Josh Stern's Blog, page 160
October 26, 2013
October 23, 2013
Shane Rodenbeck@Shane_Rodenbeck
September 29, 2013
25 MORE RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME, THAT I WILL EMPHATICALLY DENY
1. Do you regularly smell your laundry? YES, BUT ONLY WHEN THERE IS NOBODY ELSE’S LAUNDRY IN THE HAMPER
2. Do you mix alcohol with firearms? ONLY WHEN PSYCHO-MEDS ARE ALSO INVOLVED, AND IT’S FOR A GOOD CAUSE
3. When was the last time you were inside a Woman? NO NEED-THERE’S ONE TRAPPED INSIDE ME
4. Have you ever shaved your head in solidarity with Neo-Nazi Skinheads? NEVER-MY BARBER STRONGLY ADVISED THE MORE URBANE ‘JOSEF GOEBBELS’ SLICKBACK
5. Have you ever been tested for an STD? NO, BUT I HAVE DONE THE WRITTEN PORTION
6. What is the most chemically attractive characteristic to the opposite sex? ROOFIES
7. Have you ever felt you were secretly adopted? YES, ALTHOUGH MY PARENTS SWEAR IT WAS DONE OPENLY
8. Have you ever participated in a threesome? YES MANY TIMES, WITH PANTENE 2-IN-1 SHAMPOO AND CONDITIONER
9. Have you ever manscaped? YES, I PRACTICE A ‘SCORCH AND BURN’ POLICY
10. What are your views on ritual genital mutilation? IT REALLY DEPENDS ON WHO IS CATERING
11. What separates you from the herd? THE HYENAS WHO AMBUSH ME WHILE I’M CASUALLY DRINKING FROM THE CREEK
12. If you had man-boobs like Meatloaf, how would you end your life? I’D STILL GET MILKED AT THE CRACK OF DAWN, AND THEN SET OFF ON A SMALL BOAT AND SET IT AFIRE LIKE A VIKING
13. If you were forced to have plastic surgery, what would you change? I’D GET A DEEP MANLY CLEFT IN MY BALLSAC
14. What’s the most romantic thing a girl has ever said to you? ’I PUT A PAPER BAG OVER MY BOYFRIEND’S HEAD WITH A CRAYONED PICTURE OF YOU ON IT
15. What do you dread? LOX
16. How many Women have you ever made love to? I HAVE MADE LOVE TO A TOTAL OF 6 WOMEN…..AND 426 IF YOU ALSO COUNT FOREIGN ESCORTS
17. Have you done jail time? YES FOR BEING THE ALLEGED MASTERMIND OF A RUSSIAN COUNTERFEIT SUIT RING… BUT THAT STORY IS IN THE BOOK
18.What are your pet peeves? I WILL ALWAYS DO YOU FIRST, BECAUSE I HATE OWING PEOPLE
19. What is your biggest fear? BEING DRAGGED INTO THE LADIES ROOM BY A DRUNKEN HORDE OF SOFTBALL CHICKS
20. Do you still have any childhood friends? A FEW FROM KINDERGARTEN, MOSTLY IN FORMALDEHYDE
21. Do you have a License To Kill? NO, BUT I HAVE DONE THE WRITTEN PORTION
22. What torture would make you sign a confession of murder you didn’t commit? DOING NO CARBS AND LIVING NEXT TO A BAKERY
23. What is the most incongruous thing about your character? MY ABERRANT LOVE OF SHIH TZUS
24 What would you rather lose your ‘sense of taste’ or your ‘sense of smell’? IF YOU’VE SEEN MY EX-GIRLFRIENDS, YOU’D KNOW I LOST MY SENSE OF TASTE YEARS AGO
25.
25 RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME, I WILL EMPHATICALLY DENY
1. Do you regularly smell your laundry? YES, BUT ONLY WHEN THERE IS NOBODY ELSE’S LAUNDRY IN THE HAMPER
2. Do you mix alcohol with firearms? ONLY WHEN PSYCHO-MEDS ARE ALSO INVOLVED, AND IT’S FOR A GOOD CAUSE
3. When was the last time you were inside a Woman? NO NEED-THERE’S ONE TRAPPED INSIDE ME
4. Have you ever shaved your head in solidarity with Neo-Nazi Skinheads? NEVER-MY BARBER STRONGLY ADVISED THE MORE URBANE ‘JOSEF GOEBBELS’ SLICKBACK
5. Have you ever been tested for an STD? JUST THE WRITTEN PORTION
6. What is the most chemically attractive characteristic to the opposite sex? ROOFIES
7. Have you ever felt you were secretly adopted? YES, ALTHOUGH MY PARENTS SWEAR IT WAS DONE OPENLY
8. Have you ever participated in a threesome? YES MANY TIMES, WITH PANTENE 2-IN-1 SHAMPOO AND CONDITIONER
9. Have you ever manscaped? YES, I PRACTICE A ‘SCORCH AND BURN’ POLICY
10. What are your views on ritual genital mutilation? IT REALLY DEPENDS ON WHO IS CATERING
11. What separates you from the herd? THE HYENAS WHO AMBUSH ME WHILE I’M CASUALLY DRINKING FROM THE CREEK
12. If you had man-boobs like Meatloaf, how would you end your life? I’D STILL GET MILKED AT THE CRACK OF DAWN, AND THEN SET OFF ON A SMALL BOAT AND SET IT AFIRE LIKE A VIKING
13. If you were forced to have plastic surgery, what would you change? I’D GET A DEEP MANLY CLEFT IN MY BALLSAC
14. What’s the most romantic thing a girl has ever said to you? ’I PUT A PAPER BAG OVER MY BOYFRIEND’S HEAD WITH A CRAYONED PICTURE OF YOU ON IT
15. What do you dread? LOX
16. How many Women have you ever made love to? I HAVE MADE LOVE TO A TOTAL OF 6 WOMEN…..AND 324 IF YOU ALSO COUNT ESCORTS
17. Have you done jail time? YES FOR BEING THE ALLEGED MASTERMIND OF A RUSSIAN COUNTERFEIT SUIT RING… BUT THAT STORY IS IN THE BOOK
September 28, 2013
If you are not living life on the edge, then you are probably living life on the blunt
Cigarette butted beer, stale pizza crusts and no nagging…the Sunday Brunch of Champions…..Resplendent in your plaid bathrobe, black socks and shades; straight out of a 60s black and white porno….and in that unenviable state of total drunkness and feeling no pain, where you don’t need a sleep number as you sleep number….But inevitably, there comes a time in the aging process when you reach an equilibrium point on the graph of life, a sorry phenomenon where you wake up every morning feeling as shit as from back to back benders….today was that day…. Usually when I wake up feeling this shit, I’m sometimes amazed not to find I’m chained to an oar, aboard a slave ship..
When I wake up feeling this shit, and I’m at a Starbucks-Wannabe Shithole and the coffee dealing Barista Pusher asks:'How do you take your coffee?'
I usually answer” ‘with the cynaide pill embedded in my molar, leftover from the Nuremberg trials’
Seriously, when I wake up and feel this shit, the natural tendency would be to say ‘You should see the other guy’…but that sounds just so wrong…not that there’s anything wrong with that, except I have 2 Gay Brothers… so I kinda already gave at home…. I miss the simpler times, when things were clearcut and you knew who you were, just out riding fences and punching cattle and tying widows and small children to the train tracks rusted from incessant feral cat piss.
Why isn’t there a better pizza bagel delivery system? The smell of coffee egregiously wafting from one of my neighbor’s apartments, now has me rifling through my closet desperately searching for my meth lab battering ram…Although a door just slammed, and I can hear the clinking of the emptys from last night’s Moabite fertility rites, so a straightforward cold cock and forced entry might be in order- whether there’s coffee or not…..a modest payback as that goat they sacrificed, did not go quietly into the night …now where is that ski mask hiding?
So in conclusion- you don’t have to be clinically catatonic to wake up that way…just wary of life and on an accelerated path to aging ; and If it’s sanity you’re after, never date a girl with cross-eyed nipples…
September 24, 2013
25 RANDOM THINGS YOU SHOULDN'T KNOW ABOUT ME...
1. What is your idea of perfect happiness? A WARM SEMEN NIGHTCAP
2. What is your greatest fear? MISMATCHING MY BRA AND PANTIES
3. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself? PRIAPISM
4. What is the trait you most deplore in others? INCONTINENCE
5. Which living person do you most admire? TITSY RODRIGUEZ
6. What is your greatest extravagance? CHOCOLATE-COVERED METH
7. What is your current state of mind? PERIODS OF LUCIDITY
8. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? BAKING COOKIES FROM SCRATCH
9. On what occasion do you lie? MONDAYS
10. What do you most dislike about your appearance? MY REFLECTION
11. Which living person do you most despise? SANTA
12. What is the quality you most like in a man? CELIBACY
13. What is the quality you most like in a woman? VISCOSITY
14. Which words or phrases do you most overuse? WHEN A MOMMY AND DADDY REALLY LOVE EACH OTHER…
15. What or who is the greatest love of your life? SPAGHETTIOS
16. When and where were you happiest? WATCHING MARY POPPINS GETTING GANGBANGED IN THE SEQUEL
17. Which talent would you most like to have? TOURETTES
18. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? BREATHING FIRE
19. What do you consider your greatest achievement? SANDY SCHREIBER - OCTOBER 14TH,1986
20. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? A HIRSCHMAN PROCTOSCOPE
21. Where would you most like to live? HALFWAY HOUSE FOR UNWED TEENS
22. What is your most treasured possession? MY BITEPLATE FOR ELECTROSHOCKS
23. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? KISSING HER MUSTACHE
24. What is your favorite occupation? LANGUISHING
25. What is your most marked characteristic? MY DORSAL FIN
26. What do you most value in your friends? WRITING A CHECK- NO QUESTIONS ASKED
27. Who are your favorite writers? YOU HAVE TO ASK????
28. Who is your hero of fiction? DUDLEY DORIGHT’S HORSE
29. Which historical figure do you most identify with? GODZILLA AND CHURCHILL
30. Who are your heroes in real life? THE VAJAZZLED…
31. What are your favorite names? INGA, ULLA, SHLOMO
32. What is it that you most dislike? HAVING MY EARS TOUCHED DURING A HAIRCUT
33. What is your greatest regret? NOT GREASING UP WITH CHICKEN FAT BEFORE SWIMMING THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
34. How would you like to die? IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO
35. What is your motto? EVERYTHING IS A JOKE
THE BROWN LUNCH ELEVATOR STORY
The shrill smell of cold garbage rapes my nostrils….I rush home, racing against the clock before the night of the living crack zombies begins……. I’m careful to slalom between the months-old remains of squashed rats who scurried just a touch too slow, and met with welcoming pimped-rimmed tire treads… The ticker tape parade celebrating this afternoon, is now supplanted by the forgotten litter of candy bar wrappers being whipped around the inner city landscape; fuelled by fierce winds in a seemingly endless ‘chasing its own tail’ pas des deux. The far off sounds of sirens replace the applause reserved for New York’s Bravest Heroes-it has begun….
I’m not looking forward to the cleanup of my slummish apartment and having supermarkets limited to a bill of fare amounting to Twinkies, Devil dogs, Hoo-Ha’s and Yodels in closest proximity, I’ll have to go 10 blocks south and sneak past Checkpoint Charlie to get back into ‘Normalville’ in order to get potable cheddar popcorn…it’s always the simplest of pleasures that get out of reach.
I had gotten into JFK in the late afternoon, and suffered the subway back to the City…. a fitting poverty hero’s welcome. I emerged from the 103rd subway opening, still deaf from the blaring Mexican mariachi band that I was pinned up against, on that ersatz underground Taquero Salsa Cantina from the airport. Bleary-eyed and way beat, I suffered the 5 singing Pistoleros in cowboy hats with matching spurs…..they smelled of really pungent chopped liver, and a little known fact about Chicanos is that they aren’t really known for their love of Eastern European Jewish fare; so I shudder to think of the origins of that aroma….. their screeching Spanish harmonies grating my eardrums more than the unaligned steel wheels beneath the train. Under the constant threat of an errant flying mariachi from a displeased singing Bandido, the straphangers quickly parted with their pocket change, as it free flowingly poured in as they passed the sombrero… Although the only thing I wanted to give them were sawed-off gunshot wounds.
Luckily my Mom had the generous foresight to send me off with a care package so I could come home to my dustbowl digs and not have to forage for Twinkies (room temperature mummified, for freshness) outside in the underclass jungle…I should have taken her up on her offer for industrial construction masks, as the mutant dust bunnies have bred like rabbits.
Cutting a swath through the old newspapers and Evian bottles strewn in the living room, I decide that a modest cleanup just might be in order; that way at least I’ll get a heads up before the monster bedbugs suck out my brains like shucking oysters. As I begin to take out the myriad clear garbage bags of plastic bottles down to the dumpster area in the back of the building, I get winks from the envious homeless guys; now raggedly circling the garbage bins like unshaven vultures without the turtlenecks, who’ve spotted a veritable luau of carrion. Waiting with surprising civility to attack this mother lode- and as I have no favorites, their arsenal of corrugated cardboard strips will be flying. It won’t be pretty. Usually I’d hang around to watch the gladiatorial bum ‘fights to the finish’ spectacle, but I have of late, since my affliction, started thinking differently about humanity-so I’ll go back upstairs and wait for the highlights on the 11o’clock news on the Homeless Channel…
Safely ensconced once more in my apartmental equivalent of abject humiliation, the bloodcurdling screams from the dumpster area have finally died down to an acceptable level, and as I go to drown them out with some random TV show, I am confronted with the pesky realization that Time-Warner Cable has ‘triple played’ me in a ‘cable/internet and phone’ hat trick shutout. So third world it I must do. The electricity is still on- provisionally at this point. So as the dust rises as I settle into my sheetless bed (like a psychotic horror flick in the cobwebbed room that has been untouched since the old lady’s tragic murder-fuelled wedding day 70 years ago),
I slowly unwrap the moist plastic Saran wrapped egg frittata, lovingly made by my Mom. Nothing is worse than wet Saran Wrap, except perhaps taking an imaginary pap smear from a geriatric homeless woman….perhaps. But I’m thankful that my next few day’s dumplings will be graced by a little more color from the frittata’s mix-ins: red peppers and scallions represents unconditional love. It’s appreciating the simple things in life, that really punctuates the fact that you’re completely down and out.
OK, no TV, not much else to do except sleep and work on my black lung.
As I turn on the light to the bathroom, I have to do a double take as I dilate my focus to the sink- Is that an upside down cockroach, or just an arrant tuft of hair from my last ‘do it yourself’ haircut?
False alarm…..tuft of hair- into the toilet you go.
Now back at the barf encrusted toilet rim- the porcelain bowl is impacted with cottage cheese waste chunks nowadays…. Time to stir things up, and get the crapper moving again as I feel something is in the slot, ready to trot. With the conspicuous absence of a plunger, I go for the next best thing. As I unravel the hanger and stretch it out, I can’t help but think how neat it is that they actually paint them nowadays. Although the paint chips fall everywhere- terrific, more noxious particles to ingest…. Then I butter churn that hanger inside the depths toilet cave with no success-the stalactites won’t budge…..better try the stalagmites…. Still clogged in defiance, the Stone Henge chunks of waste just pile up like the finale of a rockslide….. shall I get out my Solstice prayerbook and hum a few psalms?
Unfortunately, the orange flavored Metamucil I chugged at 3 am, is becoming increasingly flirtatious in my stomach. It’s getting more vocal and insistent by the second- dam-busting is imminent. Playtime is over and some draconian measures are called for…But where to crap? The low volume toilet requires a minimum of 10 flushes to a normal toilet’s one, and so many more gallons are wasted in the name of being environmentally green- Right now I was environmentally brown with no end in sight, and my overflowing Lincoln logs were threatening to go above the water’s rim of the porcelain bowl which never solves anything…
I needed an alternative disposal method- something neat and tidy to hide all the evidence. Having been in this moronic situation far too many times before, I look from the john to the kitchen… You guessed it… Necessitating the mother of invention, a common grocery store plastic bag ideally doubles as an impromptu crap holder! Magic on a grand home economics scale!
All out of grocery bags and the Alien inside is are getting more persistent- I run into the back bedroom, which until recently was just for storage of my archival clothing collection that had become too small as I had goten too fat- lately, I had reconverted it for a short while back to a bedroom as one of my female co-workers desperately needed a place to stay, but not that desperate I suppose- I mean it’s no cleaner than say if you were camping- there’s more dirt out there-…these demanding persnickety Women- yeah their cleanliness is oxymoronic- she was a stringy chicken gizzard of a girl- definitely a rescue chick, with DIY dental plan and a Vulcan wit to match….(stop playing with your pimples”” I used to silently scream in my head) but I digress- the end result of my short-lived roommate was a lone Bed Bath and Beyond plastic bag that I had gotten in a fit of senseless consideration, because of all the towels to be involved in her stay- Bed Bath and Beyond…Well I guess this constituted ‘Beyond’. I quickly grab the bag and run in short unsudden moves for the bathroom …
My technique was constantly evolving. At first I was into placing the bag totally around the underneath of the rim of the toilet seat, for a more comfortable expression- But now after much trial and error out in the field, I found that by grabbing the handles of the plastic bag and pulling either side tightly across my hips, makes for a foolproof hermetic seal. Then I aim the plastic bag at the middle of the bowl and sit down on the seat for a more seamless elegant experience. When the splat, splat of falling contents has ended, it signals time to make a freezer deposit. What will science think of next?
As luck would have it, I’m called out the apartment much earlier than expected, so in any case, it’s time to get rid of the evidence down the garbage chute. No sense making a special trip out of the apartment and risk getting caught in the crossfire in the hallway…..
As I go to take out the bag out of the freezer, it’s not quite yet stone cold, so it’s got to go offsite to a street corner garbage can. That way, there’s no possible chance to trace it back to me…. A simple plan from a guy who’s been there.
I had just renewed my lease, paying a laughable pittance of what they charge 9 blocks down, on the other side of Checkpoint Charlie- but when eight hundred bucks is scarce, it might as well be a cool million. The renewal was OK’ed, much to the protestations of my scary Super, with his ashen gray skin, and deep knife scar split down the center of his nose. He lives 2 doors down on the same floor, and thoroughly loathes my presence. So much so, he refused to install a deadbolt lock even after I offered him $50 bucks – so in a pinch, as a ruse to safeguard my valuable (no not plural), I just left everything seemingly randomly strewn in the apartment, to put off any would be thieves into thinking the place was a crack den that had already been ransacked…
He’s always pissed at me. I’m convinced that he put a second coat of lead-based asbestos paint, while I was away; as the dizzy spells are getting longer and a tad more paranoiac. He borschts on and on to the owner, something about wading through a kiddie pool of laundry in my living room, and then on to wage trench warfare in my bathroom-always a losing proposition while posting hasty retreat. And most egregiously, he thinks I’m complicit in the bum fights- charging for ringside seats and running the concession stands and he doesn’t get a cut from the box office gross in spite of hosing down all the blood and bodyparts afterwards….. If he knew it was me who dropped 20 glass bottles down the garbage chute next to his apartment at 3 a.m. last weekend, I would be a toasted dead man.
So even on a non-incriminating day, I’m dread to see the Super – I have a hard time not going cross-eyed staring at that knife scar on his shnozz- it’s all-consuming, and he’s overly sensitive to it. Also another strange thing about him is he has this thick Jamaican accent in spite of being born and raised in Calgary Alberta- He also was an amateur cracksman playing cricket for Canada- it is all very bizarre as nobody likes cricket in Canada.
Winter or summer, the Super wears the same tank top, plaid shirt, wool cap and just alternates between shorts and camouflage pants but the scar always goes right down the middle of his nose. It has an actual seam that could probably have a zipper attached to it, although having that ‘RIRI’ ‘zipper upper’ thing just hanging from it would probably make him cross-eyed too….
I successfully sneak by his apartment without incident, the loot bag from the bathroom is starting to really stink by the time I hit the elevator button. It’s not heavy, but the imbalanced chunks veer to center left of the plastic bag…. The elevator, as usual, takes its sweet time getting there- each second like forever chomping on a Marathon candy bar, stretches to an eternity as the bulleye target on my head ballistically expands. The faint dinging as it reaches the other floors just punctuates its slowness- a manual dumbwaiter would be a step in the right direction.
The elevator ding is one short floor away from freedom- I can almost smell it over the plastic bag’s contents. Whew! I played it too close to the vest this time, it could have been a disaster but I hope I learn a lesson from all this- that is, ;GET A FUCKING PLUNGER!’…….. I’m going into the elevator when the Super spies my presence as he comes down the fire escape staircase from the floor above- He scrunches his eyebrows when he sees me, and for a huge guy, he has catlike moves, sliding in JUST before the elevator door completely closes shut- (it’s at this point that I wish the elevator had another button for ‘puree’), a truly amazing feat as an anorexic from Darfur would have had difficulty sliding into that one.
“You got renewed Mon, I wanted you out” he bitterly says. “Why all the vitriol? Didn’t I ask you before anyone else if you’re wife’s a cleaning lady?” I sheepishly reply.
This has the unintended effect of pissing him off even more. He winces and says: “Just to be clear, I don’t like you- not even one little bit. Anything goes wrong and I’m gone to the management office for the eviction….”
He stops cold as his eyes go wide, and makes a distasteful facial expression signifying some foul aroma is in near proximity….. He immediately looks at the underside of his shoes in resigned disgust. I start to shrink back, stress sweat droplets form a pool at the base of my of back- but it’s a short-lived angst, as we should hit the ground floor in under 30 seconds- so time to create a quick diversion.
“Hey did you fart?” I accuse point blank. “No way Mon, that ain’t no dog’s either, did you shit then step in it?” he asks with stern incredulousness. How can he differentiate between human and dog shit? Don’t know if I really want that answered…. Damn, I should’ve double bagged it and sprayed Febreze – Idiot! Why didn’t I just slow down and….
The elevator screeches and jolts upwards; the lights go out for a split second and sputter while reconnecting- we are now inert and silent.
The Super whips out his cell, and speed dials a number- the reception is spotty so he tries again. He’s consciously breathing out of his mouth while waiting for it to connect, he asks with suspicious intent: “What’s in the bag?”
Another eternal split second: If I tell the truth, I’m out. “Flat on my ass” I think to myself. I need a really sweet lie like: ’The old lady next door’s granny diaper fell in the hallway…and like a good neighbor…’ Yeah, Not bad for the first swing.
How about: ‘the Museum of Modern Art is having eco-organic ‘alternate medium’ performance art competition and I just crapped this perfect figure 8 and I had to let it dry a bit outside before entering it… I’m a shoo in for first place’
OR
I’m trying to break the Guinness World Book of records for longest uninterrupted twirled shit- I call it the ‘Rattler’…Wanna see?
“Nothing, just some brownies for an ailing sick Auntie of mine on the Upper West Side..” is was what finally came out of my mouth- somehow a mission of mercy is beyond reproach…The humanitarian equivalent of saying ‘women’s problems’ to a guy, in order to sweep away any further inquiries.
This seems to have the desired effect of quelling his curiosity but the smell is overpowering, and he makes me show him the underside of my shoes now.
‘I think something big might have died on the top of the elevator.” He says ‘Hand over the bag and take my flashlight. I’ll give you a boost.”
This is indeed problematic as if he takes the bag he’ll no doubt think to himself ‘These ain’t no brownies” But if I refuse, he’ll think something is suspicious too- so it’s lose / lose either way….. C’mon man think!
“Ok but I have vertigo and am afraid of heights” I wimpishly say. “No worries man- there’s no looking down- just look for something dead on the top of the elevator cabin- MAN!! IT’S STINKING BAD”
‘Ok but I might Barf” I add.
“ barf?? What’s that?’ he asks
Who hasn’t heard of ‘barf’?- those are the first words out of many babies’ mouths- This guy’s definitely been hit in the face by one too many cricket bats.
“Barf- like puke, hurl chunks, scream at GM- y’know BUUUUUUUUICK?”
“ Geez, Mary and Joseph don’t do that- it smells enough in here already!” He sighs “No stay put, and give me a leg up”
“No offense but you gotta be around 300 lbs.” I say being generous, and squeezing the bag of shit a little harder. “ I already have problems with my balls and I’m trying really hard not to have them explode.” I say with just the right soupçon of wussiness
“Actually I’m 315 – yeah I see your point…… Mon, I can’t take this awful stink- it seems to be coming from inside- you don’t happen to be a ‘bottom’ or wear diapers, do you?” he asks in total seriousness.
‘NFW” I shoot back- and now for the 40 point ’who am I question….
Stymied and unable to order a strip search, the Super slumps down on the floor, as I just keep my finger pressed on the emergency buzzer. I need to calm the air….. at least-…….so to deflect and take his mind off things and onto himself, I ask him a question.
“Say that’s one fucked up scar you got over there on your nose- Is it Mafia related, or are you just clumsy?”
‘No Mon, it happened during the Calgary Stampede back in ’87, when a Jamaican drug deal went bad- I got caught wearing a wire, and was duct taped to a chair and as they were about to sew a waterproof zipper onto my nose, the RCMP busted them and I went into witness protection….. gave up cricket and became a Super; married one of the widow tenants…the rest is history.”
‘Yes well that’s all very colorful- funny how things funnel through- and by the way, the scar makes you look very distinguished- shows a lot of character!”
“Thanks Mon- I think so too- that’s why I grew the pencil mustache- Never thought of plastic surgery or using any makeup to cover it up. Say I’m getting hungry, any chance there’s a little Ganja in those brownies, H’mm?” His eyes greedily focus on the plastic bag.
Oh if he only knew….
FUCKED!- Thoroughly, truly, wholly completely FUCKED!.
“Nah, no Ganja in them, but I do put extra psyllium fiber into it and walnuts too – I freely admit she has trouble shitting- nothing major, but any stimulation helps. Old people, you know how it is?” I say- hoping against hope, that on the off chance he has irritable bowl syndrome, or goes into anaphylactic shock from nuts….. At this point I’d say it’s full of bee stingers and red ant venom if it would get him off the scent…
“I love walnuts in Brownies- like my Mom’s!” He beams. “C’mon show some viva.”
It’s at this point I feel that under normal circumstances we could actually become friends, and I truly wish I could turn shit into brownies. Even through his disappointment, surely he could see the humor in all this??
Surely??
“Hey, I’d really, really love to share them with you, but these are her special 85th Birthday brownies and she asked for enough to last her the week. I know you’re hungry, we’re stuck in this awful smelling elevator and there’s nothing more I’d like to do than give you the whole bag- Believe me! By any chance do you think you can hold out?” I multi-tier lie with just enough layers of deceit to inspire the right amount of guilt.
“No Mon- it’s serious- I’m diabetic- I need them to stay out of going into shock” he says with just the right air of desperation.
Well played- I almost believe him.
Crunch time- If I stick to my guns and he goes into shock he won’t complain about the smell anymore, and hopefully we’ll get out before any serious brain damage sets in. Pretty elegant solution except I’m guaranteed a beatdown and subsequently out on my ass for endangering his worthless life.
OR
Fall backwards into the crowd and just tell the truth
But why tell the truth when you can lie…don’t give up on lying just yet- C’mon what’s the next chess move?
As I’m sidetracked pondering the next strategy- he grabs for the bag. A tug of war for it’s contents ensues.
‘Nooo think of Auntie” I say
“C’mon just a little piece” he shoots back
He’s massive and really strong, and I’ve put up a good fight, an honest fight, everything very cricket- up until now…
Pow! A clean blow to his nuts. Game over.
Tilt
I get the bag back safely- but it’s ‘Last Rites’ time for me
‘Yea, as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will only fear ‘ massive Supers with bruised balls and zipper scars on their noses, for they are the meanest sons of bitches in the valley…..
He’s rolled over and crying like a little bitch- it’s hard not to laugh, so I do - Hey I’m a certain dead man and evicted too. It stinks something awful in here and my last minutes so far are tragic- I might as well laugh, it’s always healthy to find jocularity in all things.
“Why the fuck did you do that? I’m a sick man! Are you crazy!? You are so out on the street” He sadistically manages between his groaning gasps…More like a fart resembling a punctured tire, all the foul air was knocked out of me
That did it.
The microchip in my brain just redlines off the charts and as it implodes, I predictably let fly verbally this time.
I open the bag to fully expose the contents.
“IT’S BROWN, BUT IT SURE AIN’T BROWNIES - YOU FUCKING SMARMY IDIOT! ‘JUST LIKE MOM’S’!!! UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE! IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT- YEAH.
“My fault?” he says, totally confused at the accusation.
“THOSE LOW FLUSH TOILETS THAT A PYGMY COULD CLOG, FORCED ME TO PLAY HOMEMADE COLOSTOMY BAG- AND INSTEAD OF PUTTING IT DOWN THE DUMP CHUTE, I WAS TAKING IT OUTSIDE, MAKING A ‘PUBLIC GARBAGE CAN RUN’, WHEN YOUR SELF-SERVING LAST LICKS COMPELLED YOU TO TELL ME HOW MUCH YOU DISLIKE ME- BIG FUCKING NEWS, ASSHOLE!!!- SO SHUT THE FUCK UP, ENJOY THE SMELL AND GO AHEAD, TRY TO EVICT ME- I’M SURE STANLEY YOUR BOSS WOULD ENJOY THE STORY!”
(…………A couple of minutes later)
Newtons Third Law of Slacking: For every inaction, there is an equal and opposite reason to do nothing …. I was cool, usually it takes a few weeks for eviction proceedings to be executed, but unbeknownst to me ,if you grease the works with cash, you can arrange for someone to be out on their ass with surprising speed. And while my law degree hangs above my toilet at Mom’s, I now find Lawyers to an infestation that Monsanto hasn’t yet figured out how to genetically alter, so that nations bent on sustainability can outrightly ban those fuckers and stop the vermin from spreading…. When I tried to plead my case to the landlord’s bookkeeper, she congratulated me on sending her boss to the Emergency Room with an asymnetrical heart murmur…this was a first even for him.
So when justice is served, everyone loses their appetite….and I was the tenant equivalent of an Eggo waffle to that everyone leggo….
I managed to get most of my stuff to a Manhattan Mini-Storage and the rest I burned onsite including the Super to make it look like a rat training accident…. I had serendipitously met this chick who worked at a neighboring showroom in spite of religiously avoiding her as if she was the building’s cleaning lady- she was a tall, stringy blonde, with a shock of side burned mutton chops. She was originally from Alabama, and had sought a change of scenery from her buttfucking siblings…. Somehow she’d gotten under the spell of a couple of hippies who ran a commune up on East 116th Street in Harlem, decorated in early condemned, that had that familiar smell of scrofula…a medieval skin affliction caused by huddling of sweaty shivering masses in close quarters… . It was a huge mess of a place; a come and go as you please for intransigent runaways, aspiring waitresses and refugees from the 60s after being discharged from the Army and taking the ‘Grand Tour’ that started around Woodstock.
Life takes on a sweeter meaning after mandatory service to your country, not to be unjustly scorned and slandered by your neighbors and the world media…hey ‘it was the 60s man’. Fuck them all! You did good.
So it was every night- doing the horizontal sex act just on a grand scale; but at $300 a month, and communal showers to boot, it was a slice of paradise without the mushrooms and pepperoni…. I was happy to pay way more and even offered my services as bathroom attendant, although it meant seeing the stringy blonde in the altogether shaving her sideburns with that ‘come hither’ look of a dog’s breakfast…
“Ehhhh. Not necessary” answers Yaron ( pronounced ‘urine” by most Americans). “Stay, go, bathroom attendant whatever, we don’t get many suits around here, eh Mr Squid? So have fun…catch something!”
“Sage insanity” I say and put my head down, enjoying the impromptu neck massage from the girl in the cutoff t-shirt, with the two underripened Jaffa grapefruits ugently pressing underneath.
Latvians are a different breed, and hot ones are by nature irresistible; their permanently tanned, electric silken skin can only be tolerated by the most bristly-burred locals- even bulletproof Russians turn to mush. Thought, as well as resistance, is futile. Their positive correlation of ‘jutting breasts to flat stomach’ ratio is off the charts. How they can also be tank commanders is beyond me. That is simply a Renaissance vagina with such range, it shamefully turtleheads us males who are not equally ambidextrous with our genitals. Sure they’ll rip your balls off, but only for safekeeping in their Vuitton handbags- but they’ll ride shotgun better than the Secret Service with front and side airbags. Some people get lost in an opium den, others Latvian brothels; but I had found the mother lode, the best of all worlds and scrofula to boot
You can’t rush genius, but you can laxative it along…..I am by far the oldest letch in the place – Lucky me. Note to self: a box of ‘Russell Stover’ Sampler Chocolates from Duane Reade, and some Red Bull for that ‘Trailer Park Annie’ from the showroom next door- I owe her one for sending me here…and possibly some baby teeth from a consignment shop…… It’s very important to keep your edge, because once you’ve lost it, you’ve gone over…
Chicks are my Kryptonite, but I’m cool with it as I’m no Superman….and as the weeks go by- I know my days are numbered here, as my body fluid is running a quart low…and the weirdness of post traumatic stress from Latvian sex had permanently altered my brain chemistry . The possible outcomes were simple:
Death by exposure.
Death by marriage.
Death by Parent/Teacher meetings of my unborn delinquent skinheads.
.
The ink and piercings are so rampant, it’s almost a membership card….and it’s so outside the conventional limits of propriety to be exposed to an environment so tranparentally honest, coupled with the min blowing euphoria of getting lucky at such an alarming rate; that I hardly notice the skin eruptions that probably require the services of a high priest to push an innocent young virgin into a volcano to appease the acne gods…
Youth is for the young and so are idiocy and tatoos….the half life of a tat for most meat eating/alcohol swilling/birthcontrol pill popping/nicotine craving/ sun worshipping females is early 40’s at best- then the purply, corrugated cardboard texture to it just makes you look like the truckstop lot lizard with a melted wax figurine torso that you really are…so enjoy the moment, live for today and let time fly ….we’re all curdling
Even with tattoos, there are the extreme cases of exception for a purpose: such as a Mom engraving her wrist with the name of her beloved Purple Hearted son, lost in Afghanistan; or the Grandchild of a Holocaust Survivor having their Bubbe’s Auschwitz serial number memorialized on their left forearm… or the Alzheimer’s victim having all their important info written upside down on their stomachs….as well as movies like ‘Momento….. I can actually laud such notions, but the weekend tattoo enthusiast irks me as much as paying astronauts to celebrate the grand opening of a regional shopping mall…
And piercings…they should only serve some utilitarian purpose; like ‘saying hello to my little friend’…. And I freely admit that the microchip in my head automatically shuts off when contemplating the reasons for a Prince Albert…of Monaco, a reputed sex deviant and a personal hero of mine…seriously nose and nipples are no places for metal
I’m usually so insecure that I can only perform on the toilet with a safety net….If you want to fuck with the Eagles, you’ve got to fly with them as a Roadie…so while this place is mindblowing, Mm objective is not so lofty as to include happiness, it’s more about being left the fuck alone except for the occasional breaks for wanton fornication… It’s all well and fine as long as you’re into it, but a Human Cannonball would never shame the uniform by wearing white mall walkers …and with this insane non sequitur in mind, I knew it was time to skeedaddle.
If you get irritated by every rub, you’re not going to enjoy the tug part of the session either…..and I hate cutting my wrists while shaving …I just was stuck in a rut, and not finding my groove,..so I was like a sex camel refilling his hump for a few weeks until extreme chafing set in and that was my signal to go
So l just got bored of the same sex romp, and that whole ’when the going gets weird, you probably had sex last night’ thing…..so I pack up the rest of my unstolen things, and figured the City has had it’s way with me, like the also-ran in a bumfight behind a dumpster…And while a change of scenery is a noble apiration, every place has its bats and zombies…so when I go over the border for the holidays, and they give me trouble getting back, it was just a fortuitous stroke of socialized medicine that my ballsac had swelled to water balloon proportions…and now I’m stuck in Siberia….where pompous hillbillies bombastically call themselves French, and while sunglasses make you look like less of an asshole than you really are, their lifestyle of curds and french fries to go, is not a heritage it’s just vomit inducing
Some lucky guys have a girl in every port, but I’m different, I have a psycho in every port…and my self-appointed door opener job at Liquor World was just fast track to an unsolved dumpster death…….
NOTE: No Guns, Dobermans, Bats or Pycho-Meds were abused in the writing of this mostly true story
A Cynic is a man who can find ugliness in everything and still want to sleep with it...
A great night can be divined by the forcing of the cab to stop, so you can open the door and lean out the window and wonder what your body is about to do next?…and judging by that criteria, tonight had been. I just wanted to get home, and despite my button down fastidiousness, I would probably forego the flossing and ritual placing my clothes in the right strata of ‘laundry readiness’ piles strewn about the floor…the rest of the night would be a dicey proposition.
Nothing can be as singularly inspirational as choking on your own vomit….the maternal instinct of the mother of invention had gone into overdrive, and I contrived to fork out $400 for a deluxe massage table; so I could wedge my bloated face through the padded donut hole and not have to aim for the bucket beneath while I sleep…Voila! A total luxurious necessity for nights like this, where there’s a great likelihood that tomorrow I would be dressed up like a ghost, and become just another statistical deviant in the annals of Mommy’s Urban Legend… complete with a particular grisly cautionary-tale ending….
I suppose in my haze, I lay the blame squarely on my enabling Gay Brother- who in my estimation, is the closest thing to a Pharmacologist a guy could have without a ‘scrip….He knows about drugs that haven’t been thought up yet….and all with a smile in his de rigueur leather harness and pierced nipples, pushing stuff into my hands and rushing me as he’s off to another all night festive occasion….resplendent in his assless suede chaps and not much else….not the sort of smart party where you bring a bottle of sangiovese wrapped in tin foil for the host as a thank you…
I was slightly awakened by the 7am monster truck tractor pull on the construction site next door to my impregnable bunker apartment…for an imperceptibly small window, it sure let’s in a lot of noise. These construction working Quebecers are doing their best effort impressions of Popeye in their hillbilly dialect ,and laughably calling it French- which is so insulting to the French culture…seriously guys, I apologize for these idiots.
If you have to ask yourself what did you get out of last night in addition to a godzilla hangover, you’ve missed the point, and should do back to back benders as penance for your impudence. I’m gingerly moving like Captain Scarlet, if he’d been run over by the Spectrum Patrol Vehicle…all super-marionettey and twisted- including my jaw…freaking out the old ladies at the supermarket, which is a total offset…OK what to do with the rest of the day?
Some people save things for a rainy day…but if you’re alive for it, you’re stuck inside anyway…your immune system is a flagrant form of censorship and a total buzzkill that must be met and mastered…dissipation should be an olympic event instead of being locked away in hand restraints and helmet.
Ever have a deathly fear that is so unthinkable, that when it finally happens you couldn’t even remotely think of an exit strategy…procrastination is a subconscious thing, holding out hope that some minor player in this movie will shoot the villain in the back, while you’re staring down the barrel of his gun…I am so in the crosshairs right now, and while waiting for something to fall into your lap is just a good way to get goosed; I’m paralyzed by a fear of performing on the highwire with the safety net above me. I gotta bust a move.
I can resist everything except futility
A great night can be divined by the forcing of the cab to stop, so you can open the door and lean out the window and wonder what your body is about to do next?…and judging by that criteria, tonight had been. I just wanted to get home, and despite my button down fastidiousness, I would probably forego the flossing and ritual placing my clothes in the right strata of ‘laundry readiness’ piles strewn about the floor…the rest of the night would be a dicey proposition.
Nothing can be as singularly inspirational as choking on your own vomit….the maternal instinct of the mother of invention had gone into overdrive, and I contrived to fork out $400 for a deluxe massage table; so I could wedge my bloated face through the padded donut hole and not have to aim for the bucket beneath while I sleep…Voila! A total luxurious necessity for nights like this, where there’s a great likelihood that tomorrow I would be dressed up like a ghost, and become just another statistical deviant in the annals of Mommy’s Urban Legend… complete with a particular grisly cautionary-tale ending….
When you don’t compete with alcohol, it becomes your friend….I suppose in my haze, I lay the blame squarely on my enabling Gay Brother- who in my estimation, is the closest thing to a Pharmacologist a guy could have without a ‘scrip….He knows about drugs that haven’t been thought up yet….and all with a smile in his de rigueur leather harness and pierced nipples, pushing stuff into my hands and rushing me as he’s off to another all night festive occasion….resplendent in his assless suede chaps and not much else….not the sort of smart party where you bring a bottle of sangiovese wrapped in tin foil for the host as a thank you…
I was slightly awakened by the 7am monster truck tractor pull on the construction site next door to my impregnable bunker apartment…for an imperceptibly small window, it sure let’s in a lot of noise. These construction working Quebecers are doing their best effort impressions of Popeye in their hillbilly dialect ,and laughably calling it French- which is so insulting to the French culture…seriously guys, I apologize for these idiots.
If you have to ask yourself what did you get out of last night in addition to a godzilla hangover, you’ve missed the point, and should do back to back benders as penance for your impudence. I’m gingerly moving like Captain Scarlet, if he’d been run over by the Spectrum Patrol Vehicle…all super-marionettey and twisted- including my jaw…freaking out the old ladies at the supermarket, which is a total offset…OK what to do with the rest of the day?
Some people save things for a rainy day…but if you’re alive for it, you’re stuck inside anyway…your immune system is a flagrant form of censorship and a total buzzkill that must be met and mastered…dissipation should be an olympic event instead of being locked away in hand restraints and helmet.
When you string all your failures together, it’s tempting to use piano wire…..Ever have a deathly fear that is so unthinkable that when it finally happens, you couldn’t even remotely think of an exit strategy…procrastination is a subconscious thing, holding out hope that some minor player in this movie will shoot the villain in the back, while you’re staring down the barrel of his gun…I am so in the crosshairs right now, and while waiting for something to fall into your lap is just a good way to get goosed; I’m paralyzed by a fear of performing on the highwire with the safety net above me. I gotta bust a move.
Whenever I see an old lady slip and fall on a wet sidewalk, my first instinct is to smother her with her purse, then have sex with her lifeless body- but that would be wrong…so I just fight those urges, and try to summon help and make her as comfortable as possible; and in the interim, rifle through her purse for a safety deposit key…the interrogation can begin later. Sure my mind is in the gutter, but my heart is into a 7-10 split
I eat my feelings because I can’t hide the evidence…Running away does not help you with your problems, especially if you insist on bringing them with you…that’s the beauty of being a gullible pathological liar, you can convince yourself of almost anything…If soap tasted better, I wouldn’t have faked tourettes as a child….so now I just dress for success, but while clothes make the man, sometimes it doesn’t look consensual…it’s just looking back on things and not being in the moment so the panic subsides; like I hate how after an argument, I think of clever things I should have said during makeup sex….
