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…

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.

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)