Michael Kindt's Blog, page 517
February 18, 2011
Lily's Lube Job
Enis the Penis was a tool and his stupid, grease-monkey cohorts were the tools of a tool. Enis thought he was smart, lying to a 22-year old woman, telling her how if she didn’t get a new filter for her tranny fluid she was going to end up ruining the Johnson Rod. He’d snicker at his wit. “And another thing….” he’d say. “And another thing….”
And the poor woman would pay and pay.
What a colossal dick Enis the Penis was. When there was a special event in town, like a halfway decent band or during the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, he got to play cop. Holy shit, did he get off on that. Even though he’d only work, like, four hours in the evening, he’d put the uniform on first thing in the morning and wear that bitch all day long, rattling to anyone who’d listen about how he was in the ‘reserves’ and how ‘needed and important’ he was.
He was an even bigger dick on those occasions, as you can imagine. It takes a special kind of asshole to want to be a cop in the first place, to want to be a professional buzzkill, to want to be a snooty, tattling hall monitor with a gun. But it takes a cosmic kind of asshole to want to pretend to be one.
Lily is a friend of mine and she needed her oil changed. Even though I told her not to, she went down to the Rocket Lube to get it done. She was young, just 23, and very headstrong. She wouldn’t listen to me.
All of my friends are young, in their 20s mostly, one or two in their early 30s. I can’t fucking stand people my own age. And men my own age are the worst–all that vacuous talk of golf and boats. It makes my skin crawl.
“Well,” Lily said to me. “You change it then.”
I refused, citing my aversion to physical labor. I did warn her about what was going to happen. “They’re gonna change your oil and then tell you how you need new filters on everything. They’re gonna tell you how your car is on the verge of ruin if you don’t act now.”
She said she was 3000 miles over and had no choice. “Besides, I won’t fall for that crap. What do you take me for?”
It was during the Rally when she went down there, so Enis was busy playing cop. His shit-brown uniform was neatly pressed as he ordered around his minions from his perch by the microwave. Whenever he was playing cop his cohorts at the Rocket Lube turned into his minions. It was the damnedest thing.
He sprang to his feet when he saw Lily drive up.
Lily is extremely attractive, you see, and not in a plastic, artificial, magazine type way, either. She’s curvy, corn-fed, and deliciously Midwestern. There’s thickness and substance to her and a very real naturalness that is, by today’s standards, completely exotic. Even though she was dressed casually for this particular occasion, wearing sweats and glasses rather than her contacts, her beauty was as obvious as a politician’s lie.
Enis the Penis began calling her honey and darlin’ and going on about what an adorable little thing she was and about how he was going to take care of her as soon as possible. Apparently, he felt that driving a car in a straight line was beyond her capacity, so he offered to pull it into the garage for her.
“No, thanks,” Lily told him. “I got it.” Enis the Penis shrugged and, using his hand, waved her on in.
Expertly, she pulled into the garage and directly over the pit where the minions waited with their wrenches and their lies. She turned the engine off and they began their mysterious, esoteric work down below.
The Rocket Lube has a little waiting area in the office nook. It consists of two dirty plastic chairs, a stack of out-of-date fishing magazines, and a little tv turned to the Fox News Channel. Shockingly, Lily chose to not make use of it and, instead, remained in her car and texted me.
“You’re right. This guy is a tool.”
“Told ya,” I responded. “Watch out! Bullshit up ahead.”
“I’m ready. He keeps looking at me. Eww! He’s really PUDGY.”
“Look away! Do not meet his eyes!”
“He’s the Pillsbury Dough Cop!”
Within fifteen minutes, the minions had completed their work and emerged from the pit as greasy as could be. There were four of them, a quartet of underpaid, blackfaced Al Jolsons. They consulted in hushed tones with Enis as he sat on his perch by the microwave.
“They’re getting their story straight,” Lily texted.
“Accept nothing!” I sent back.
Enis came up to the car. “It seems your fuel filter is shot, hon,” he said. “You’re gonna want to get that fixed. Also, your air filter is clogged. That’s really important. It’s like the lungs of the whole car.”
“Wow,” said Lily. “The lungs of the whole car?”
“Yep,” said Enis. His tone was fatherly. “If I were you, I’d go for the Filter-palooza. That’s where we go in and change all your filters at once, including for the power steering and transmission fluids, which, by the way, were both showing quite a bit of wear.”
“How much will all this be?”
“Well, normally, the Filter-palooza runs $58.99, but I’m willing to go an even $55 for you, since you’re so pretty and all.” He smiled, revealing his yellow teeth.
“Aw, shucks,” Lily said. “Thanks.”
“Anything for you, hon.”
I told you Enis the Penis was a dick. I may be a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them. The whole time he was talking to her, he was stroking his shiny black nightstick. He was always stroking his shiny black nightstick when he was playing cop.
“What’s happening?” I texted her, but she didn’t respond.
“Well….go ahead and do it, I guess,” she said. “Since I’m getting a deal and all.”
“A wise choice, young lady.” Enis the Penis turned on his jackboot and barked orders at his minions. They bobbed their heads up and down in acquiescence and scurried back under the car like rats. Enis returned to his perch by the microwave and resumed his leering.
The Filter-palooza concluded twenty minutes later. Enis approached the car with a somewhat stiff gait. He was squeezing his shiny black nightstick so hard a thick, white fluid oozed from its tip.
“You’re all set, hon,” he said, his voice trembling. “Pull around to the side and come on in the office and we’ll get you all squared away.”
Lily backed out of the garage and drove away.
“Suckers!” she texted me as she drove. “Woo!”
This all happened during the Rally at the beginning of August. It’s been over two months now and no one has come looking for her.
She totally got away with it.
February 14, 2011
You know what this world needs?
So today I went to my favorite thinking spot, which is the graveyard, and sat down in the dead grass. I turned my hand into a fist and placed my chin on it and began some hardcore, balls-to-the-wall pondering.
Thirty-five seconds later, I knew.
I knew how make the world better, how to improve things, not only for this generation, but for every generation to come. My epiphany was so emotional I sprang to my feet and ran in slow motion through dramatic soft lighting to my car, which was parked next to the Hooker family plot.
I came directly here, to the internet, to enlighten you, the masses.
This world needs more celebrities. Simple as that. The terrible shortage of celebrities is of such mythic proportions it’s astounding how it hasn’t been noticed before. Politicians are too busy learning their lines, so they can’t help. That leaves only one other option: television.
My suggestion is this: we use the enormous power of television to get more celebrities. We would make dozens of tv shows that do nothing but attempt to manufacture new stars. These shows would be fragmented into the various categories of celebrity, such as Typical Pop Singer, Generic Skinny Model, Yet Another Celebrity Chef, and so forth.
The tv shows would be in the form of competitions, where ordinary dipshits compete with other ordinary dipshits to prove they are extraordinary dipshits. There’d be voting and/or judging and in no time at all, hundreds of new celebrities would be created.
And the people of the world would just sit there watching, sit there taking it all in as one Next Big Thing after another is generated in front of them, sit there with eyes glazed over and head fucking empty.
February 13, 2011
Hot
…………Something hot is sex. It's like democracy. When it's good, it's fucking great, and when it's bad, well, it's still pretty good. There are, of course, degrees to the hotness of sex. For me, it rises exponentially when it's bad or wrong or dirty. When you really shouldn't be doing it this way or even at all, that's when sex burns hottest.
…………I had sex in a crowded bar with a psychologist. I shit you not. She was the smartest person I ever knew, and also the sexiest. She had just recently gotten her Master's and so had some life in her yet. Career and normalhood hadn't yet robbed her of her fire. I dated her for several years, one of my longer relationships. She even wanted to marry me (I told you she was smart), but, alas, I only support gay marriage, not straight.
…………Heterosexual marriage should be stamped out. Militarily, if necessary.
…………So Friday night we went to a popular bar to drink and have some fun. No friends came with us, it was just the two of us. The bar was called Louie's Burgers and Brews, but no one really focused on the burgers part. We figured we'd run into someone we knew, but, fortunately, we didn't.
…………The bar had two tiers and the bottom floor was crowded when we got there—nowhere to sit. The upper tier held two pool tables and a line of café-style booths—you know, big red poofy bench seats with high backs and bolted-down formica tables where drunks from eons past had carved such witty things as 'Tina is a Whore' and 'Fuck You' and 'Vote Dukakis!' There were only a handful of people up there, so I ordered four beers and we headed up.
…………There were a couple dudes shooting pool and another booth with a group of five people. Three booths were empty so we took the one farthest away, against the wall. My girl—to protect her identity, let's call her Steve—Steve was looking fine. She always looked fine, but when she went out, she looked extra fine. I pointed out before how smart Steve was, and it's the goddamn truth. She had her Master's degree, she wanted later on to marry me, and she was fond of short skirts and flimsy frilly awesome panties.
…………For awhile we drank and chatted and I rubbed her leg under the table. I began to feel a little 'anxious', if you know what I mean. I suggested she come over and sit next to me instead of across from me, and she thought that was a brilliant idea. (I am also smart).
…………With Steve sitting right next to me, I was able to rub much more of her leg, as well as other things. I am a very hands-on guy and learn tactilely.
…………I won't get too graphic. Suffice it to say that Steve ended up on my lap after we made appropriate clothing adjustments.
…………It was a hot ass 5 minutes, I tell ya.
…………Of course, all this happened before I found the Lord. By the way, I have some helpful pamphlets if you are feeling lost.
Michael Kindt
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Tagged: Books, Fiction, Literature, Writing
February 7, 2011
February 6, 2011
I Wish I Had My Politics Figured Out
…………Like fiscally. Am I a liberal or a conservative? Socially, I'm a bigtime liberal.
…………LEAVE EVERYONE THE FUCK ALONE is my motto. Drugs should be legal. All of them. Stop kidding yourselves. Gay people should be allowed to get married. In fact, why is the government even involved in something like marriage? They're not involved in bar mitzvahs. They're not involved in confirmations in the Christian churches. The fuck is this shit with marriage? "Unfortunately, we live in Alabama, so it's illegal for me to give a bar mitzvah to my dog."
…………Sorry, I'm not Jewish—do you give a bar mitzvah or throw one?
…………SHARE THIS IF YOU SUPPORT CANINE MITZVAHS!
…………Bat mitzvahs for bitches, yo.
…………Incest is legal in more US states than gay marriage. And this is the greatest country on earth. Um, yeah.
…………Am I proud to be an American? I reiterate: Incest is legal in more US states than gay marriage. I'm wearing a fucking paper sack on my head as I type this, that's how proud I am.
…………So taxes. Do we punish the rich for being rich and tax the living shit out of them? Why? Just because they're rich? And, yeah, I'm sure our government would do a bang-up job with all the money they steal from the rich, too. Say what you will about the backward and provincial nature of the American citizen, but there is no way you can logically impugn the fiscal know-how and responsibility of the American government.
…………Zing.
…………Capitalism: that's a fucked up mess. An entire economic system based on greed. And it shows! It shows in the chemicals we eat mislabeled as food, in the plastic shit everywhere, in the cookie-cutter music, in the brain-dead tv and movies, in everything.
…………Capitalism is organic and natural, though. It grew from the soil. "I'll trade you this nifty stone knife I just made for a night with your woman," said the first caveman capitalist.
…………Socialism is unnatural and must be forced. The most totalitarian state imaginable had to be so totalitarian because it was so socialist. I'm talking, of course, about Soviet Russia. All thoroughly socialist nations are totalitarian shitholes. There's only a couple left: Cuba, North Korea. Paradises both.
…………So I don't believe in anything, I guess. I do, however, strongly support your hedgehog's right to be confirmed in the Catholic faith.
Michael Kindt
If you like my writing, please consider sharing it with others. Thank you.
Tagged: Books, Fiction, Literature, Writing
February 4, 2011
Kitchen Nightmare
I had a dream
and you were in it,
you were there
and helped me through it.
I had a dream
of blood and screams,
the dream I dream
each time I dream,
and you were there
like weight or strong.
You were there
and got me through it.
I had a dream
of loss of life,
broken limb,
and hell and strife,
and you were there,
you were,
along with me
and two French potatoes
made out of sandwiches
who argued vehemently
about the demise
of the family sit-down meal.
They lamented loudly
in thick accents
as radiation seeped
from the fridge
like deathly custard,
killing my father
who clenched a rusted wrench
in a trembling hand,
his tears and saliva
mingling on the kitchen floor
in a pool of sadness.
But you were there
and you talked me through it,
explaining everything
carefully
as you wore,
for some reason,
a cowboy outfit.
-Michael Kindt
January 30, 2011
Do Not Read if You're Sensitive to The Plight of The Fucking Nuts
…………Every town has its lunatics. If you live in a small enough town, you encounter the same ones over and over again. There used to be town drunks and before that, village idiots. Now, local lunatics.
…………They're people so odd, the government gives them a check to stay the way they are, apparently for my entertainment.
…………Being extremely eccentric is only possible if you're fabulously wealthy, like Michael Jackson (shivers), or if someone else is footing the bill. Otherwise, you have to come out from under the bed, put your bra on underneath your shirt, and get your ass to fucking work like the rest of us.
…………A friend of mine calls their government hand-outs Stupid Checks. This isn't entirely accurate. They receive them because they have been defined as mentally ill, which is meaningless. In my experience, they seem fine, just really really fucking weird.
…………Also, for the record, I have no problem AT ALL with them getting money from the government. In fact, they should all get raises. I have no problem with anyone who isn't filthy rich getting money from the government. I know a woman who lies about how poor she is so her welfare check is bigger. Fuck yeah, I say. With the trillions of dollars our government forks over to rich corporate fucktards, there's no way padding your poverty for an extra hundred bucks a month is wrong. It's wrong if you don't, is what I say.
…………Here in my town, we have Gomez, who plays the lottery obsessively, who has a whole system for playing the lottery, who has this system all written out in dozens of notebooks, which he carries with him everywhere he goes in a dirty backpack, and which he tries to get everyone he comes across to look at.
…………He also has, for reasons unknown, a vendetta against the local mortician, whom he insists is a necrophiliac. If you won't listen to his lottery system, he'll talk about that, about necrophilia. Graphically. Right there in the pasta aisle of the supermarket.
…………This guy Gomez is paid by the government, because, like killing brown people and delivering the mail, being fucking nuts is a Federal job.
…………Today I met a new lunatic, a barefoot woman in her 60s wearing a dirty pink babydoll dress. The dress, her make-up, her hairstyle (pigtails), all were frighteningly incongruous on a woman her age. It looked like she was in costume, but it was 8:30 on a Sunday morning.
…………I was coming out of the gas station and she was standing there looking into my car. I said hello to her as I approached.
…………"Do you know Destiny?" she asked me.
…………"No." I said. I wanted to get in and drive away, but she was standing right in front of the door. I thought about going around, getting in the passenger side, and sliding across the seat. My NUTdar was blaring.
…………"Are you sure?" She smiled at me playfully. She thought I was pulling her leg.
…………"Positive."
…………"This sure looks like Destiny's car."
…………"Nope. My car."
…………She began peering through the window again. "She likes to hide. She might be hiding in there."
…………"Nope," I said. I am a man of few words when talking to the insane. "Excuse me." I reached around her and pulled the door open, which moved her out of the way.
…………"Oh, well," she said as I climbed in. "If you see her tell her Candy says hi."
…………"I'll do that."
…………"She's really small, Destiny is, so you have to keep your eyes open."
…………"I will be ever watchful for Destiny," I said.
…………"She likes to hide, too, so you might not even know she's there."
…………I drove away, watching her in my rearview mirror.
…………She was laughing.
Michael Kindt
If you like my writing, please consider sharing it with others. Thank you.
Tagged: Books, Fiction, Literature, Writing
November 13, 2010
Shunyata
…………There is no fundemental unit of matter, no "smallest" piece.
…………The Greeks invented the word 'atom' and their definition was that an atom was the smallest component piece of matter. Today, we know this to be false. We know that atoms are made up of electrons, neutrons, and protons. We know also that the component pieces of the atom are made up of still smaller pieces, like quarks.
…………That's about as far as we've gotten.
…………But no matter how far down we go we will never reach a piece of matter that can't be divided further. This is to say that everything in the universe is made up of components and the components are made up of components and those components are made up of still more components and on and on and on to infinity.
…………The reason there is no smallest piece is simple: space. To exist, matter has to occupy a space. More specifically, it has to occupy an AMOUNT of space. No matter how small the amount of space, it can be divided in two, along with the piece of stuff occupying it. And then it can be divided into four and then six and on and on and on.
…………There is no fundamental unit of matter.
…………There is no "one thing" in the universe, including you. Biologically, you can understand your component parts: arms, legs, organs, cells, mitochondria, the atoms that make you up and so on to infinity. But your mind is comprised of component parts as well: sensations, perceptions, thought, feelings, ideas, etc. Each one of these, too, can be further divided. For example the sensation of sight is made up of the infinite components within your eyes and optic nerve and brain and photons and the infinite components of the thing you are looking at, etc.
…………If everything in the universe is made up of components upon components upon components all the way to infinity, where are you?
…………There answer is there is no "you". There is no fundamental, indivisible, individual "you". In fact, there is nothing individual at all in reality. If everything is made up of component parts and every component part is made up of still more component parts, the word "individual" is ridiculous.
…………It is an illusion.
…………When you see a chair, you see one thing in your mind: a chair, but the word 'chair' is simply the name for the illusion of the chair being one thing—namely, and namely only—a "chair". In reality, it is merely an accumulation of infinite components and is itself part of a larger accumulation: part of the stuff in your living room, part of your house, which is part of your neighborhood which is part of your town which is part of your country which is part of your planet which is part of your solar system, galaxy, galactic grouping and on and on up through infinite universes.
…………Infinity goes both ways, you see. It never gets small enough and it never gets big enough.
…………In the same way as the chair, so you are an illusion. Your "self", your "soul" is an illusion. It is simply a name applied to a temporary accumulation of infinite components which is itself a component part of an infinite reality.
…………This is the Buddha's teaching of shunyata.
Michael Kindt
If you like my writing, please consider sharing it with others. Thank you.
Tagged: Books, Fiction, Literature, Writing
