Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Dear Bert,
I am so sorry. I should have locked you back in my room when I left the other night to play out my delusions of self-importance onstage. You didn't want to be in there, though. You seemed to have grown quite content resting on the couch in the computer room. Perhaps it holds some nostalgic value for you. It was, after all, the couch you spent many hours snoozing on when we first met, after you became comfortable in your new surroundings at the old apartment in Arlington. Then, when we moved to the Dream House a few miles away, you would perch yourself right on the top cushion and sleep the days away until I came home late at night, just so you could greet me instantly, since the couch was right by my door. The couch must have been a deep source of comfort for you, and seeing as you spend 8-12 hours a day cooped up in my bedroom while I am off running errands or working, it's perfectly understandable for you to have wanted a reprieve from your daily prison for a few short hours until I came home again, at which point you would gladly follow me to my room to sit on my chest and purr until I either fell asleep or grew weary of your kneading paws digging into my bare chest and pushed you off onto a nearby pillow.
You didn't want to be in my room, so I didn't force you to, as I have many times over the last twelve months. I wanted you to be happy, and I didn't think a few hours left unattended would have me find you mauled to death on the kitchen floor by my roommate's vicious fucking dogs. I thought you kept them at bay. I know they were very mindful of your ferocity and dominance, at least while there were humans around. I thought you would be able to escape any imminent danger, especially as an agile feline against a couple of clumsy dogs. They must have cornered you, ran you down somehow. There were three of them, after all, and only one of you. I know Story did not do this to you, though I am sure she had a role in your tragic demise. You guys sleep right next to each other, and I know she never had any ill intent towards you. Sometimes she gently chased you while trying to sniff your butt, and other times she would aggravate you into giving her a few swipes on the nose after you grew wearisome of her incessant licking, but she never once growled or snapped at you. Those other fucking dogs have, though. And they've killed cats before.
I honestly had no idea that they would become so insane as to attack you, Bert. I really didn't. I guess that's what happens when your owner leaves town for nearly a month and doesn't do anything to care for you, short of having someone come over once a day to let you out for five minutes and dump some food in a bowl. I'm so sorry, Bert. I should've known better, but my hurriedness to get out the door after work must have clouded my judgment.
My guess is that you were sniffing and chewing at the plants in the living room, and maybe Story began playing with you, chasing you down the hall, which riled up the other dogs, at which point primal instinct took over. It doesn't matter.
What matters is that your last few moments on this earth were filled with sheer terror, and I did nothing to save you. I'm sure, loyal as you are, that until the very last second you were just waiting for me to come in and call off those fucking pieces of shit, even as you fought for dear life. What could you do? They couldn't have taken you on one-on-one, so one of the fucking cowards clamped down on your neck, suffocating you, while the other one bit at your stomach and back. I'm sure Story was around there somewhere too, barking either in protest or sadistic pleasure. There's no way to know.
The horrible irony is that what I said before virtually came true, body positioning and all. I'm still having a hard time considering the implications of it all, but it does seem to fit in quite resoundingly with the rest of my life, and I am so deeply sorry that you became yet another example. You spent the first years of your life grossly mistreated, and then for a while, you lived a somewhat normal life. You were loved very much by both Rebecca and I, and the love and appreciation you showed in return was unequalled by any pet I have either had or known. You truly were a unique being.
When I came home around two a.m. and found you lying on the kitchen floor, I gasped and yelled in horror and fell to my knees to check to see if you were okay. Your eyes were open in terror, and I cradled your head, the only part of you that was still dry and unharmed, and attempted to check your pulse. I couldn't find one, but I don't know that I'd be able to even if you had had one. Your body was still warm as I frantically pet and talked to you, and called my girlfriend and roused her out of bed with my crying hysterics. A small part of me believes that a small part of you was still alive when I found you, as if waiting to fully let go until you could see me and feel my touch just once more, because ten minutes later, your body was no longer warm, and your extremities had begun to stiffen. I could be wrong and simply deluding myself as we humans are wont to do when it comes to dealing with loved one's passings, but you don't mind, do you?
Minutes passed and I became enraged. I alternated between storming through the house, destroying doors and kicking the dogs and laying on the ground with you, pleading for your life. I assure you, Bert, that any terror you might have felt in your final moments was multiplied tenfold in the dogs. I don't think they thought they were going to make it out alive. Story was mortified. I put her in her cage while I mercilessly beat the others. She was shaking so hard that the door of her cage rattled as I threw the murderers outside. She hasn't been the same since. For the first day after your death, she would not leave my bedroom, even to go outside. Even now, she is wandering throughout the house, whining for no reason. She was truly affected. She misses you.
When my vengeful rage had finally passed and my breathing returned to normal, I wrapped your wet, broken body in a red towel and cradled you in my arms, trying my best to close your eyes, though they would not. I held you, a body heavier now with the weight of death, just like I did the first night I got you, about two years ago, now- wrapped in a towel, pressed tightly against my chest. The first night I did this was to comfort you. The last night I did this was to comfort me.
Soon, Rebecca came over and sat on the floor with me while I kissed your nose and blubbered tearful admissions of guilt, responsibility and memory. Later, I placed you inside a box, along with your food bowl full of Deli-Cat, the towel you always sat on while eating, and a plastic sack. I placed you up high, on a speaker cabinet, so the dogs wouldn't get to you again, if they came back, that is.
Rebecca gave me a sleeping pill, at my behest, as I knew I would never be able to sleep on my own, and around 6 a.m., I passed out.
I awoke with a start at eleven the following morning, and walked into the living room to see the dogs that I threw out the night before. I kicked Linus Wang in the ribs, and punched Daisy Mae squarely in the face twice, drawing blood, and kicked them out the front door again. I should feel bad for abusing those animals, but I do not.
The torrential rainfall that day made it easier to dig the three foot hole that would become your grave, and the mud that is still caked underneath my fingernails will not likely be gone soon. Can't say I really care.
I buried you on the side of the house, underneath the third stone of the walkway. That was the stone you always sat on when you went outside occasionally. You would just sit there and look around, not doing anything, really, but always sure to come when I called for you.
Rebecca came over after school and laid a white rose on your grave and said some really nice things about your poor, tortured life. I know it doesn't mean shit to you, but it made me feel better, if not sadder. I couldn't say anything. I just littered your grave with guilty tears.
You didn't want to be in my room, so I didn't force you to, as I have many times over the last twelve months. I wanted you to be happy, and I didn't think a few hours left unattended would have me find you mauled to death on the kitchen floor by my roommate's vicious fucking dogs. I thought you kept them at bay. I know they were very mindful of your ferocity and dominance, at least while there were humans around. I thought you would be able to escape any imminent danger, especially as an agile feline against a couple of clumsy dogs. They must have cornered you, ran you down somehow. There were three of them, after all, and only one of you. I know Story did not do this to you, though I am sure she had a role in your tragic demise. You guys sleep right next to each other, and I know she never had any ill intent towards you. Sometimes she gently chased you while trying to sniff your butt, and other times she would aggravate you into giving her a few swipes on the nose after you grew wearisome of her incessant licking, but she never once growled or snapped at you. Those other fucking dogs have, though. And they've killed cats before.
I honestly had no idea that they would become so insane as to attack you, Bert. I really didn't. I guess that's what happens when your owner leaves town for nearly a month and doesn't do anything to care for you, short of having someone come over once a day to let you out for five minutes and dump some food in a bowl. I'm so sorry, Bert. I should've known better, but my hurriedness to get out the door after work must have clouded my judgment.
My guess is that you were sniffing and chewing at the plants in the living room, and maybe Story began playing with you, chasing you down the hall, which riled up the other dogs, at which point primal instinct took over. It doesn't matter.
What matters is that your last few moments on this earth were filled with sheer terror, and I did nothing to save you. I'm sure, loyal as you are, that until the very last second you were just waiting for me to come in and call off those fucking pieces of shit, even as you fought for dear life. What could you do? They couldn't have taken you on one-on-one, so one of the fucking cowards clamped down on your neck, suffocating you, while the other one bit at your stomach and back. I'm sure Story was around there somewhere too, barking either in protest or sadistic pleasure. There's no way to know.
The horrible irony is that what I said before virtually came true, body positioning and all. I'm still having a hard time considering the implications of it all, but it does seem to fit in quite resoundingly with the rest of my life, and I am so deeply sorry that you became yet another example. You spent the first years of your life grossly mistreated, and then for a while, you lived a somewhat normal life. You were loved very much by both Rebecca and I, and the love and appreciation you showed in return was unequalled by any pet I have either had or known. You truly were a unique being.
When I came home around two a.m. and found you lying on the kitchen floor, I gasped and yelled in horror and fell to my knees to check to see if you were okay. Your eyes were open in terror, and I cradled your head, the only part of you that was still dry and unharmed, and attempted to check your pulse. I couldn't find one, but I don't know that I'd be able to even if you had had one. Your body was still warm as I frantically pet and talked to you, and called my girlfriend and roused her out of bed with my crying hysterics. A small part of me believes that a small part of you was still alive when I found you, as if waiting to fully let go until you could see me and feel my touch just once more, because ten minutes later, your body was no longer warm, and your extremities had begun to stiffen. I could be wrong and simply deluding myself as we humans are wont to do when it comes to dealing with loved one's passings, but you don't mind, do you?
Minutes passed and I became enraged. I alternated between storming through the house, destroying doors and kicking the dogs and laying on the ground with you, pleading for your life. I assure you, Bert, that any terror you might have felt in your final moments was multiplied tenfold in the dogs. I don't think they thought they were going to make it out alive. Story was mortified. I put her in her cage while I mercilessly beat the others. She was shaking so hard that the door of her cage rattled as I threw the murderers outside. She hasn't been the same since. For the first day after your death, she would not leave my bedroom, even to go outside. Even now, she is wandering throughout the house, whining for no reason. She was truly affected. She misses you.
When my vengeful rage had finally passed and my breathing returned to normal, I wrapped your wet, broken body in a red towel and cradled you in my arms, trying my best to close your eyes, though they would not. I held you, a body heavier now with the weight of death, just like I did the first night I got you, about two years ago, now- wrapped in a towel, pressed tightly against my chest. The first night I did this was to comfort you. The last night I did this was to comfort me.
Soon, Rebecca came over and sat on the floor with me while I kissed your nose and blubbered tearful admissions of guilt, responsibility and memory. Later, I placed you inside a box, along with your food bowl full of Deli-Cat, the towel you always sat on while eating, and a plastic sack. I placed you up high, on a speaker cabinet, so the dogs wouldn't get to you again, if they came back, that is.
Rebecca gave me a sleeping pill, at my behest, as I knew I would never be able to sleep on my own, and around 6 a.m., I passed out.
I awoke with a start at eleven the following morning, and walked into the living room to see the dogs that I threw out the night before. I kicked Linus Wang in the ribs, and punched Daisy Mae squarely in the face twice, drawing blood, and kicked them out the front door again. I should feel bad for abusing those animals, but I do not.
The torrential rainfall that day made it easier to dig the three foot hole that would become your grave, and the mud that is still caked underneath my fingernails will not likely be gone soon. Can't say I really care.
I buried you on the side of the house, underneath the third stone of the walkway. That was the stone you always sat on when you went outside occasionally. You would just sit there and look around, not doing anything, really, but always sure to come when I called for you.
Rebecca came over after school and laid a white rose on your grave and said some really nice things about your poor, tortured life. I know it doesn't mean shit to you, but it made me feel better, if not sadder. I couldn't say anything. I just littered your grave with guilty tears.
The worst pain comes in knowing that in just three days, I will be moving to a new house free of vicious dogs and busy roads- a new place where I planned to let you run around outside as much as you wanted, free from the limitations of a small bedroom. We almost made it.
I'm so sorry, Bert.
Bert the Cat
??-February 23, 2006
I'm so sorry, Bert.
Bert the Cat
??-February 23, 2006
Rest in peace, Baby B.
Love,
Jonathan and Rebecca[in absentia]
Thursday, February 23, 2006
People have no fucking honor anymore.
Out of the now five wrecks that my car (see almost every other post on this forsaken blog) has been involved in, I have been present (by which I mean actually in my car) for only two, neither of which were my fault. The only one that could possibly be construed as my fault was the time I was hit by a future co-worker, as I might have cut her off. But, we all know what the law says when it comes to a rear-ending. Besides, she told me later that she was looking at a Bennigan's across the road to see if any of her friends were there. Nonetheless, she never accepted any blame for the accident.
Three months after I purchased my car, I walked out on New Year's Day to find a nice dent in the hood of my car, apropos of nothing. Yes, I had been out drinking the night before, but I know, without fail, that I never hit anything. But- no note, no nothing. Just a nice dent and chipped paint that would've cost over $2,000 to repair as two seperate panels would need to be replaced. So, over the last three years, the dent has gone unrepaired, and a nice bit of rust has formed where there was once a nice coat of paint. Fine.
And then today happened. Leaving the grocery store after buying cat and dog food, cat litter and hot dog buns (that's how I shop), what do I see, but a huge fucking dent over the back wheel well of the driver's side of my car (incidentally, the same side as the other hit-and-run awesomeness). Sure, parking lot accidents happen all the time. I marvelled at the fact that I had not even been in the store for more than five minutes, literally. Then I had a clearly moronic thought: 'I'll walk to the front of my car and check the windshield. Surely whoever did this knew what they'd done and left me a note with their insurance information or something.' Boy, am I an idiot.
This was the point that I realized that the car that was parked next to me was the same car that I pulled in next to. How could this have happened? Then I realized that this heinous act of negligence and purposeful denial was most likely perpetrated by the painters and carpenters who have been repairing the house next door over the past month. All have white trucks, and, oh yeah, did I mention the nice streak of white paint on the dent?
It doesn't matter. I'm sure, though I'm exhausting all avenues, that I'll never find out who did this. The damage does not affect the way the car drives, and I assume that even if I were compensated monetarily for the damage inflicted on my car I wouldn't use it to repair the dent. I'd likely put it towards some other matter more pressing.
But that's not the fucking point.
Cowards! The whole lot of us, goddamn cowards. Everyone is so fearful of losing one more dollar or being unnecessarily sued in this horrendously litigious society of ours that common decency, basic human courtesy, has flown right out the window that some asshole left open, even after being told repeatedly not to.
Hey, if I smashed into someone's car, I would be tempted to just drive off as well. Especially during the times that I haven't had insurance. But I wouldn't. I'd leave a note with my number on it or a funny cartoon or something. Something. Anything. I can say this because I know, categorically, that this will likely not ever happen to me because I am an attentive and responsible driver.
Why not be a stand-up dude (or broad) and own up to your mistakes? I don't want your money, but an apology would be nice. Ever consider that?
This post sucks. I know it. I don't care. Ranting on the internet is stupid, but I didn't go to the bar tonight, and so therefore I had no casual acquaintance to unload the full extent of my social commentary onto. All I want is for people to cease to be so frightened of their money and start fearing what it is that really needs fearing: ME, when, as a big pussy, you speed away when you make a mistake.
You fucking pukes. You know who you are.
Three months after I purchased my car, I walked out on New Year's Day to find a nice dent in the hood of my car, apropos of nothing. Yes, I had been out drinking the night before, but I know, without fail, that I never hit anything. But- no note, no nothing. Just a nice dent and chipped paint that would've cost over $2,000 to repair as two seperate panels would need to be replaced. So, over the last three years, the dent has gone unrepaired, and a nice bit of rust has formed where there was once a nice coat of paint. Fine.
And then today happened. Leaving the grocery store after buying cat and dog food, cat litter and hot dog buns (that's how I shop), what do I see, but a huge fucking dent over the back wheel well of the driver's side of my car (incidentally, the same side as the other hit-and-run awesomeness). Sure, parking lot accidents happen all the time. I marvelled at the fact that I had not even been in the store for more than five minutes, literally. Then I had a clearly moronic thought: 'I'll walk to the front of my car and check the windshield. Surely whoever did this knew what they'd done and left me a note with their insurance information or something.' Boy, am I an idiot.
This was the point that I realized that the car that was parked next to me was the same car that I pulled in next to. How could this have happened? Then I realized that this heinous act of negligence and purposeful denial was most likely perpetrated by the painters and carpenters who have been repairing the house next door over the past month. All have white trucks, and, oh yeah, did I mention the nice streak of white paint on the dent?
It doesn't matter. I'm sure, though I'm exhausting all avenues, that I'll never find out who did this. The damage does not affect the way the car drives, and I assume that even if I were compensated monetarily for the damage inflicted on my car I wouldn't use it to repair the dent. I'd likely put it towards some other matter more pressing.
But that's not the fucking point.
Cowards! The whole lot of us, goddamn cowards. Everyone is so fearful of losing one more dollar or being unnecessarily sued in this horrendously litigious society of ours that common decency, basic human courtesy, has flown right out the window that some asshole left open, even after being told repeatedly not to.
Hey, if I smashed into someone's car, I would be tempted to just drive off as well. Especially during the times that I haven't had insurance. But I wouldn't. I'd leave a note with my number on it or a funny cartoon or something. Something. Anything. I can say this because I know, categorically, that this will likely not ever happen to me because I am an attentive and responsible driver.
Why not be a stand-up dude (or broad) and own up to your mistakes? I don't want your money, but an apology would be nice. Ever consider that?
This post sucks. I know it. I don't care. Ranting on the internet is stupid, but I didn't go to the bar tonight, and so therefore I had no casual acquaintance to unload the full extent of my social commentary onto. All I want is for people to cease to be so frightened of their money and start fearing what it is that really needs fearing: ME, when, as a big pussy, you speed away when you make a mistake.
You fucking pukes. You know who you are.
Monday, February 20, 2006
This one's for John.
A = 2nd (1-23)
A = 3rd (24-46)
First Place wins a prize.
_________________
Forsooth and truly, it is fine to admonish the weak- they bask in their own glory; they mate without "achtung," to borrow a word, and feeling is nothing more than attachment to phony, peasantine ideals. Our crass, yet passive and unemotional acceptance of this ignominy comes as no surprise, given the state of the system we currently find ourselves in. Should one ask oneself the all-important question (hah! Quite unlikely, we may only asssume...), failing, after all, our Byzantine predecessors who, at the time, though proficient in Middle aged bedding, drew, nonetheless, very inaccurate conclusions about human interaction, still were able to accept the one thought we've assuaged ourselves from for so long: Will absenteeism absolve Every Day Man from the beauty- the blasphemy- of care and loyalty? Verily, he must begin anew.
A = 3rd (24-46)
First Place wins a prize.
_________________
Forsooth and truly, it is fine to admonish the weak- they bask in their own glory; they mate without "achtung," to borrow a word, and feeling is nothing more than attachment to phony, peasantine ideals. Our crass, yet passive and unemotional acceptance of this ignominy comes as no surprise, given the state of the system we currently find ourselves in. Should one ask oneself the all-important question (hah! Quite unlikely, we may only asssume...), failing, after all, our Byzantine predecessors who, at the time, though proficient in Middle aged bedding, drew, nonetheless, very inaccurate conclusions about human interaction, still were able to accept the one thought we've assuaged ourselves from for so long: Will absenteeism absolve Every Day Man from the beauty- the blasphemy- of care and loyalty? Verily, he must begin anew.
Can the media really report this with confidence?
Philippine landslide village buries bodies and hope.
Sun Feb 19, 2006 9:19 PM ET
Just wondering. Seems like it'd be hard to prove that last bit. I could be wrong. Unless 'hope' is the name of one of the bodies- y'know, a special body that doesn't get lumped in with all the rest of the 'bodies.' Like, maybe the mayor or something. Or whatever you call the person that resides over a couple hundred thatch huts.
Sun Feb 19, 2006 9:19 PM ET
Just wondering. Seems like it'd be hard to prove that last bit. I could be wrong. Unless 'hope' is the name of one of the bodies- y'know, a special body that doesn't get lumped in with all the rest of the 'bodies.' Like, maybe the mayor or something. Or whatever you call the person that resides over a couple hundred thatch huts.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Invocation.
According to my many satisfied customers, the following invocation of The Muse has been known to aid in decreasing blockage, whether it be of the writerly, colonic, colonical, or paved roadway type. Feel free to use it at your leisure. My humblest wish is that it aids you in all of your various endeavors, whatever they may be. And that you'll send me fabulous wads of cash for my work.
Invocation of The Muse.
O, gentle, gentle Muse of One Thousand Graces, bestow upon me Your Greatest Treasure, a Gift akin only to the Likeness of Your Most Precious Countenance- a Gift that, upon receipt, sends Grateful Tears streaking down one's dirty, pock-marked Face, forming Tributaries and Eddies of Salted Water on one's Cheeks and Chins, much like the Rise of the Euphrates and the Rhone after the Onslaught of Highly Prayed Rain Recarves the Parched Countryside, as Cool and Refreshing as a Soothing Mint Libation in the Deadliest of Summer Heat, A Heat Most Hot!, a Heat Hotter than Vesuvius' Lava itself, and Replenishes the Scorched Land, more Scorched than an Eight-Score Desert Traveler, with dense and luscious Vegetation such as to provide Sustenance to its' People for the Entire Season; Such are one's tears upon Receipt of Your Magnificent Gift. I mustneeds beseech Your illuminous Gift, that I may be most Graciously Blessed to regale but a Fraction of That which I shall undoubtedly experience in My Sojourn into the Great Unknown, The Dentist's Office, The Voting Booth, The Backseat Of His Car, The Spidery Garage, The Library where All the Homeless Hang Out, The Rapey Junkyard to replace a Wheel Cover that Costs maybe $5 more at Auto Zone, The Sears to Replace a Broken Vanity Mirror that Shattered when Inflamed Passion towards My Seethingly Curious and Annoying Cat directed my Hand to Loose Itself of the Nearly Empty Can of Spirits in the Vicinity of My Feline's nosey Paws, or The Spidery Backseat of That Homeless Man's Junked Out Van. This I beseech You, O Muse.
Invocation of The Muse.
O, gentle, gentle Muse of One Thousand Graces, bestow upon me Your Greatest Treasure, a Gift akin only to the Likeness of Your Most Precious Countenance- a Gift that, upon receipt, sends Grateful Tears streaking down one's dirty, pock-marked Face, forming Tributaries and Eddies of Salted Water on one's Cheeks and Chins, much like the Rise of the Euphrates and the Rhone after the Onslaught of Highly Prayed Rain Recarves the Parched Countryside, as Cool and Refreshing as a Soothing Mint Libation in the Deadliest of Summer Heat, A Heat Most Hot!, a Heat Hotter than Vesuvius' Lava itself, and Replenishes the Scorched Land, more Scorched than an Eight-Score Desert Traveler, with dense and luscious Vegetation such as to provide Sustenance to its' People for the Entire Season; Such are one's tears upon Receipt of Your Magnificent Gift. I mustneeds beseech Your illuminous Gift, that I may be most Graciously Blessed to regale but a Fraction of That which I shall undoubtedly experience in My Sojourn into the Great Unknown, The Dentist's Office, The Voting Booth, The Backseat Of His Car, The Spidery Garage, The Library where All the Homeless Hang Out, The Rapey Junkyard to replace a Wheel Cover that Costs maybe $5 more at Auto Zone, The Sears to Replace a Broken Vanity Mirror that Shattered when Inflamed Passion towards My Seethingly Curious and Annoying Cat directed my Hand to Loose Itself of the Nearly Empty Can of Spirits in the Vicinity of My Feline's nosey Paws, or The Spidery Backseat of That Homeless Man's Junked Out Van. This I beseech You, O Muse.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Thursday, February 09, 2006
If you will..
...Imagine a broke-ass Alice Cooper meeting a newly rich Kip Winger. Close your eyes. Got it?
Enter:
Yeah, I thought this. So what?! Like all living, breathing things, I am a sexual creature! I am also an artist, and making comparisons between things is something that comes naturally to me! And no, imagining the flagpole as a dick is not a common occurrence for me, but sometimes things pop up! Fuck you!
Like I care what you people think anyway.. My half-brother, Richard Marx (yeah, remember him, assholes? 'Endless Summer Nights' is the only reason half of you got laid after prom!) said my video is awesome. So, go ahead and criticize me, you bunch of terrorists. Fucking jerks.
Now, click here and watch my video. Um... please.
Enter:
Yeah, I thought this. So what?! Like all living, breathing things, I am a sexual creature! I am also an artist, and making comparisons between things is something that comes naturally to me! And no, imagining the flagpole as a dick is not a common occurrence for me, but sometimes things pop up! Fuck you!
Like I care what you people think anyway.. My half-brother, Richard Marx (yeah, remember him, assholes? 'Endless Summer Nights' is the only reason half of you got laid after prom!) said my video is awesome. So, go ahead and criticize me, you bunch of terrorists. Fucking jerks.
Now, click here and watch my video. Um... please.Sunday, February 05, 2006
Three Cases.
I hesitate to write this, seeing as the last thing I wrote related to my car was soundly defeated by a pop-tart, but considering I spend probably eighty per cent of my time in said car, it stands to reason that many of my experiences-turned-hilarious-anecdotes would stem from my decadent participation in our fossil fuel driven economy. If you are bored or unentertained by my usage of my vehicle as a delivery system for poor jokes, bad stereotypes or split infinitives, I suggest you click off the offending page now, head over to the nearest reference library, discover who coined and popularized the term "Write what you know," and spend the rest of your days searching for his or her tombstone so as to litter it with graffiti and flown middle fingers. And piss, too. That'd be good. Don't bother sending me emails or comments housing your complaints. My solipsistic leanings have instructed me to simply not care.
1. The Case of The Forgotten Accident.
A few months ago, I was driving to Guitar Center with my friend Steve, when, upon changing lanes perhaps too hastily on a very busy street, we found ourselves rear-ended. While we were driving about 30 mph, the offender couldn't have been going more than 40-45 mph. So, it was a minor accident. Not to see Steve's reaction, though. He jumped as violently as I imagine he would if I intentionally ran down two pairs of beauty pageant triplets. Maybe his reaction was not so out of place. Maybe mine was. You see, this marked the third time I had been rear-ended in this car. Once, my girlfriend hit it in my driveway (I admit that I was not in my car when this happened. I was in hers.). Then, a stoned teenage gangster hit me at a light, whereupon he threatened to "beat my ass" when I told his annoying, yelly sister to "shut the fuck up." And so now, this. No big deal. I told Steve to stop freaking out and pulled over into a Michelin Tire. Steve cited previous back problems as the reasoning behind his outlandish reaction, and so the subject was dropped.
I surveyed the damage and asked the young woman who hit me if she was alright. But, probably in the reverse order. She was fine, and her car had little to no damage. My rear fender, already scratched, was a bit more scuffed now, and part of the right side had popped out a little- something I could easily fix had I the wherewithal to do such things. I don't, and so it hasn't been yet. Of course, the police were not called. I gathered the girl's insurance information and told her I'd call her if I decided to report it. I had already decided, however- not having insurance myself at the time, I felt it would be unfair to tarnish her driving record and hike up her insurance rates for such a petty accident, and, had the situation been reversed (even though that would never happen, since I am an impeccable driver), I would hope she would do the same. Especially since she wouldn't have had a choice.. *ahem* We went our separate ways, an inconsequential bumping on an inconsequential day.
And that, as they say, was that.
A few days ago, one of the girls who I have worked with at the pizza hole for nearly four months now was relating past experiences of waiting on people at Denny's to me. I said, "Oh, maybe that's where I know you from, 'cause I swear you look familiar to me." That's when she said, "No, you wanna know where you know me from? I can tell you exactly. Remember that time you got rear-ended?"
"That was you?! Why haven't you said anything about that this whole time?"
"I dunno," she said.
Well, that shut me up.
2. The Case of The Nearly-Decade-Old-Lame-Thing-To-Do-To-Someone-If-You-Are-A-Fucking-Asshole.
Not much explanation is needed for this. But, let me paint the scene: Driving home from the dog park last week with my sweet hound, Story (she's not really a hound), windows down, radio up, tongues slapping various things as we roamed the freeway at 70mph (hers, the outside paint on the side of my car, mine, a soda, or possibly a cigarette, though I try to keep them as dry as possible when I use them), a warm southerly breeze drifting in and out of the car like so many ghosts, I took solace in knowing that I had just made my dog's day, even though nefarious, self-righteous pricks had unsuccessfully attempted to humiliate both her and I while at the dog park (explanation of this statement will be appearing here posthaste..) and that I would not be participating in waged slavery for at least 54 more minutes. I began exiting the freeway, as I am wont to do when the proper occasion presents itself. Then this happened.
Look! You can see my house from here!
That's right. Paintballs. Drive-by paintballing. Wow. Didn't that shit go out in like 1998?
3.The Case of the Forbidden Boob.
While I wasn't in my car during the following story, it is sure that had I not owned a car, I certainly wouldn't have found myself in Como, one of the supposed ghettos of Ft. Worth (frankly, it's a lot nicer than some of the neighborhoods I've lived in), standing inside the house of a freshly showered woman who was blasting gospel music. Wearing nothing but a loose-fitting robe, the woman bent over to sign a credit card slip, and pop!, out comes a breast. While making a small attempt to pull her robe over the exposed no-no, it is clear that she was either a) clearly comfortable with her body and did not mind exposing it to bearded strangers or, b) hoping I would look at it, because the small movement of fabric did nothing to cover the escaped pouch of flesh. So, I looked at it, that's all. Not sexually or anything- just a look. A curious extended glance, a perhaps shared understanding between the two of us, nothing more. What was I supposed to do?! Then she gave me a very generous $5 tip. And a handjob.
1. The Case of The Forgotten Accident.
A few months ago, I was driving to Guitar Center with my friend Steve, when, upon changing lanes perhaps too hastily on a very busy street, we found ourselves rear-ended. While we were driving about 30 mph, the offender couldn't have been going more than 40-45 mph. So, it was a minor accident. Not to see Steve's reaction, though. He jumped as violently as I imagine he would if I intentionally ran down two pairs of beauty pageant triplets. Maybe his reaction was not so out of place. Maybe mine was. You see, this marked the third time I had been rear-ended in this car. Once, my girlfriend hit it in my driveway (I admit that I was not in my car when this happened. I was in hers.). Then, a stoned teenage gangster hit me at a light, whereupon he threatened to "beat my ass" when I told his annoying, yelly sister to "shut the fuck up." And so now, this. No big deal. I told Steve to stop freaking out and pulled over into a Michelin Tire. Steve cited previous back problems as the reasoning behind his outlandish reaction, and so the subject was dropped.
I surveyed the damage and asked the young woman who hit me if she was alright. But, probably in the reverse order. She was fine, and her car had little to no damage. My rear fender, already scratched, was a bit more scuffed now, and part of the right side had popped out a little- something I could easily fix had I the wherewithal to do such things. I don't, and so it hasn't been yet. Of course, the police were not called. I gathered the girl's insurance information and told her I'd call her if I decided to report it. I had already decided, however- not having insurance myself at the time, I felt it would be unfair to tarnish her driving record and hike up her insurance rates for such a petty accident, and, had the situation been reversed (even though that would never happen, since I am an impeccable driver), I would hope she would do the same. Especially since she wouldn't have had a choice.. *ahem* We went our separate ways, an inconsequential bumping on an inconsequential day.
And that, as they say, was that.
A few days ago, one of the girls who I have worked with at the pizza hole for nearly four months now was relating past experiences of waiting on people at Denny's to me. I said, "Oh, maybe that's where I know you from, 'cause I swear you look familiar to me." That's when she said, "No, you wanna know where you know me from? I can tell you exactly. Remember that time you got rear-ended?"
"That was you?! Why haven't you said anything about that this whole time?"
"I dunno," she said.
Well, that shut me up.
2. The Case of The Nearly-Decade-Old-Lame-Thing-To-Do-To-Someone-If-You-Are-A-Fucking-Asshole.
Not much explanation is needed for this. But, let me paint the scene: Driving home from the dog park last week with my sweet hound, Story (she's not really a hound), windows down, radio up, tongues slapping various things as we roamed the freeway at 70mph (hers, the outside paint on the side of my car, mine, a soda, or possibly a cigarette, though I try to keep them as dry as possible when I use them), a warm southerly breeze drifting in and out of the car like so many ghosts, I took solace in knowing that I had just made my dog's day, even though nefarious, self-righteous pricks had unsuccessfully attempted to humiliate both her and I while at the dog park (explanation of this statement will be appearing here posthaste..) and that I would not be participating in waged slavery for at least 54 more minutes. I began exiting the freeway, as I am wont to do when the proper occasion presents itself. Then this happened.
Look! You can see my house from here!
That's right. Paintballs. Drive-by paintballing. Wow. Didn't that shit go out in like 1998?
3.The Case of the Forbidden Boob.
While I wasn't in my car during the following story, it is sure that had I not owned a car, I certainly wouldn't have found myself in Como, one of the supposed ghettos of Ft. Worth (frankly, it's a lot nicer than some of the neighborhoods I've lived in), standing inside the house of a freshly showered woman who was blasting gospel music. Wearing nothing but a loose-fitting robe, the woman bent over to sign a credit card slip, and pop!, out comes a breast. While making a small attempt to pull her robe over the exposed no-no, it is clear that she was either a) clearly comfortable with her body and did not mind exposing it to bearded strangers or, b) hoping I would look at it, because the small movement of fabric did nothing to cover the escaped pouch of flesh. So, I looked at it, that's all. Not sexually or anything- just a look. A curious extended glance, a perhaps shared understanding between the two of us, nothing more. What was I supposed to do?! Then she gave me a very generous $5 tip. And a handjob.
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