then time stopped. Literally. I was smiling serenely one moment and the next I looking around the world, able to see and feel the space around me. It was like being a superhero with super speed. Each step I took felt like I was actually walking through space and time. I was thinking everything and nothing at the same time. I knew the secrets to the universe but I couldn’t tell a soul because they couldn’t understand me if I tried telling them. It’s not that they couldn’t handle it, I just was slurring my speech that badly.

After making a few quick laps around the pad, I laid back down on the giant beanbag of awesomeness and put my hands together and thought. I thought about a few things here and there. In the midst of my thoughts, my girlfriend picked my arm up and dropped. Then she did it again and again. Then she pulled me towards her and laughed. Then she told me I was like a teddy bear. Then, for the next hour or so, I thought about what it would be like to be a teddy bear.

Then I looked at my watch and two hours had passed by. I looked back and my girlfriend was there no longer. She had moved to the bedroom. I went after her. She looked so peaceful, like an angel resting on a mattress made of clouds. I gently roused her from her slumber and we decided it was time to eat.

Then time lapsed again and before me lay two corndogs, a spicy chicken taquito, and vitamin enhanced water. Why did I get vitamin enhanced water? I’m not so sure myself, but I must have been trying to be health conscious. When did I go to 7-11? I have no freaking clue.

And just as quickly as the food appeared, it vanished, leaving an unseemly trail of crumbs from the floor to my mouth. I turned to my girlfriend and she was gone yet again. Nobody can ever say she has no talents. She’s apparently a fucking ninja. This time I found her sleeping yet again. This time in a fortress made of pillows. I shit you not, there were 7. Seven pillows surrounding her completely.

Then, without warning and lots of bombast, my cellphone vibrated its way to the floor with an impressive crash. I picked it up, and stared at it. I spent the next couple of eons trying to figure out why the 7 and 9 buttons each had four letter options while every other number had 3. I just couldn’t make sense of it. After a good while, I checked the actual message filled with “a-HA” moments and their subsequent recalls, I gave it one last try. I got all the way to the end of the message, heard something in the other room and left my phone, eerie blow glow lighting the 10:30 pm darkness.

My buddy had sent me a text message. It read.

(518): Do you remember humming the mission impossible theme that time we ran from the cops?

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

I’ve always wanted to use doilies as napkins or Napkin Doilies

All my life I’ve been the quiet kid in the corner. It’s worked out well for me. Sometimes people would come to my corner and hang out, other times I would go to other people’s corners. It’s a great life. Or rather, was a great life. I had my corner friends and we did corner things together. Then one day I met a corner girl and I had a perfect corner life. You could say we “fit” together.

Then I got laid. In the corner room of a house. Fittingly enough.

At the end of what I like to refer to as a “ten-minute-long moment,” I burst out of the prison that is celibacy like the Hulk. With a victorious cry of “oh god” upon my arrival into the World, I collapsed on the greenest of grasses. Ten minutes later I had another ten-minute-long moment and it was glorious. I lay sprawled out and sweaty in the center of the corner room.

Then it was back to the rest of my corner life, this time with added sex. A pretty decent lot in life if I do say so myself. Or rather, said. Eventually I got bored with the corner, all of it, even sex. I know, who gets bored with sex? Apparently, this guy, right here. Hear me out though. It was always the same thing, each and every time. It was like ten minute long déjà vu. I made a move, she didn’t like it. I made another mood. She told me to stop. I got pissy and turned on the TV. As soon as I found a show that I actually wanted to watch, she would suddenly unbutton her blouse, straddle me, and then continue to round the bases.

This always confused me and, after the fact, left me in the ohso awkward position of hating and loving someone at the same time while feeling unsatisfied in the bedroom region. On the one hand, she was a corner person like myself. On the other, she played these crazy girly psycho games where all of my favorite activities were mutually exclusive and nothing meant what it should’ve. It was like being in a spy thriller where I had to decode reality and stop meant go but go, depending on tonality and semantic phrasing, could mean stop or that there’s a cop down the road or that I could only travel at 35 mph. To tell you the truth, I have no idea what the hell anything meant back then. I digress.

After seeking the counsel of my dear friend and personal guru, the Internet, I determined that I was definitively not a corner sex person, which led me to question if I were not so much of a corner person myself. In the lengthy soulsearch that followed, I discovered that I was, indeed, a corner person, but I did not, in fact, like the room in whose corner I was in. An odd quandary.

So, starting in that moment, I started rearranging the metaphorical, yet in a few cases, material objects of my corner. This sudden restacking of life’s Legos, did not make my corner girlfriend too happy. So one night I got wasted and pissed on her scrapbooking materials, sprayed perfume on her cat, and used her doilies as napkins for nachos and wings because I’ve never liked any of that stuff. It felt good.

I woke up the next day to a text that, in summary, concluded vehemently that I had suddenly stopped “fitting” her and that our lives would no longer be “adjoined.” I shit you not, she used those exact words. Who does that? I forwarded the text to my buddy to see what he thought. He asked what happened. So I told him.

(513): She found me naked and passed out on the toilet. When she asked me what happened to her scrapbook supplies, why her cat smelled like $200 dollar perfume, and what was on her doilies, I apparently just kept repeating "I'm like Elvis, but not dead."

Ohso – an interjection used to attract the attention of the person spoken to and transition into a new subject or tangent

Monday, August 9, 2010

The Sites of Porcelainia

Ever wanted to travel? Wanted to get out there and see something? Anything? Even hike somewhere? Well I have. Or rather… did. Work had just come to a sudden crawl, and in response to the lack of customers, the restaurant begun their summer hour rotation. This left me virtually jobless, which was, at first, particularly awesome. But, after I checked off the last item on the list I made (to properly remake my impression on the beanbag couch), I became directionless.

My being directionless is not a good idea. I once spent three weeks creating the taxonomic breeding sequence that would theoretically end in the birth of domesticated bears. Which, admittedly, was really fun, but you get the point. In a similar harnessing of chaotic thought, it occurred to me that I needed to take a roadtrip. I needed to go out into the world and attain a fresh perspective, for my world had grown too small. So, I figured a trip was in order, and seeing that Mardi Gras was right around the bend, I decided Nah’lins was the place to be. I don’t know why people pronounce “New Orleans” this way, but they do. So it goes.

That was last week. Today I awoke as the King of Porcelainia to the majestic mash-up of Rihanna and Lady Gaga announcing a message from my dear friend Ben. A week of TV censor worthy memories, masks, feathers, and drinks I’ve never heard of flash through my dehydrated mind. I press the open button with a foul smelling thumb to see what my dear friend wanted: a simple inquiry as to how the last day of site seeing went. I promptly, and gingerly, responded.

(978): The view from the bathroom floor this morning is fabulous.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Complaints Don't Make Good Bait According to Jesus

Religion is a funny thing. It’s controversial, it’s taboo, and if it’s got any truth to it, there’s some invisible giant dude with a damn impressive beard watching over all of us all the time; and killing an exorbitant amount of kittens depending on who you talk to. Now, whether this is a good or bad thing, depends on your perspective. It’s either pretty freaking awesome or really bloody creepy. I’m some where in the middle of the two, but as long as he doesn’t tell the cops what’s in my cup, we’re golden. My buddy Joey has a similar take on it, except for when it comes to Jesus. I like to think Jesus was an enlightened individual who rocked a jewfro, was good with puppies, and probably invented Birkenstocks. Joey likes to believe that he is the Lord made manifest and is not a fan of suede clogs. Sometimes, when he’s had a little too much, he’ll stand up for “Jesus’ honor,” his words not mine. It’s a little weird, but it hasn’t stopped us from drinking together. I like to think of it as an endearing quirk.

In any case, we were at the bar last Friday when a trio of women came over to our table and started talking the two of us up. Within half a minute it became clear that Joey was their target, and the mastermind behind the plan was the shortest of the three. She was flashing him smiles as her friends laughed at her jokes and slyly slipped in appealing facts here and there. A well coordinated wingwoman strategy. The girl even did the whole tongue-straw thing, which is admittedly pretty hot, but my girlfriend’s better at it.

What should have been like shooting fish in a barrel ended in a moment of stunned silence that I will tell and retell until my dying breath. Her every effort seemed to flail and fail on Joey’s command. Even though his bed had been a solo show for the last seven months he was having none of it. I couldn’t understand. She wasn’t exactly his type, but he’d never been picky before. Suddenly she got whiney. Not whiney as in she started-bitching-about-her-day whiney. She was whiney in that way women are, and she started complaining about her physical attributes. That’s when it happened. As if he were the hand of God itself, Joey acted with Biblical swiftness.

After the dust settled, I sent the following text to our other buddy who got stuck working the graveyard shift.

(314): She said her tits were too big. Then he slapped her and said that Jesus didn’t appreciate bitches that fish for compliments.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

It's a Queen's Castle After All

Ever had a dream you swore was real? Not realistic, but real. Like you felt every feeling, took every breath? Like you got drunk with the original Power Rangers and you got a DUI for driving the Megazord kind of real. I do. I have them whenever I drink dark rum. I don’t know why dark rum does this to me but hey, I’m not complaining. The Dreaming Process is as follows: I have a nightcap, I go to bed, I start snoring, my mind leaves my body and materializes elsewhere. Some times I live whole life times in a single night. From birth to timely death I’ve been kings and warriors, a rapper and a guitarist, paupers and billionaires. Other times I just live a day. Last night was one such night.

I came home from the bar, went over to my nightstand, poured myself the allotted amount of dreamjuice, kissed my already sleeping girlfriend on the forehead and went to sleep. Not a hundred seconds later I was standing atop a hill, a valiant king returning from victory. My return was met with much fanfare, a parade and a feast. Hickory smoked pigs with apples adorned the long table at equal intervals, next to boiled vegetables, perfectly cooked bread, and a fish dish that didn’t look to appetizing. And there was mead, lots of it. Women too, lots of them as well. All of them gorgeous. I dined and feasted till I could no longer life my left arm to bring the leg of meat to my tired teeth. I then went to my royal quarters to rest for a bit because every great feast deserves a great rest. But it was not to be so. A wizard, who looked curiously like my best friend, gave me a special tonic and told me to drink every last drop. Seeing as how he looked to be my best friend, I trusted him and did just as he said.

As the last drop touched my lips, the lethargy that had burdened me suddenly evaporated, leaving me feeling like Hermes. Energy now coursed through my veins, made me stand taller, walk broader. What to do with all of it? To the Queen’s chambers of course! So off I went, a golden god-king, to make love to the most beautiful woman in all the many lands. I pictured it now and bit my lip in lusty anticipation. When I arrived, the door was slightly ajar. She must’ve been expecting me. ‘God bless that messenger’ I thought, and made a mental note to give whoever told my Queen of my return was to get a parcel of land and a goat. Every good deed deserves a goat.

I opened the door and announced my return, expecting a nude goddess with tasseled hair and rose petals all over her aching body. But no, instead she was clothed as a virgin angel, our favorite costume. So, in the spirit of role playing, I disrobed, dressed myself in the linens of a Saint, hefted the Staff of Divine Pleasure, and went to go receive my vision. On the way to my royal goose down bedding, a small bottle appeared in my hand with a puff of smoke and the wizard’s voice echoed in my mind. “Drink up.” I did. This time, everything went black.

My cell phone vibrates, rattling between my dehydrated brain and the kitchen linoleum. Apparently, I am not longer sleeping in my bed. I rub my bleary eyes and squint at the little LCD. My best friend forwarded a message my girlfriend sent him last night.

(815): He then proceeded to tear down my curtains, wrap them around his waist, and used the rod as his “rod” … you tell me how drunk he is…

Thursday, January 21, 2010

It's a Man Thing

You know, technology is a beautiful thing. It cures diseases, lets you talk to someone around the world instantaneously, and keeps family ties strong. This last bit is the main reason why my grandpa got a cell phone for Christmas this year. When he opened that little box his smiled fell off his face like an acorn, fast and without hope of returning. The room went quiet. He looked up and eyed each one of his children closely. When his gaze fell on my father, my grandpa’s eyes went to slip and his tongue lashed out. “The fuck is this Charlie?” My dad cracked a smile and said, “An iPhone.” My grandfather scratched his chin. “This one of them fairy Macintosh thingies?” My cousins and I lost it. We rolled on the floor laughing. “Yup.” My dad said. And then we moved. Grandpa hemmed and hawed all through dinner and into the night. My uncle, and my two aunts kept trying over and over to explain what a cell is and, according to my aunt Patty, “all of the marvelous things it can do.” He still wasn’t buying it. In fact, he tried to leave it at my house by putting it in the freezer. Crafty bastard. If my foodie cousin Larry hadn’t tried to steal some extra ice cream cake then I would have gotten it. Fat bastard told my dad and my dad pulled his father aside. He put his arm around grandpa’s back and walked into the other room.

I couldn’t really make out what was being said for the first few moments but then suddenly my grandpa perked up. “You mean I don’t ever have to talk to you mother again? I can “text message” her instead?” My dad chuckled. “Yes, you might not ever have to talk to anyone on the phone again.” There was a dramatic pause in the room. Silence. Then something happened. My grandfather looked up at my dad, look him right in the eye and said. “I love you son.” Then he hugged him. It was one of the sweetest things I’d ever seen that crotchety old bastard ever do. Then he looked down at his phone and started typing a message to my grandma. His perpetual frown turned upside down and he cackled as he hit the send button.

My grandma yelled from the other room. “NO Robert! I will not make you a sandwich when we get home!” I heard him mutter “bitch” before going to sit by her side.

After that night, my grandfather went nowhere without his iPhone. I’m surprised he didn’t have it surgically attached. Up until this point I could’ve sworn he was a neo-luddite. Moral of the story, while I was playing around on my grandpa’s iPhone, a text message popped up from my dad. Apparently the walls in my house are nowhere near as thick as I thought they were.

It read:

(765): Now I know how you felt every time you had to listen to me have sex with a girl... mildly disgusted yet marginally proud.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Shakespeare, you bastard

Shakespeare got it right when he informed the male gender that "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." But he left out the second part of the rule which reads, "A woman scorned hath no fury like a mother berated by her son at 4 in the morning." If I'd have known this little tidbit the decisions I made last night would have been totally and completely different. For instance, instead of going shot for shot with a guy that weighs a good sixty pounds more than myself, I would have found that good old Christian kid that "didn't really drink but liked the atmosphere." There's one at every party, conveniently stationed near the back for any sinner who feels like having a reprieve from the debaucherous and life-affirming activities of the 21st century breakdown. I love that kid, his only problem is that he talks to much and eventually mentions the miraculous healing powers of Jesus and what they could do for an individual such as myself with "so much wasted potential spent on the carnal affections of mortal life." WTF does "carnal affections" mean? Drinking, smoking, and women. In one of those funny little, life-coincidences that's what my religion calls the "Trifecta for Living" or "TFL" as we fervent devotees of the Church of the Fun Friday Night so affectionately call it. It's our highest decree.

If I could mulligan last night, instead of going out to the party that my mother specifically told me not to, I would have stayed in and read a book by Eric Carle or something. Eric Carle is my patron saint of literature, the pictures on his every page have fascinated me ever since early childhood.

Moving on, after a rowdy night that started off in a parentless basement and ended with the theft and subsequent racing of Target shopping carts, I stumbled back home singing drinking songs to myself and the girl I thought was with me. Upon returning home I announced that I was the racecart* champion and don't remember a thing afterwards.

Today I woke up with a bang, literally. My eyes shot open and the first thing I saw was my mother holding a pot in each hand. She could have scared the devil if he were in the room with me. When I didn't get up quick enough she did it again. I rolled over and looked at the time 6:03 a.m. WTF? I was about to say something when bbbbboooooooonnnggggg, she hit them again. To make matters worse, I hadn't drank any water or taken ibuprofen before I went to sleep last night, I do remember that much. So, if you can imagine, my brain literally rattled in my skull.

That was only the tip of the iceberg that made my life reminiscent of James Cameron's Titanic. The rest of my day was filled with yard work, the inability to address my mother as anything but "Sheer Commandant of the Thistledorp family," and the constant and self-aware nagging she was putting me through. After I had fried the last of the four pounds of bacon and cut up the fifteenth Idaho potato into perfect 1 by 1 cubes, my mother sat down next to me.

I couldn't control the nervous spasms in my leg so it bounced up and down and up and down. My mother looked me right in the eyes and filled in the little black spot from the night before. She used a lot of handquotes. When she was done informing me of my own life she stood up and left. As I was still afraid to speak whatsoever I texted my best friend.

(864): So my mom found me in the kitchen last night and asked me why I was making mac and cheese at 4 in the morning. Always prompt and witty in my returns, I apparently yelled at her to "get the fuck back bitch" and informed her "you don't know my life."
(562): Oh no.

Racecart - a specifically suburban sport that involves stolen shopping carts from bigbox stores such as Target and Wal-Mart. Teams consist of two individuals, the pusher and the pilot. There are many theories as to what exact body types make for the best team make-up, but most of them are forgotten after continuing to drink to much. This is a highly dangerous sport and should be practiced with immense caution.

(If any you guys out there have any footage of racecarting, please send it to 11th.nomad.publishing@gmail.com for a potential upcoming project I am working on)