The Magical Festering Wound of Little Chuckie McGillicuddy

       Childhood boredom produces many strange and fanciful adventures, some of which I have mentioned to you before.  When you are young and oblivious to many of the rules, laws, and mores that regulate the lives of much of the world, you are left with an almost completely blank slate.  With no adults around to guide you, scold you, scream at you, or beat you within an inch of your life, one day stretches into an almost endless string of wondrous possibilities, many of which end up teaching you a lesson or two along the way.

       When I was nine years old, I thought I had the whole world almost exactly as I wanted it.  My best friend, Paulie Fitzhugh, lived right next door to me, and we spent all of our free days exploring the vast lakeside territory that began just  few feet from our back doors.  There was much mischief to get into, and with the watchful eyes of our parents obscured by a forest of oak and cedar, we could get away with it all.  You’d be surprised how much damage two young boys with BB guns, hatchets, magnifying glasses, and a hearty helping of imagination can do to large sections of forest.  You’d probably be even more surprised at how much of this went unnoticed.  Such was the life of two latchkey children whose parents decided that work was more important than keeping their kids from becoming savage little monsters. 

       There was only one thing that in my young eyes stood in the way of that summer being the best summer of my life, and that “thing” was Chuckie McGillicuddy.  Approximately one week after the end of my third grade year, the McGillicuddy family moved in about four doors down, and I knew when I first laid eyes upon them that I was in for trouble.  Paulie and I were sitting in the driveway in front of my house throwing crabapples at a neighbor’s cat when the McGillicuddy clan pulled into their driveway in a huge U-Haul truck.  We stared in bemused amazement as the four members of their family climbed out of the truck one by one.  The mother and father were both no taller than five feet apiece, and their height was nearly matched by their girth.  They both had curly red hair and dark freckles on their pale white skin.  The children, a boy and a girl were like carbon copies of their parents, only shrunk to about ½ scale.  Paulie and I looked at each other in disbelief before falling to the ground with laughter at the sight of this gaggle of rotund redheads.  That was our first mistake.

       Hearing our laughter, Mrs. McGillicuddy urged her son, whom she annoyingly referred to as “Little Chuckie,” to go over and meet his new neighbors.

       “Go on, Little Chuckie!” she cried in her nasally voice.  “Go have fun with your new little friends.  They sure seem to be having fun!  But don’t forget your inhaler.”

       Little Chuckie reluctantly walked over to my driveway, obviously scared and desperate to make a good impression.  As Chuckie drew to within 3o feet of us, we could already hear him wheezing.  My first instinct was to pitch a rock in his direction, but just as my arm had drawn back, rock in hand, I paused.  A quick glance at Paulie caused our eyes to meet, and I knew we were thinking the same thing.  Without even speaking, we knew that this boy and his hopeless desperation could be used to our advantage, or at least our entertainment.  With that in mind, we gave him a friendly greeting, and our summer of fun had begun anew.

       As expected, Little Chuckie became our lapdog, following us around with both the admiration and timid uncertainty of a lost puppy.  No matter how ridiculous our requests, we knew that Chuckie would oblige out of his unwavering need for acceptance. 

“Hey, Chuckie, go see if that hornet’s nest is empty.”

“Hey, Chuckie, see if there are any scorpions under that rock.”

“Hey, Chuckie, put this Coke can on your head and see if I can shoot it off with my BB gun.”

“Hey, Chuckie, go steal me some of your dad’s cigarettes.  And grab a couple of beers while you’re at it.”

       Suprisingly, Chuckie completed the majority of these tasks unscathed.  Sure, there was that one incident where we dared him to sit on an ant mound, but we had no idea he was so allergic to ant bites.  He was only in the hospital for one night, and Chuckie never spoke a word of our influence over his actions for fear of being ostracized. 

       Some might say that Little Chuckie was little more to us than a slave, but I am quick to remind those people that Chuckie possessed free will, and we never forced him to do anything.  Anyone with any sense could have seen that Paulie and I were not the type of kids that you should get involved with, so I guess it’s really all his mom’s fault for encouraging him so strongly to be our friends.  That’s who I blame, anyway.

       It was one afternoon that summer that Paulie and I would come to see Little Chuckie as more than a nuisance to bend to our will.  Paulie had awoken me that morning by pounding on my bedroom window, and I could see the mischief shining in his eyes before he even had the chance to speak.  I opened the window and he climbed in, toting a plastic grocery bag full of fun. 

       “Oh, man!” Paulie said.  “You gotta see what I swiped from my brother’s room!  Check this out!”

       Paulie reached his hand into the bag, and out came the most beautiful sight my nine year old eyes had ever beheld.  Paulie gingerly clutched a handful of M-80s, the most dangerous firecracker I had ever heard of.

       “My brother got these in Mexico, and he had a bunch leftover from the Fourth of July!” Paulie said with glee.  Within minutes, I was dressed and ready to go.

       As Paulie and I made our way down the street towards the lake, Little Chuckie emerged from his house as if on cue.  He wheezed his way over to us.

       “Hey, fuckers,” said Chuckie in his usual greeting.  Chuckie thought that swearing made him cool, and he never ceased to come up with new ways to curse at us.  “You dicks wanna come in and check out my new Intellivision video game system?  My dad got it at a garage sale, and it’s way cooler than Atari.”  Paulie and I rolled our eyes.

       “First of all, Chuckie,” I said, “Intellivision is not cooler than Atari.  It’s like ten times less cool.  Second, we don’t want to go into your house.  It always smells like cheese.  Third, we have better things to do this morning.  You go ahead and play your Intellivision, though.  I don’t think you could handle the awesomeness that we’re going to experience today.”

       Chuckie looked dejected for a brief moment, but then he smiled.  “Aw, I was just kidding, prickheads!  Intellivision sucks, everybody knows that.  I’d much rather hang out with you dickholes!”

       Paulie stopped in his tracks and fixed an icy stare on Little Chuckie.  “Okay, you can come, but if you open your fat little mouth about any of this, we’ll make you sit on an ant pile again.”

      “I won’t tell nobody!” Chuckie exclaimed.  “You shiteaters can trust me!  So I can come with you?”

       Paulie and I looked at each other.  “All right,” I said.  “But keep quiet.”

       With Little Chuckie in tow, we headed out into the woods near the lake.  When Paulie produced the first M-80 from the bag, Chuckie’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.  He watched in awed silence as we threw several M-80s into the lake and enjoyed the spray of water and the occasional dead minnow that surfaced in the aftermath.  After a while, the lake got a little old, so we took to blowing up old logs and any other little piece of nature we could find.  I think Chuckie might have peed his pants a little when we dropped an M-80 into a fire ant mound, but he was quick to take cover, and he survived with only a couple of bites on his arms and legs.  It was as Chuckie was studying the remains of the ant mound that Paulie had a grand idea for what to do with the final remaining M-80.

       As Chuckie bent over the mound, his inevitabe ass crack poked out of the top of his tighty whities, presenting an irresistable target for Paulie.  Without a word, Paulie lit the fuse and jammed the firecracker where the sun don’t shine.  A brief look of horror spread across Chuckie’s face, and then came the explosion.

       Chuckie let out a squeal not unlike what I had heard a few years before at my grandpa’s farm when he was slaughtering a pig.  He immediately fell to the ground and went completely limp.  Paulie and I looked at each other with a sense of panic, knowing that we were in deep trouble.  So, we did what any nine year old with any sense of self-preservation would have done: we ran like hell.

       Paulie and I both immediately went home after swearing a blood oath not to tell anyone what had happened.  I’m not sure if it was our blood that we were swearing on, but that wasn’t really important to us at the time.  I stayed near the window for the rest of the day, fully expecting to see Little Chuckie come limping out of the woods to tell on us.  At sundown, there was still no sign of him.

       The next morning, there was a knock on my door.  As I peeked out of the curtains, I saw Mr. McGillicuddy waiting on the front porch.  I just knew that he was going to get me in trouble.  I’m sure Chuckie had made his way back home and tattled on us, and now his dad was here to talk to my parents.  I slowly opened the front door, knowing that this wouldn’t be good.

       “Hey, kid,”  Mr. McGillicuddy croaked angrily.  “Is Little Chuckie over here?”

       “No, sir,” I replied.  “I haven’t seen him.”

       “Well, that little fucker didn’t come home for dinner last night, so we figured he was probably staying with one of you little bastards.”  I could now see where Little Chuckie got his penchant for swearing.  “If you see that little butt nugget, tell him to get his chunky ass home, you hear me?  Thanks, asshole.” 

       Mr. McGillicuddy turned and waddled away, little beads of sweat collecting on every inch of exposed skin on his body.  I remember thinking at the time, “Who talks like that to a nine year old?”

       I immediately ran next door to Paulie’s house.  I fully expected the door to open on Paulie and Chuckie sitting in the living room playing Atari as Little Chuckie sat on a bag of ice.  Instead, I was greeted by only Paulie.

       As I relayed the message from Chuckie’s dad, I saw Paulie’s eyes open wider.  “You mean he’s not with you?  I figured you let him stay the night at your house to keep him quiet!”

       At that point, Paulie and I realized how much trouble we were in.  We decided to pack some medical supplies and head back out to the woods, hoping maybe Chuckie was just too embarrassed to come home.

       As we drew near to where we had left Chuckie, we were horrified to see him still laying in the same spot that he had fallen yesterday.  Neither Paulie or I had ever buried anything bigger than a parakeet, so we knew this wouldn’t be easy.  Just as I was about to turn around for a shovel, Chuckie’s head turned, his eyes red and stained with a night’s worth of tears.

       “Hey, fuckasses!  How could you just leave me out here, you gaywads?  I can’t even stand up! You gotta help me, douche lickers!”

       “Listen, Chuckie,” I said, “We’re gonna help you out, but you gotta promise not to say anything about this to your folks.”

       “The hell I won’t!”  Chuckie screamed.  “You ball-eaters are gonna go to jail!”

       Paulie and I looked at each other with dread.  It was going to be hard to keep this kid quiet, but we were sure that once we got him treated and on his feet, we could convince him to keep his trap shut.  We had a whole reserve of Twinkies and Ding Dongs in my backpack to entice him with.  After all, he hadn’t eaten in more than 24 hours.

       Unfortunately for Chuckie, Paulie and I at nine years old were far from trained EMTs, and the only knowledge we had of medicine came from whatever we could plumb from the depths of our movie and television knowledge.  As we looked at Little Chuckie’s bulbous ass, we knew we were in for trouble.  There was a large, round black spot right at the top of his butt crack, and in the center was an open wound that was oozing blood and puss.  If this had happened to one of us, I’m sure Little Chuckie would have been quick to point out how we had blown ourselves a new asshole.  He didn’t seem to think it was very funny when I said it, though.

       I watched as Paulie emptied his bag of all the medical supplies he had pilfered from the medicine cabinet in his mom’s bathroom.  Out came various ointments and bandages, none of which either of us had any idea how to use.  Then, curiously, Paulie pulled out the last item, a cylindrical container of Morton’s table salt.

       “What’s that for?”  I asked.

       “I remember something from a TV show or something about rubbing salt in someone’s wounds.  I think that’s supposed to help them heal.”

       I vaguely remembered hearing that phrase before, so I shrugged and told Paulie to proceed.  Paulie dumped a handful of salt into his hand and brought it towards Little Chuckie’s ass.  Just as he was inches from the wound, Paulie paused.  He looked sternly at Chuckie and said, “If you ever tell anyone that I touched your butt, I’ll kill you!”

       “Just hurry up, you penis head!”  Chuckie shouted.

       With that, Paulie slapped the handful of salt right onto Chuckie’s open wound.  Immediately, Chuckie let out a piercing squeal that nearly shattered my eardrums, and he carried it out for what seemed like forever.

       “Owwwwww!!!”  Chuckie screamed.  “It hurts!!!”

       “Be still!” Paulie said.  “I’ve gotta rub it in!”

       Paulie rubbed the salt onto Little Chuckie’s ass, and with each movement of Paulie’s hand, Chuckie’s squeals got louder and louder.  Finally, Paulie had had enough.

       “Jesus, would you shut up already?” Paulie screamed.  “I’m gonna go deaf here!  Damn, I wish I had some ear plugs!”

       Just as he completed that sentence, Paulie froze, and his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.  He quickly reached up to both ears, and within moments, he had fished out two ear plugs!  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  I looked down at Little Chuckie’s ass, then grabbed the salt and started rubbing it in.

       Over Little Chuckie’s howling, I said, “I wish I had $100!”

       No sooner had the words left my lips than I was holding a crisp new $100 bill in my left hand!  Paulie looked at me with a mixture of awe and excitement.  Could it be that Chuckie’s festering butt wound was our proverbial golden goose?  We each made several more wishes, accompanied by more handfuls of salt rubbed directly into Little Chuckie’s injury, and one by one, they were granted: I had a baseball signed by Babe Ruth, a brand new BMX bike, and a sweet new Nintendo Power Glove, while Paulie received a cool Tony Hawk skateboard, a new bag of M-80s, and a hefty stack of VHS porno movies.

       As the day progressed, we made more and more wishes by rubbing salt on Little Chuckie’s posterior, and each one continued to come true.  After a couple hours of incessant screaming by Little Chuckie, we considered trying it without the salt, but we figured why mess with a proven formula?  As the end of the day drew near, we knew we would have to be home for dinner soon.  Paulie and I spared Little Chuckie some pain while we discussed how to handle the situation.  After raising many important points, we decided on the appropriate course of action.  Pulling my hatchet out of my backpack, I quickly lopped off Little Chuckie’s arms and legs, and we got to work bandaging up the new wounds.

       You may be wondering why Paulie and I chose this solution, and there were two valid reasons.  One, Chuckie would no doubt one day find the strength to stand up and walk out of the woods on his own.  Upon doing so, he would no doubt both tell on us and seek medical treatment, effectively destroying our genie-in-a-bottle and our freedom in one fell swoop.  Two, while Chuckie was not the smartest kid in the world, he would no doubt come to the conclusion that he could rub salt in his own wound while wishing that all of this had never happened, and then Paulie and I would lose everything we had gained.  Makes sense now, doesn’t it?

       For the first couple of summers, Chuckie slept in a tent in the woods, but, as Paulie and I got older, we realized that we could wish into existence a little shack for him to sleep in.  Occasionally, out of good will, we would wish for him to have a TV or an Intellivision, but nothing too fancy.  We didn’t want to spoil him. 

       Surprisingly, Little Chuckie’s parents didn’t seem to miss him very much.  Sure, they put up flyers around town, but the message at the top was less than desperate:

“Have you seen this fat little fucker?  If so, tell him he needs to take out the trash!”

       After a few months, the flyers faded, and the McGillicuddy’s moved on.  Paulie would later reveal to me that he made a wish that the McGillicuddy’s would forget that they ever had a son.  Paulie was always a little smarter than me.

       Meanwhile, several years later, life has been very good to Paulie and I.  At the tender age of 18, Paulie began building the most successful nationwide strip club chain that this country has ever known.  I became the inventor of the flying car, and have made a very comfortable living from doing so, not that I needed the money.  After all, anything I ever need is just a short hike away to a cabin in the woods, where Little Chuckie waits for our daily visits.  It took a while, but Chuckie has accepted his lot in life, and we give him everything he needs to survive.  Overall, he has it pretty good, except for the lack of arms and legs.

        The hardest part has been keeping that wound open for ten years.

Friday Night Lights

      Like many young, red blooded American boys, I always dreamed of being a star football player.  For the sake of clarity, I’m talking about American football here, not soccer.  I have nothing against soccer, mind you, other than the fact that it’s boring and you can’t hit people, so don’t get all up in arms about how soccer is the greatest sport ever and I just don’t appreciate it.  If it’s so great, why don’t they make beer bottles in the shape of soccer balls?  Yeah, apology accepted.

       Anyway, it was always a dream of mine to play quarterback or wide receiver for my high school football team.  Unfortunately, genetics was not working in my favor at the time.  You see, my parents are both short people, the tallest of the two measuring a measly 5′6″.  In addition to gracing me with their toxic genes, my parents also didn’t care enough about me or love me enough to invest thousands of dollars into genetic modification so that I could become a freakishly huge Cro-Magnon superman with a sloped forehead that could be greased to conveniently send opponents flying as it’s massive cranial power thrust through them towards the end zone.  Trust me, it could be done.  I learned this from the amazing 1993 documentary Freaked, in which they turned Bobcat Goldthwait’s head into a sock.  See?  Anything is possible.

       Another strike against me, also probably genetic in nature, was the fact that I was something of a late bloomer.  By the time I reached high school in the 9th grade, I stood at an unimpressive height of about 5′0″, and I weighed around 95 pounds.  This would remain unchanged until around my junior year, when I would grow another six inches, still leaving me rather lacking in the height department.  I would not get my first pubic hair until my second year of college, which would not necessarily affect my football playing ability, but it would have made it quite awkward to “shower up” with the rest of team after a grueling practice.  Alas, I was too young and naive to know what a merkin was, so I was kind of up shit creek. 

       Despite these limitations, I possessed an abnormally large sense of self-confidence that fully overshadowed all of my other shortcomings.  I had absolute faith in my speed, agility, and my strong throwing arm, so I went against the advice of my parents, friends, extended family members, doctor, and random strangers that I would chat with on the bus, and I tried out for the football team.

       The football team at my high school had a long and storied tradition of victory and, with seven state championships, was one of the premiere football high schools in all of Texas.  Twelve graduates of my high school had gone on to successful NFL careers, and we even had a Heisman Trophy winner among the ranks of our alumni.  Suffice to say, making the team was not a walk in the park.  I’m pretty sure that even our junior varsity team was fed a healthy diet of steroids for five meals a day.  If you sprinkle them over Wheaties, they taste a little less mediciney.  That’s a little tip, feel free to write it down.

       The head coach of our football team was a strong, hard, angry man.  Have you ever seen the movie Varsity Blues?  Remember the role of the coach played by Jon Voight?  Yeah, Jon Voight was a pussy compared to our coach, but I think that’s the best frame of reference I can use.  Maybe combine Jon Voight with Vic Morrow, the guy who played the coach of the Yankees in the original The Bad News Bears.  To both drill the point home in your mind and to protect myself from being sued, I will call him Coach Vic Voight.   Coach Voight was a ruthless competitor, and there were rumors that he had sent more than a few kids to the hospital as a result of his vicious training techniques.  There may have been some upper cuts in there as well, but that’s all conjecture.  Needless to say, I was intimidated by the man, and my fears would be completely justified in that day of tryouts.

       As I stepped onto the practice field that day, my confidence in my athletic abilities was unwavering.  That would soon change.

       At 9 a.m. that Saturday morning, the assistant coaches blew their whistles in unison, and their angry shouts told us that it was time to line up.  As we gathered together on the fifty yard line, I could not help but notice that I was surrounded by giants.  Of all the people trying out for the team that day, the next shortest person after me stood just over six feet tall.  I kind of felt like the title character from the classic 1986 film Lucas.  The smallest available helmet wobbled on my head like the not yet invented bobble head dolls, and the shoulder pads were still much too large after having been cinched up to their smallest setting by my mom.  Still, with all of this in mind, I knew that I had the heart and skill necessary to make the team.

       As we waited in the heat of the late summer, Coach Vic Voight emerged from the field house, his squinty eyes shut tight against the early morning sun, his eyebrows knotted together in perpetual anger, his lips pursed tight over the ever present toothpick that jutted out of the corner of his mouth.  Sweat had already begun to soak through his shirt, and every deliberate step he took toward us made most of us quiver with more and more fear and anticipation.

       As he stood in front of us, he slowly lifted his bullhorn to his lips and began his speech.  “All right, men,” he shouted, “we all know why you’re here today, and that’s to become part of the best god damned football team this town has ever known.  I want to say right up front that I do not tolerate failure.  Failure is for losers, so you will not ‘try.’  You will ‘do,’ or you can get your pudgy asses off of my field right now.  I want you to know right now that out of all fifty eight of you standing on this field, I will only be selecting twenty players for my squad.  That means thrity eight of you are failures!  Some of you, I bet you already know who you are.  Well, I say to you, get the hell off my practice field!”

       No one moved.

       “What, do we have some deaf players out here today?  Get the fuck off of my field!  Some of you know you don’t belong here, so just do us all a fuckin’ favor and leave now!”

       Every player remained still.  Coach Voight paced back and forth, surveying the ragged group of hopefuls lined up before him.  The veins pulsed on his forehead, and the muscles on his thick neck contracted and released with pure, seething rage. 

       “All right, you fuckin’ Tinkerbells.  None of you has the balls to quit to my face, so I’ll turn my back.  You’ve got sixty seconds to make up your mind.  If you’re all still here when I turn back around, by God, you’ll wish you had taken your sorry asses off of this god damn field when you had the chance.”

       Coach Voight turned his back to us, his arms crosed in front of him looking at the second hand on his watch.  For sixty seconds, we all looked at each other, wondering if anyone would chicken out and leave the practice field with his tail tucked between his legs.  I saw flickers of doubt in the eyes of several boys, but, remarkably, no one left.  After sixty seconds that stretched out for a lifetime, Coach Voight turned back to face us.  He slowly surveyed the group, the muscles of his jaw pulsing as he gritted his teeth in the primal rage that only football coaches and postal workers can truly channel.  The coach began walking up the line again.

       “All right, boys, you’ve made your decision, and I’ll be god damned if some of you don’t live to regret it.  But I admire your courage and your heart.  Those are two strong qualities in a young man, but you’ll find they will get you jack shit on my field if you can’t play the game.  Prepare yourself, ladies, for hell!  You are about to experience the most physically demanding three hours of your lives, and I’m going to love every minute of it.  The way I see it, if you’re not vomiting blood, then I must not be pushing you hard enough.  So get ready, you candy asses!  That’s enough of this fucking talking!  Let’s get this show on the-”

       Coach Voight stopped in mid sentence, and he was looking directly at me, his cold, evil eyes boring into my soul.  A wave of panic swept over me as he began to take fast, large strides in my direction.  Just as he drew near me, he stepped to the side and got in the face of the guy to my right.

       “What’s your name, son?” he shouted.

       “Um, Alan Hayes, sir!”  the boy nervously responded.

       “Well, Alan Hayes, would you mind telling me what you had for breakfast this morning?”

       Alan looked around, unsure of what to say to this strange question.  “Well, coach, I had some bacon and eggs, pancakes, and a bowl of corn flakes.”

       “You did, did you?” the coach asked.  “Well, that’s a pretty big breakfast.  Let me ask you this, Miss Hayes.  Didn’t your momma teach you how to go to the bathroom?”

       Again, Alan looked confused, unable to understand what he had done to provoke the coach’s ire.  “Y-yes, sir, she did.”

       “No, I don’t think she did!”  the coach yelled, his face just inches from the face of Alan Hayes.  “If your momma had taught you how to use the toilet properly,” the coach said, as he then pointed in my direction, ”you wouldn’t have taken this big shit right in the middle of my fucking practice field!”

       I felt the blood drain from my face as the other fifty seven young men broke out in laughter.  Coach Voight walked over to me and squatted down so we were at eye level.  A gleam appeared in his eyes, and he even cracked what could almost be described as a grin as he began to address me directly.

       “Sorry, little boy, but I think someone must have given you some wrong information.  Ya see, the tryouts for Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs are next week.  We don’t let midgets play on this team.”

       Everyone’s attention  was focused on me, and all of the other players were smiling wide, laughing at my misfortune. 

       The Coach stood up and turned his back to me, addressing his assistant coaches.  “Somebody get a god damn pooper scooper and clean this little piece of shit off my field.  We’ve got work to do.”

       My heart sank, and I started to protest, but at that moment, a big assistant coach grabbed me by the arm and pulled me over to the fence.  “Sorry, kid, but you heard the coach.  You’re too small to play for this team.  Try again next year if you’ve grown a little.”  With that, he shoved me out of the gate and closed the padlock.

       I sat there for a few minutes, fighting back tears.  All of my hopes and dreams had just been destroyed by this evil man, and I wasn’t even given the chance to prove my athletic abilities.  My sorrow was almost immediately replaced with an uncontrollable anger, and I vowed from that day forth to get revenge on Coach Voight for his cruel actions.  There was only one punishment in my mind that would be fitting for such an evil man:  murder!

       I began reading up on poisons in medical journals accessed from my school and local public library.  After several weeks of searching, I found some information that perfectly suited my diabolical plan for revenge.  My father was a corn farmer, and he was fond of using an herbicide product called Bicep to control weeds in his crops.  The main ingredient in Bicep is a chemical called metolachlor.  I found several medical studies that had linked prolonged exposure to metolachlor with lung cancer.  Armed with this information, my plan was set in motion.

       Every day before school, I would get up extra early to sneak into the field house and put just a drop of Bicep into Coach Voight’s coffee mug.  Afterwards, I would hide just inside the locker room with the door cracked so I could watch with relish as Coach Voight sipped on his morning coffee.  This continued for all four years of my high school career, and I did not miss one day.  After graduation, I even got a job as a janitor at the high school, forgoing a college education in order to continue the pursuit of my long, sweet revenge.  Every day for thirteen years, I have diligently continued my sinister work, all the while knowing that revenge would one day be mine.

       And then yesterday, the morning paper greeted me with some unexpected news.  Coach Voight had died over the weekend!  Finally!  It had taken thirteen long years of hard work, but finally I had my revenge!  The article claimed that Coach Voight died peacefully in his sleep of a heart attack brought on by clogged arteries, aggravated by the coach’s love of all foods deep fried, but I like to think it was an undiagnosed case of lung cancer that did him in.

       Eat that, you fucking jerk!

This one’s for the fellas. No ladies allowed!

       Well, gentlemen, I finally took the plunge.  On Friday night, I did what we have all been waiting for since, oh, say February of 2004.  I finally dragged my girlfriend out to see the greatest cinematic happening of this decade for males between the ages of 25 and 50.  Sure, I had to bribe the girlfriend with sex and beer, but it was well worth the cost.  Seems these past few years of withholding sex have served me well.  After one round of sweet lovin’, she was putty in my hands. 

       So, with the woman reluctantly in tow, I put on my most expensive pair of John Lobb European Jermyn II shoes ($1,230!) and my most beautiful tailored Giorgio Armani suit ($3,595!).  After a full day at the spa getting a full facial treatment and a custom salon styled haircut ($645!), I was ready for the ultimate movie:  Sex and the City!  And, men, I must tell you, I looked fabu!

       When the “Sex and the City” series ended it’s triumphant six season run on HBO, I felt absolutely devastated.  I honestly did not know if I would ever be able to watch television again.  Life in the future for me just seemed so bleak and colorless without the spiritual guidance of Carrie, the backstabbing bitchery of Miranda, the sweet natured innocence of Charlotte, and the all out fuck-aholicism of Samantha.  I mean, really, who was I supposed to style my life after at this point?  Brooke Shields on “Lipstick Jungle?”  Lucy Liu  on “Cashmere Mafia?”  Bitch, please!  Those second rate hookers couldn’t carry Sarah Jessica Parker’s feed bag!

       Anyway, when I heard news that this movie was being made, I literally could not stop screaming with delight.  Seriously, I think I screamed for twelve days straight.  The doctors thought maybe I had an aneurysm or something, but I was just really fucking excited!  Anyway, as soon as I got out of the hospital, I started buying shoes and handbags (for men, of course) like there was no tomorrow!   I had to make extra sure that I had enough of a selection to put together the perfect outfit for this amazing film!

       Unfortunately, because my girlfriend thinks I’m fat and unattractive and not worth the money, she just would not spring for tickets for me to fly to New York to attend the world premiere at Radio City Music Hall.  I just don’t understand why she doesn’t see how important this is for me!  I don’t get all pissy with her when she wants to watch her sports or “Friday Night Lights” program on TV (as long as they don’t conflict with any “Sex and the City” repeats!  I’ve got all the seasons on DVD, but I don’t care, I watch the reruns anyway!), so I don’t see why she throws a fit at my request for her to attend this movie with me.  Women can be so insensitive, am I right, fellas?  Sure I am!  Anyway, I had to settle for seeing it here in my hometown of Nowheresville, USA like some piece of common trailer trash, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to do it up in style!  Turns out the Alamo Drafthouse was having a big shindig for the premiere, and they were giving out free cosmos!!!  You know what that means, fellas!  My girlfriend was going to have to carry me out of there.  That is, unless I found another hot lady who had been dragged there by her boyfriend and was looking for a good time!  Please don’t tell my girlfriend I said that.  Oh, I meant it, but she doesn’t have to know!  LOL!

       Anyway, I have to tell you, I was dressed to the nines, and it was finally time for my reunion with my mentors, the four glamorous ladies from the Sex and the City movie!  I was so ready to spend two and a half hours with the women who had taught me how to truly live.   We arrived at the theatre, and the parking lot was packed!  That obviously meant that the movie was really good, so at this point I was shaking with excitement!  I nervously told my girlfriend to park down the street.  I wasn’t wearing my most comfortable shoes, but I could take them off to walk a couple of blocks.  After all, the Sex and the City ladies had already done so much more than that for me!

       We parked the car, and we started the walk down Anderson Lane.  On the way, we passed a bar called The Pork Belly.  Yuck!  There were a bunch of seedy looking guys standing outside smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking longnecks of inexpensive domestic light beer.  Talk about très gauche!  Those pigs wouldn’t know a good cosmo if they were bathing in it, although I doubt they ever bathed.  Oh snap!

       So we were walking by, and one of the guys says to me, “Hey, pretty!  Where you goin’ all dolled up?  Why don’t you come over here and sit on my lap?”

       Well, I was apalled!  I looked at my girlfriend to say something to them, but she just kept on walking.  Figures!  So I replied, “Um, no thanks, pal!  I’m off to see Sex and the City.  I don’t have time for you cheap hooligans, but thanks for the offer.”

       That must have been exactly what they were waiting for, because as soon as I turned my head, a full bottle of Piss Light or whatever those cretins were drinking bounced off of the side of my noggin, knocking me to the ground.  Before I knew what happened, I was surrounded by seven large, smelly men who had probably never used a moisturizer in their lives.  They proceeded to kick the shit out of me.

       Through the pain, I did manage to squeak out, “Please stop!  This suit… worth more than you will make in your life!” 

       That didn’t work, and they continued to mercilessly stomp on my chest and skull.  Luckily my girlfriend stepped in just as I was losing consciousness.  The policeman at the hospital who took my statement later that night told me, between muffled fits of laughter, that she singlehandedly beat up all seven of my attackers.  Guess I’ll have to start being nicer to her.  Maybe!

       So obviously I didn’t get to see the movie, and I am so miffed!  As soon as the bones in my legs back, jaw, skull, arms, and inner ear knit, I am so renting that fucking DVD.  Sure, it won’t be quite the same, but I’ll still have a good time.  Hopefully the beating I took didn’t cause no brain damage, because… that… wasn’t… be … um… good.

      Anyhoo, what did you bring me for Christmas, Santa?

Peculiar Symptoms of my advancing age.

       Getting old.  It’s the fuckin’ pits, ain’t it?  Seems like just yesterday I was a young teenager, full of life, hormones, alcohol, THC, and a general disregard for my own well being.  Drunk driving?  No problem!  Riding my mountain bike off of a cliff by accident?  Just a few scrapes!  These days, I can’t even sneeze without needing a fucking hip replacement.   Times were so much simpler then, weren’t they?  Okay, maybe it’s not the times that were simpler, but my brain instead.  Either way, I miss the carefree days and general I-don’t-give-a-flying-fuck-about-anything-and-you-can-kiss-my-ass-if-you-try-to-make-me attitude I enjoyed as a young lad.  Things were easier because I was too stupid to care.

       Not these days.  The responsibilities of the real world, including, work, family, and property, have truly changed me.  That, combined with the physical breakdown of my body caused by advancing age and that stupidity of my youth that I mentioned before have really made me come face to face with the cold hard truth.  I’m not going to get any younger.  Ever.  Every day from now on, I’ll be older than I was the day before.  There are no more birthdays to actually look forward to.  The next milestone in life is death.  People can say, “But, Jason, 30 is the new 20!  You’re not that old!” all they want.  All they’re doing is attempting to placate me and delude themselves into thinking that they are not one day closer to rotting in a box themselves.

       With each day that passes, it seems that I notice yet another change in my body.  There are the old standbys, such as the receding hairline, the paunch belly, the hair in strange places where there was no hair before (no, not puberty.  This is like the sequel, Puberty 2:  The Decaying).  But there are also strange things afoot.  Things that I never knew would happen as I got older. 

       For example, about a month ago, I started noticing something really odd.  Every time I see the color mauve, I lose control of my bladder.  You ever hear of anything like that?  It has to be true mauve, a light bluish purple, not some bullshit approximation like lavender or light purple or lilac.  I’m talking straight up mauve, baby.  I know you’re probably saying to yourself, “Well how often does someone really see mauve anyway?”  More often than you’d think, I’ll tell you that.  The other day I was in church, and I went up to receive my communion wafer from the priest, and he was wearing some kind of mauve scarf!  Well, I of course couldn’t help myself, and before I knew it, I had peed on the priest’s shoe.  You ever had a priest tell you that you’re going to hell right in front of the entire congregation in the middle of Sunday mass?  Well, yours truly has.  I told him it was the mauve, but he didn’t want to listen.

       Which brings me to another weird symptom.  Sometimes, for no discernible reason at all, I start thinking I’m Catholic.  It’s not even every Sunday!  Just every once in a while, I will find myself sitting in St. Bartholomew’s cathedral, clutching a rosary and saying Hail Marys.  I don’t even know what that one’s about.  Maybe I’ll ask the priest at my next confession.  I’ll give the Catholics one thing though:  their wine is a lot better than the Protestants.  It’s got just the right amount of Jesus flavor.  Really hits the spot!

       And there’s another one!  I drink wine now.  How gay is that?  What happened to the good old days of drinking the cheapest, shittiest light beer I could find until passing out?  Where are the nights of taking shots such as the Tearjerker, the Bloody Flaming Frog’s Ass, the Mind Eraser, and the Flaming Dr. Pepper until I came to in the men’s room of a Whataburger with no recollection of how I got there and missing $300 from my pocket?  No, these days it’s a couple of glasses of wine and then, “I suppose that’s enough for me!  I have to drive home tonight and get up early in the morning for work.  Wouldn’t want to go in hung over, no sir!  I might lose some precious productivity, and we can’t have that!”  God, even I hate me now.

       So what happened?  Did I miss the meeting?  Was there a big conference that everyone was invited to where they sit you down and say, “Well, you’re turning 30.  We just wanted to let you know that from here on out, you’re going to be a fragile, confused, incontinent douchebag.  Sorry to break it to you like this, but we thought you should get a heads up.  Later, pussy.”  Is that why no one else is talking about this stuff?  Did all you pricks go to the meeting and then just decide to hold out on me so you could laugh it up at my expense?  If so, man, I really hate you guys.

       Oh, shit!  Sorry, guys, I gotta go!  “Dancing With the Stars” is on the DVR.  I’m gonna go pour a modest glass of merlot and enjoy myself.  After all, what else is there to do on a Friday night?  I just hope none of those lovely celebs are wearing a mauve dress!  LOL!

 

 

Little Known Movie Review #3

 

       In the 3rd edition of my “Little Known Movie Review” series, I would like to once again revisit my childhood to bring to light yet another masterpiece that I’m sure all of you miserable sons of bitches skipped because you have absolutely no taste and were probably jerking off to your VCR-recorded television broadcast of Nolan Ryan getting his 5000th strikeout on Rickey Henderson a few days before the release of this great film.  I’m not knocking on you for that, mind you.  I would’ve been doing the same thing myself, but I wasn’t old enough to have discovered the joys of masturbating to sports highlights yet.  Anyway, my point is that you are all douchebags.  All right, it’s movie time!

       As hinted at with the Nolan Ryan comment, the year is 1989.  Capping off a really horrendous decade for Hollywood films, this year would see  a slight rebound in quality, producing several classics such as Field Of Dreams, My Left Foot, Dead Poets Society, and Glory.  Still, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, when celebrating the year in film at the Academy Awards ceremony early the next year, would be sure to remind us that 1989 was indeed part of the 80’s.  They did so by awarding the Best Picture Oscar to a sappy Dan Aykroyd vehicle with minor supporting performances by Morgan Freeman and Jessica Tandy, Driving Miss Daisy.  Seriously, Academy?  A movie about a crotchety old racist Southerner with Alzheimer’s mentally abusing her African American chauffeur deserves the Best Picture award?  I’m sure Jesse Jackson was rolling in his grave.  Randy Jackson, however, was too busy rockin’ out with Journey to notice.

       Anyway, once again, the Academy and the general public missed out on a major cinematic milestone in 1989.  I am speaking of the August 25th release of the sci-fi masterpiece Millennium.  Okay, I will admit up front that I haven’t seen this movie in probably more than fifteen years, and I was confused even then, but I’ll give this a shot.  In the future, the entire human population of Earth has been rendered sterile through years of pollution.  Because of this fact, the human race is dying out.  In order to ensure the survival of the human race, the people from the future, led by a hot, slutty blond chick in a stewardess uniform, travel back in time and kidnap people from the present who are about to die in plane crashes and bring them to the future to procreate.  In order to get the present folks off of the plane, they hijack the flights before the crash and unload them, replacing them with sterile doppelgangers from the future to die in their place in the crash.

       Kris Kristofferson, following his triumphant turn in the classic film Big Top Pee-wee, plays an FAA investigator who investigates the plane crashes, and he somehow meets the stewardess chick and has some raunchy sex with her, also discovering some stun gun that she has and accidentally stunning himself, causing a “timequake” that threatens to destroy the future.  The blond chick then makes it her mission to stop Kristofferson from finding the stun gun and inadvertently destroying the future.  Confused yet?  Me too.

       The movie has several typical 80’s idiosyncratic style choices that date the movie, from the blond’s weird rocker haircut a la The Legend of Billie Jean (look for my upcoming review of this turd) and a weird personal robot guy with some of the worst movie makeup ever.  Seriously, this thing looks like an outcast from the Hellraiser series.  Another interesting tidbit: people in the future are required to smoke cigarettes that somehow actually protect their lungs from the polluted air of the future or some shit.  For some reason, Joe Camel does not make a cameo.  I guess the tobacco companies didn’t want to make it that obvious that they had a hand in financing this film.

       Anyway, it’s tough to imagine a film like this being made today, what with the pro-smoking, pro-hijacking agenda of the flick.  Also, Kris Kristofferson has wisely steered his acting career away from ridiculous sci-fi movies like this, instead choosing to star in movies such as Blade and Planet of the Apes.  Oh, wait… nevermind.

       In summary, way to go, Academy.  If anybody deserved a Best Supporting Actor award for a 1989 film, it had to be Robert Joy for his portrayal of Sherman the Robot.  Check this film out.  Sure, It’s no Logan’s Run, but it still really sucks.  Enjoy, assholes.

 

On Work in the Modern Nation

 

       As a responsible and productive member of society, I have made several sacrifices in my everyday life in order to provide for myself and those I care about.  It is a social contract that we all sign.  From this contract, we gain employment, from which we gain monetary compensation, from which we pay for the things that sustain us in life, such as food, shelter, clothing, cars, etc.  This contract also forces us to trade our time, our energy, our brainpower, and all the other resources and skills that we have gained in approximately a quarter of a lifetime’s worth of education for the benefits mentioned previously. 

       The average person with a full time job sacrifices approximately 36% of their waking time to work.  This is excluding commuting time.  That’s a lot of time.  Imagine what you could be doing with this time.  Imagine the possibilities of a work free life, a life in which you could spend all of your time pursuing your own interests, devoting that aforementioned time, energy, and brainpower to making the world a better place to live.  When did we as humans decide that we were willing to sacrifice so much of our own identity, our own freedom,  our own lives to this strange notion of economy? 

       My search for answers to this question have led me to the writings of Adam Smith, as well as those of John Locke before him, both brilliant scholars who shaped economic theory as we know it.  Their writings have shed some light on the idea of society and the sacrifices that each man must make in order to protect his property and his very well-being.  Their logic is sound, their arguments nearly irrefutable.

       And yet for some reason, I went to see Iron Man at the movie theater today rather than go to work.  Am I a rebel who is rejecting the notion of the modern economy and the social contracts signed by my ancestors so long ago?  Do I reject the tenets of modern society and the idea of being an integrated part of an orderly and productive nation?

       No, I just really didn’t want to go to fucking work today! 

 

Fuck it, Dude.  Let’s go blow some shit up!  I mean bowling.  Let’s go bowling.

Lesbos sue lesbians

 

Campaigners on the Greek island of Lesbos are to go to court in an attempt to stop a gay rights organisation from using the term “lesbian”.

I bet you think I made that up, didn’t you?  No, that is directly quoted from an actual BBC News article.  Inhabitants of the island of Lesbos are battling to stop gay women from calling themselves or being called “lesbians.”  Sometimes actions in the real world trump all comedy.

The man spearheading the case, publisher Dimitris Lambrou, claims that international dominance of the word in its sexual context violates the human rights of the islanders, and disgraces them around the world.  He says it causes daily problems to the social life of Lesbos’s inhabitants.

If this oily Greek guy is successful in his campaign, I am going to initiate a few lawsuits of my own, with the help of my esteemed attorney, Phineas J. Turtlebottom, Esq., of course.  First off, I will fight to take back the word “gay.”  This word used to mean “happy” or “fun,” but now the sexual connotations attached to the word have made it taboo for any heterosexual to use to describe themselves.  That violates my civil rights as an English speaker.  You can’t just hijack a word so that no one else can use it.  Same goes for the word “queer.”  And, if you’re British, “fag”.  How many unsuspecting Brits have been punched in the face for asking an American for a cigarette using this colloquial term?  Probably none, but it could happen!

Next, I’m going to sue for ownership of disco music.  See, I can understand why gay men might claim ownership to certain songs (”It’s Raining Men,” anything by the Village People), but a whole genre?  Come on!  There was a time when a confident, heterosexual man could slap on a pair of skin tight polyester pants, a butterfly-collared shirt open to mid-chest, and a sweet gold medallion and disco dance the night away with lots of hot chicks without fear of retribution.  Those days are gone, gentlemen!

Hey, gay people!  Nothing against any of you, but couldn’t you lay claim to something like rap music or country?  You all have had virtually no penetration (no pun intended) in those markets.  Okay, so you’ve got Kenny Chesney, but who else?.  We’d be glad to give you free reign over both of those genres with no complaints.  We’ll even let you keep the techno music!  How’s that sound?  In return, just give us our words and our disco music back.  Sound like a fair deal?

Let’s shake on it.

An interview with Armand Finklestein, Hollywood Insider

Throughout the movie industry, one man’s name is synonymous with power, information, and a certain indescribable odor.  That man is Armand Finklestein, Hollywood Insider, and he has generously decided to sit down with this publication for a rare and exclusive interview.  Mr. Finkelstein, Hollywood Insider chose to spend the day with me at my home in Texas.

Me: So, Mr. Finklestein, thank you-

AFHI: Ahem!

Me: What?

AFHI: What did you call me?

Me: I said “Mr. Finklestein.”

AFHI: I only respond to my full title.

Me: Ah, that’s right.  My apologies.  Let me start again.  So, Armand Finklestein, Hollywood Insider, thank you for joining me in my home today.

AFHI: That’s better.

Me: Uh huh.  So what made you decide to participate in this interview in my humble home in Texas rather than in one of your own massive estates in Hollywood, California?

AFHI: Well, my boy, it’s always good to get out now and then and mingle with the common folk.  Get a feel for what your average everyday loser does with his life. 

Me: I see.  Thanks for that.

AFHI: You are right to thank me.  I have more money than you, and am therefore your better, so you should feel privileged that I would even step foot in this shithole you call a home.  I would call it more of a shithole.

Me: Right.  Um, anyway, so let’s talk about your storied career in the film industry.  Your first break into the business was as Marlon Brando’s assistant, is that correct?

AFHI: Ah , yes, Marlon.  Now there was a great man.  Truly a visionary actor, definitely the best actor in the history of the film business.  Have you seen those fish sticks commercials he did?  Fucking brilliant!

Me: Uh, I think that was Orson Welles, and he didn’t really do the commercials, he was just reading scripts on an audio tape.

AFHI: Oh, I’m sorry.  Are you the Hollywood Insider here?  Perhaps I should be interviewing you, Mr. Friend To The Stars?  How many celebrities do you know?

Me: All right, let’s not get nasty here.  Moving right along…  How was it working with Mr. Brando?  Any interesting stories or great lessons he taught you?

AFHI: Well, I never would have learned how to change an adult diaper if it wasn’t for him.

Me: Jesus.  So Brando was a bit incontinent in his old age, huh?

AFHI: Of course not!  He changed my diaper, you nitwit!  He was gracious enough to show me how to do it properly, and I’ll never forget him for that.  When you drink as much turpentine as I do, you really start to appreciate the comfort of a fine diaper!

Me: All right, I think I’m going to steer this conversation away from Brando for now.  Your first foray into actually making movies was… crap, I can’t find my notes.  Ah, here they are!  Your first foray into screenwriting was… wait, you wrote Bio-Dome?

AFHI: Yes, thank you.  That was definitely my defining moment as a writer.  It was amazing to see my words come to life in the hands of that talented thespian Pauly Shore and his buddy Santa Claus.

Me: Santa Claus?  What the fuck are you talking about?  That was Stephen Baldwin!

AFHI: That’s what I said, asshole.

Me: All right, whatever.  You’re actually proud to have written Bio-Dome, though?  It’s pretty much widely considered to be one of the worst movies ever made.  Metacritic.com has it listed as the number 1 lowest reviewed movie ever.

AFHI: Do you honestly think I care about what some Joe College dickhead critic like yourself has to say about my film?  We didn’t make it for you, Poindexter, we made it for the public, your average, everyday movie-going schmoe.  And they loved it!

Me: Well, it wasn’t exactly a blockbuster there, pal.  In fact, it was pretty much a bomb, if I remember correctly.

AFHI: Ha!  A bomb?  Yeah, right!  Where do you think I got this 24k gold Rolex from then, smart guy?

Me: Um, you’re just pointing at a rubber band around your wrist.  Your filthy wrist!  And you smell like a fucking compost heap soaked in cheap Wild Irish Rose.

AFHI: Heh, whatever.  Aren’t you supposed to ask me about my upcoming film projects now?

Me: Fine.  Do you have any upcoming film projects?

AFHI: I’m so glad you asked, fuckwit.  I am very excited about my next project.  it’s going to be a reimagining of the 1978 classic musical Grease.  It’s going to star all of the original Grease cast, including John Travolta and Olivia Newton John, but I’m going to reverse the roles of the whole cast!

Me: Reverse the roles?  What does that mean?

AFHI: The men are going to play the women’s parts, and vice versa.  It’s genius, I tell you!  I can’t wait to see John travolta, his hair in a giant perm and sewed into a pair of black hotpants singing “You Better Shape Up.”  Gives me chills every time I think about it!

Me: Gives me nausea.  All right, I’m tired of this crap.  Haven’t we gone far enough with this?  You said if I’d pretend to be from an entertainment magazine and interview you like you were a Hollywood bigshot, you’d finally get the hell out of my house.  It’s been a friggin’ month already!  I can’t keep having some delusional, disgusting, drunk homeless guy living in my house any longer!

AFHI: What are to talking about?  I’m a Hollywood producer!  I make millions.  I buy and sell little people such as yourself on a daily basis!  I hobknob with the big stars!  Why, I just had lunch with Alec Baldwin yesterday. 

Me: That was my toilet!  You were drunk and puking in it for about ten hours straight, and you kept calling it Alec for some reason.

AFHI: Don’t tell me my business!

Me: Please, any of you out there reading this, call the police!  I already asked you to do this the last time this psycho appeared on my blog, but apparently nobody listened!  He’s still here, and he smells worse than ever!  Please. somebody help me!

AFHI: Who are you talking to?  And I’m supposed to be the crazy one? 

 

 

My day at the supermarket

 

       The other day I was at the grocery store shopping for some fresh produce to assist me in trying a new recipe, and I saw something pretty damn funny, if I do say so myself.  And I do.

       Anyway, I have this grilling cookbook created by the good folks over at Weber, famous for their grill technology or some shit.  Whatever, it was a gift.  I had been flipping through the book looking for something to actually cook, because my taste buds and my butthole were both getting quite tired of eating frozen Hill Country Fare™ brand taquitos fresh from the oven just like mi abuelita used to make (except my grandmother was not Hispanic, did not make Mexican food, and probably couldn’t even pronounce “taquito”).  While thumbing through the book, I found a recipe that sounded enticing: Chicken in Red Wine Marinade.  For this recipe, you basically buy a whole chicken, cut it in half down the breastbone, remove the spine, then marinate it in a bag for twenty four hours in garlic, olive oil, anchovies, yellow onion, salt, pepper, parsley, and a whole bottle of red wine.  Then, you grill both halves on indirect medium heat for about 45 minutes, and voilà, you have a pretty fuckin’ tasty meal.

       So there I was in the produce section, sorting through the yellow onions in order to find the perfect specimen (I’m anal when it comes to produce, that’s why I don’t fuckin’ cook more often.  Trips to the store can last several hours), when I notice these two little kids running back and forth between the produce aisles screaming at ridiculously high volumes and playing tag or something.  The kids, both boys, were probably around the ages of 8 and 10, respectively, and they were just hellbent on tearing ass around that whole place, oblivious to anyone or anything around them. 

       If you know me, you know that I hate it when people don’t make their kids behave in public.  When I was a kid, if I even thought about acting like these two kids were in public, my mother would have beaten the living crap out of me, and every adult standing around would have probably stepped in to help.  These days, kids get away with anything, and if you think a parent is going to discipline them, Jesus, have you been living in a cave for the last couple of decades?

       Well, this whole thing went on for about ten minutes, and I could see no parent in sight.  I looked around to make sure I hadn’t maybe accidentally walked into a friggin’ daycare or something, but sure enough, this was a public grocery store, and these two hellions were just running around untethered and unsupervised, knocking over potatoes here, tomatoes there, a little bit of everything.  I decided that I just needed to grab the best onion I could find and get the hell out of there.  I hastily made my selection, and I turned to make my way to the front of the store.  Just at that moment, I saw the two kids rush by me at top speed, squealing the whole way, and they both collided with a man carrying a basket full of groceries, all of which flew up into the air and crashed to the ground in front of him.

       After about ten seconds of just looking around him at all of his future meals splayed out on the floor, this guy proceeds to go apeshit on these kids!  He was screaming and cursing and just laying into these kids like I’ve never seen before.  It was unbelievable!

       “You sorry little pieces of shit!  Where the fuck is your fucking welfare mother?!  I’m gonna slap that worthless bitch for not keeping you filthy little fucking animals on a leash!  I wish she had done the world a fucking favor when she was pregnant with you and just aborted you right then and there so the world could have been spared your fucking screeching, clumsy little asses!”

       Everyone in the place was completely frozen, stunned into silence by this colossal rant.  If the mother of these kids was around, she wasn’t claiming them.  I don’t blame her.  This dude probably would have choked her to death right there in front of the Granny Smith apples.

       At that point, this guy bends down and starts picking up his groceries, but he doesn’t put them in his basket.  No, instead, he starts flinging everything at these little kids!  The children were too scared to move, so they just stood there while this psycho’s groceries pelted them all over.   I saw a box of Hamburger Helper bounce off of the ten year old’s head, with little more reaction from the kid than a slight wince.  By the end of it, both kids were covered in parsley, olive oil, tampons for some reason, and tons of other crap.  They clutched onto each other, shivering with fright at what this crazy man might do next.

       Something must have happened inside the guy’s head at that point, because the expression of rage on his face suddenly cleared, and a look of surprise came over him as he realized what he had done.  Suddenly aware of his predicament, the guy dropped the last garlic clove he had in his hand, and he hauled ass for the front door.

       “Later, bitches!” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared out the front door.  It was truly one of the most bizarre scenes I have ever witnessed.

       Okay, now that I’ve completed that story, I’m feeling a little dishonest, and I feel like I need to come clean.  I may have changed some of the details in order to protect certain people from any shame or legal consequences of their actions, but my conscience just won’t allow me to keep the lie going. 

       The guy who did all of this was not just “some guy.”  It was me.  I’ve been kind of stressed at work lately, and those little kids really were a couple of little bastards!

       Okay, and the little kids weren’t actually running around and screaming, and they didn’t run into me and spill my groceries all over the floor.  They were just standing right in front of the yellow onions and wouldn’t get out of my way, no matter how hard I thought about asking them to move. 

      And they weren’t little kids.  They were a couple of old ladies, probably in their late 70s.  All the rest of the story is true, though.

       Suffice to say, I haven’t tried out that red wine chicken recipe yet.  I don’t think I’ll be welcome back at that grocery store any time soon.  It’s cool.  I’m more of a Taco Bell guy anyway.

I’m a fucking star, and as such am now too good for all of you losers

 

Well, it finally happened.  My ship has finally come in.  I have hit the big time.  With the help of my attorney, the esteemed Phineas J. Turtlebottom, Esq., I have gone global.  In the last 24 hours, my pissant little blog has seen hits from places as exotic and excitiing as Thailand, Malaysia, Australia, Slovenia, Venezuela, Israel, Japan, and Dayton, Ohio. 

I have also been linked from the Philippines, some douchebag’s petition, and some chick named Sandy’s website.  I hope that Sandy has something of hers lying around that I can steal, perhaps some money, lottery tickets, or delicious pie carelessly left to cool on her unsuspecting windowsill.  I have also been cited as a source of factual media reporting alongside such giants as Entertainment Tonight and the New York Post.  I have truly made it.

But it wasn’t complete, wasn’t nearly close to being in the same vicinity as complete.  No, it wasn’t complete until yesterday, when I got a hit from a Google search term.  Some poor hapless soul somehow reached my blog by typing in the most unlikely of search terms, and with their unusual mistake, they made me feel like I had finally made something of my life.

So I would like to thank you, anonymous stranger, for making all of this worthwhile.  You.. complete me.  There were a few times that I had considered abandoning this silly blog for fear that it wasn’t being appreciated, but now I know better.  God bless you, sir or madam (but most likely sir), for reminding me of why I do this in the first place.

Oh, what’s that?  You want to know what the search term was?  Ok, let me show you in the following screen capture.  The following brought tears of joy to my eyes, and hopefully it will do the same for you, dear readers.  Enjoy.