Michael Kindt's Blog, page 32

Took my doggie Duke for a walk this morning at a place the sign claimed was 'Wilson Park'.

‘Duke Park’, I think, would be a better name. It’s a nice place, with gazebos and flower beds and landscaping and paths and lots and lots of open grass. A large concrete building housed bathrooms, and as we approached it I could hear lots of voices echoing inside of it.

That’s odd, I thought. It was 7:30 in the morning and the parking lot, except for my truck, was empty.

We dilly-dallied around by the bathrooms, waiting to see what would happen, and about five minutes later a train of homeless people started coming out the doors. There must’ve been twelve of them, men and women, and they stood in the morning sun, blinking and yawning and stretching.

They began their day by hitting me up for cigarettes. “Sorry,” I told them, “I don’t smoke.”

A little while later, they wandered off, and I thought, there but for the grace of a sugar momma go I.

FAITH NO MORE - WE CARE A LOT(currently binging Dirty Jobs. Had...

FAITH NO MORE - WE CARE A LOT

(currently binging Dirty Jobs. Had to).

Here's a story written by me and a friend of mine while we were drunk (me) and high (him). It's really stupid, almost as if it were written by people who were drunk (me) and high (him).

Poached Fish With Two Sauces, or Thinner Thighs In Thirty Days

It all began at the Curl Up & Dye Hair Salon. A Wednesday, I believe–the shittiest of days (it’s in the Bible). I had gone down to get my neck beard scaled back. No small task, but I was willing to pay handsomely because, holy bitchcakes, did it need it. The gals who worked there,  Ursula and Andress, had looks of horror on their faces when I walked in. Not at the sight of me, mind you, but because that’s how they always looked.

Don’t ask me why.

Before I go any further, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Mr. French. Kyle T. French. The T. stands for T.

Ursula and Andress refused to do the neck beard scaling I so desperately sought. They also refused to give me any damn thing resembling a reason why, though I did hear them muttering about lice and grasshoppers. Their refusal put me in a rather foul mood and I cursed comically. “Dagnabbit! This neck beard needs scaling back, and it needs scaling back now!”

I turned around, walked out of the Curl Up & Dye Hair Salon, and went in search of alternatives, which were few and far between. I must admit, I was in more than just a foul mood after Ursula and Andress’s rebuff. I was downright miffed, and when I got outside to the parking lot I pissed FUCK YOU, YOU ROTTEN WHORES in the snow near their car, including the comma (I really had to piss).

There really were no alternatives, I knew. They weren’t even few and far between, like I wrote above. I write stuff all the time, and I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m completely full of shit. Hell, I’m actually clean-shaven.

The neck beard was in my pocket. Don’t ask me why, but I keep it there all the time. Well, all the time I’m wearing something with pockets. When I’m not wearing something with pockets, I keep it in my sock. It’s not even my neck beard. I don’t know to whom it actually belongs. I found it inside an abandoned pair of Air Jordans near a fence alongside a road a few miles outside Davenport, Iowa (God’s country). I’ve kept it ever since, hoping someday to find the rightful owner.

But anyway, I was miffed and had just pissed enough to write a 22 letter sentence in the snow, including a comma, so decided to go to the bar.

Captain Jack’s Piano Bar, run by some Billy Joel fellow from New York, was where I usually met my connection, Maurice the Space Cowboy, who dabbled in creams and lotions (he was Mormon). Maurice the Space Cowboy had two prosthetic legs which he shaved religiously (did I mention he was Mormon?).

“You never know when you’re going to meet that special someone,” he claimed.

I ordered my usual, Jaggermeister and chocolate syrup, from the robot bartender, KL549. Oh, did I mention this is all happening in 2075?

“Seen Maurice lately, KL549?” I asked.

“Not since the Friday Incident,” it replied. The Friday Incident had occurred last Thursday and, as far as Friday Incidents go, had been a semi-psychotic melange-y haze of misunderstandings blown completely out of proportion, escalating violence, and finally gunfire. This time, though, Maurice had been the star performer and not myself. Fuck!

“Is he still in jail?”

“Yep.”

“Know when he’s getting out?”

“Nope.”

(Robot bartenders are notoriously untalkative, unless you ply them with gifts and WD-40).

Suddenly, a hush fell over the bar. Billy Joel had entered and was cracking his knuckles, getting ready to play. He was nude as usual and the sight of his minuscule penis nestled in its bramble of pubic hair was most disconcerting. I couldn’t help but think of Vienna sausages, which had been banned after the Gluten Wars of the 2030s. A smattering of applause erupted, which was unusual for smattering applause.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Billy said. “Welcome to the Captain’s Hour. I’m Bill the Piano Man. Are we all in the mood for a melody?”

“Don’t Ask Me Why!” some asshole android from Ceti Alpha Five shouted out, so I, of course, left immediately.

Outside, I spotted Ursula and Andress scooping up the message I had pissed in the snow with shovels. They were loading into the trunk of their car. When I asked why, they replied that they were going to take it home, form it into a foot long ice dildo, slather it with camphor, kerosene, and wax, come find me, and then shove it into every orifice on my body repeatedly and thrustedly.

So I, of course, left immediately.

Now, when you leave somewhere in 2075, you go to Outer Space, which was a lawless, rowdy frontier town in Idaho, a former state of the former United States. Idaho had formerly seceded from the former United States shortly after the formerly mentioned Gluten Wars of the 2030s.

“Fuck you,” the Idahoans had said. “We’re gonna eat gluten out the ass.”

Outer Space, Idaho had swingin’ doors and sawdust on the floors, but since this was 2075, it was all digital. Gone were the days of analog swingin’ doors and sawdust on the floors.

It was a dark and stormy night, and there I was, alone on the streets of Outer Space, Idaho. The smell of gluten was strong, palpable, and omniscient, God-like in the way it permeated the very atmosphere.

I decided to get some pancakes, or waffles, or both. Don’t ask me why.

Here in the land of infinite gluten, there are an equally infinite amount of breakfast joints from which to partake, so I settled on the Idaho House of Pancakes because it was closest. The Idaho House of Pancakes had survived a lawsuit from the International House of Pancakes, and was stronger for it. Seriously, you should’ve seen the pecs on this breakfast joint.

Sporting wood, I went inside, but the place was packed. Visions of gooey maple syrup filled my brain as I stood there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. A guy in a nearby booth spoke to me.

“Psst! Hey, buddy.”

I pointed at my chest and looked behind me.

“Yeah, you. Hungry for some real gluten?”

I looked the guy over. He was pushing 50, had a shaved head, and wore jeans and a ratty threadbare t-shirt he had obviously gotten from the Salvation Navy (the Salvation Army had been renamed in the mid-2050s after all the flooding caused by global warming). There were scratches on his glasses, holes in his shoes, and he couldn’t stop blinking. Rolled up on his lap was a pervert raincoat.

Obviously, the man knew his gluten.

“Meet me out back by the dumpster in ten minutes,” he said, and headed out the door.

He’d been alone in the booth and had left nearly a whole short stack of pancakes, not to mention several slices of delectably digital bacon. I scarfed the comestibles down and went looking for the dumpster, which, it turned out, were fucking everywhere.

After an hour of searching, I finally found him, hiding behind a green one over which a dark cloud of flies buzzed.

“Psst! Buddy!” he whispered loudly.

I walked up to him. “Boy,” I said, “you Idahoans sure got a lot of dumpsters.”

“What’d you expect?”

I stood there, stumped.

“Anywho, I got your gluten right here.” He opened his pervert raincoat and pinned along the insides were gooey off-brown wads of pure gluten. I didn’t know gluten came in wads, nor did I know it was off-brown.

“I didn’t know gluten came in wads,” I said, “nor did I know it was off-brown.”

“Who are you?” he asked. “Little Jack Horner?”

“No, but I know his cousin George. How’s his wife doin’, by the way. I heard she had to have something removed. A gland or something.”

“Do you want some gluten or what? Jesus Christ.”

“Sure, but like I said, I didn’t know it came in wads, nor did I know it was off-brown.”

He pulled off the biggest, baddest wad from the inside wall of his pervert raincoat, stuffed it into a pipe, and took a huge hit. He held it in for what seemed like forever, then blew the cloud of smoke in my face.

Three days later, I woke up in Vegas. I was surprised, to say the least. Shit, only 25 minutes ago I was in Outer Space, Idaho, smoking gluten in an alley with a guy in a pervert raincoat.

I dug through my pockets, came up with a handful of dollars, and hit the tables. Blackjack was my game, even though I was a white guy named Kyle. I had always wanted to be a black guy named Jack, though. Imagine the ass I’d get.

The dealer was named Simon. Through small talk, I learned he was a former English teacher in the former state of Arizona. His true love, however, was juggling. He barely had escaped the ethnic cleansing of the 2040s, only to wind up in Las Vegas.

And they say God has no sense of humor.

DISCLAIMER: No icicles were hurt during the writing of this story.

Trump selling ‘deplorable’ t-shirts on campaign website.I...

Trump selling ‘deplorable’ t-shirts on campaign website.

I totally want one! How hilarious. Finally, a candidate who understands what makes this country great: branding.

If a reality tv star is going to be our next president, why isn't it Mike Rowe?

It's actually kind of strange to think that soon marijuana will be legal everywhere.

Hell, I’m even investing in marijuana companies (purely for philosophical reasons at this point). Shit, I remember back in high school all the hell we had to go through just to score a bag of weed….

We had to drive all the way down out of the mountains to Rapid City to this guy Bruce, who was like 50 years old. This guy Bruce had the best bud and you could score a quarter ounce bag of it for 35 bucks. Keep in mind, this is like the late 80s, so really good bud then is like half-assed bud now. But he had the best.

We had to go to this rusted-over, end-of-days, apocalyptic trailer court. There were always 3 or 4 cops in it breaking up domestic disputes and enforcing restraining orders. This guy Bruce was flamboyantly gay and always announced during every transaction “I suck a mean cock. Free bag if I do.”

We’re these little high school kids. “Um, no thank you, sir. We’ll pay full price.”

Then we’d go to some shitty little alley on the north side and smoke up on a pop can while homeless drunks pissed on dumpsters and gunfire and black helicopters filled the air.

Now it’s, like, a fucking legitimate business.

Hell of a deal if you think about it.

Well, first of all, the one that is hip. I am so totally hip and...

Well, first of all, the one that is hip. I am so totally hip and with it, it’s mind-boggling. So, yeah, the one currently being demonized. That’s the one I’m against. If there’s anything I wanna be, it’s cool.

Seriously, though, I almost drove my truck up there to North Dakota or where ever, got out of it, and demanded that the stuff that makes it run be even more expensive and more difficult to get.

But then, suddenly, I remembered I was intelligent, so no go.

:(

20 years of schoolin’ and they put you on the day shift.

Not very intuitive, Gmail, and, frankly, really stupid.

$googl

If I am having a back-and-forth email communication with someone, and I delete an earlier message that I saw because, you know, I fucking saw it, why does the whole conversation, including future emails, go in the trash?

What the fuck is that all about?

“You have responded to a trashed conversation.”

Bullshit.

You are one of THE premier tech companies of the 21st Century. Your stock is trading at close to $800 a share.

Fucking act like it.

Ta da!

Ta da!