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…