Michael Kindt's Blog, page 144
March 8, 2015
March 7, 2015
Forty One Dollars and Change - Gillian Welch
Forty One Dollars and Change - Gillian Welch
Once upon a time, in a trailer court far, far away,
lived Jesus H. Christ himself.
His middle name was Herman.
I lived in the same trailer court, in Lot 146 to be exact. My trailer house was babyshit green, except for the skirting, which was rust-colored because it was rusted. There was a hole in the rusted skirting into and out of which my cat, Cat Reversed, crept. He would creep in it with wounded birds and wounded rabbits and half-dead mice. Once inside, he would torture them to death and partially eat them. Whatever was leftover—a tiny brain, say, or a pile of miniature intestines—he would place on the step before my door to horrify me. He would often grin at me with coagulated gore or frayed feathers in his teeth.
Cat Reversed was vicious, a veritable Cat the Ripper. For the longest time, he didn’t have a name. People would ask me “Aw, what’s his name?” as they scratched his evil head, and I’d shrug my shoulders and say “I don’t know. He hasn’t told me yet.” When I first got him, Cat Reversed was white and black—specifically, white on the bottom and black on the top. Then one day, he disappeared. He was gone for days, and I assumed he got ran over or killed by coyotes. I began the grieving process by throwing his stinky litter box away and drinking a lot of beer. Then one day, out of the blue, he was back. He wasn’t the same cat, though. Instead of being white and black—specifically, white on the bottom and black on the top, like he was before he vanished, he was now black and white—specifically, black on the bottom and white on the top.
It was the damnedest thing.
Jesus H. Christ himself got his name from me, too. He looked so much like the famous Christmas character, I had no choice but to call him that. I think his actual name was Kyle or something, but with the beard and the hair and the sandals I had no choice but to call him Jesus H. Christ himself. Usually, though, I shortened it to just Jesus—as in “Hey, Jesus, the part of your lawn that ain’t dead is looking absolute tits!”
“Thanks, neighbor, weed-whacked that bitch myself!”
Whenever Jesus H. Christ himself got his disability check, he threw a rager. The whole trailer court was invited—well, except for those rich fuckers in the double-wide. There’d be a keg and plenty of smoke and sometimes even shrooms.
The most recent rager was this past Saturday night. Cat Reversed came to the monthly ragers as well. He followed me around, even though I only fed him sporadically and hardly ever cleaned out his litter box. When I went down to the mail boxes to throw away bills, he’d trail along—but not too close. And every month when I went over to Jesus’ for the disability check rager, he’d trail along, too. I’d get trashed on the rickety and lop-sided deck and he’d sit on the far side of the mostly-dead lawn, keeping an eye on me. In betwixt torturing to death cute fuzzy bunnies and adorable widdle birdies, he was my guardian angel.
There was a keg of Bud, a bag of pot, and no shrooms. There was a few tabs of Percocet floating around for those in pain, and a plastic bottle of cheap whiskey for those in real pain. I concentrated on the beer and busting moves on the single mom from Lot 103, Lacey Dank, whose dream was to be a hand model.
“I’ve been told my hands are beautiful,” she said to me, waving them around annoyingly.
“Yeah? Lemme see.”
She let me see by holding them still for once.
“Those are some nice hands.”
“Thanks!”
“Can I hold one?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re the weird guy who lives in the brown trailer.”
“What?”
“You should probably think about putting on some clothes when you go outside.”
“What the hell? I do!”
“Other than your boxers.”
“Oh.”
So I wasn’t getting anywhere with single mom Lacey Dank. There were no other available women at the rager, or, I should say, none that I was attracted to. I wasn’t even all that attracted to Lacey Dank, but she was about my age and showered regularly and I was not a picky man.
Jesus had taken up his usual position in the ratty recliner which sat in the living room like a low rent throne. He was opining about peace and love, as usual. Ever since I had started calling him Jesus H. Christ himself (middle name being Herman), he had run with it. He all of a sudden started wearing a crucifix around his neck. He broke up fights and thwarted arguments whenever he could. He even went down to the second hand store and got a Bible, which he didn’t read but displayed prominently by setting it on top of his tv set. I had, kind of, created a monster.
Cat Reversed watched the drunken festivities from the corner of the yard. Lacey Dank ended up in the bathroom with Josh, a married guy who lived at Lot 119. I imagined her wanna-be hand model hands wrapped around his married shaft as she went down on him drunkenly. I wondered where Mrs. Josh was and learned she was home with the kids. I thought about staggering down to Lot 119 and busting the moves on her, but thought better of it. I was, after all, the weirdo who lived in the brown trailer.
I went home alone, as usual, with Cat Reversed trailing behind. I was too drunk to masturbate, so whipped up a box of mac-n-cheese and crashed.
Golly gee, I could hardly wait for the next disability check rager!
Post a pic of your wife!
We’re gettin matching sweaters next.
I put $1,100 into my truck, unloaded 3/4 of a ton of bananas,...
I put $1,100 into my truck, unloaded 3/4 of a ton of bananas, and painted my living room. What have you done today? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to drink like a Vietnam vet. Cheers!
March 5, 2015
This is Seth Bullock. He has a cosmic mustache. I mean, shit,...
This is Seth Bullock. He has a cosmic mustache. I mean, shit, look at it.
He also has wikipedia page.
He was just one of the many pictures hanging on the wall…
A wax gentleman in one of the Deadwood casinos….He just...
A wax gentleman in one of the Deadwood casinos….
He just sort of stands there, lookin’ awesome. Not unlike myself…
'Member I told you about the ‘pink doors’? I...
'Member I told you about the ‘pink doors’? I wasn’t lying. Of course you can’t get a prostitute here these days.
In this particular location, rather than a prostitute, you can get a cute top.
Probably better for all of us :)
Going to Deadwood today.It’s only right over there....
Going to Deadwood today.
It’s only right over there. I’m not one for gambling usually, but, eh, what the hell. I feel like getting out of town.
Deadwood was a series on HBO or Skinemax or one of those, I guess. It was in my post-tv era, which began around 2008, so I didn’t see it. I did download an episode and was pretty bored by it. People around here loved it though, because Deadwood is like 30 miles away. It hit close to home, I guess.
From what I understand, you could get prostitutes up there until the 1980s. The places where you could get ‘em all had pink doors. That was the sign. Not anymore. All good things end, I spose. Haha.
I hate slots, but do enjoy a little blackjack. There’s a real tobacco shop up there, too, I always stop by when I’m in town.
Since I enjoy my alcohol, I’ll be getting a room. Weekday rooms during the wintermonths are quite cheap, thirty bucks in a casino.
Should be fun. Talk to everyone tomorrow. Hopefully something weird happens so I’ll actually have something interesting to say…
The UN Says We're Eating Too Much Sugar
Blow me, UN.
How ‘bout you shut the fuck up and leave me and my sugar alone? If I wanna eat too much of it, I will. I’ll snort it if I want, rub it on my nipples, tuck it away in the secret crevices of my body.
Besides, do you think we don’t know? What, are you like Hillary Clinton and think we’re all a bunch of dumbass cattle? I’ve got my belly telling me I’m eating too much sugar. I ain’t listening to it, why would I listen to you?
Why exactly are you even here, UN? What exactly have you ever accomplished? How about you prevent even one war, then maybe I’ll listen to your diet advice.
Now sit the fuck down.
