Man with camouflage hat and beergut.
He will be wearing jeans.
He bowls regularly and knows his average.
He drives a pick-up truck. The possibility that it is also camouflaged is 70%. It does have a gun rack and a cartoon drawing of Calvin pissing on his truck’s main competitor’s logo. He’s feels passionate about his truck’s superiority in the American market.
He owns a confederate flag, and proudly has it displayed somewhere. Even if it’s only his living room.
He finds Jeff Foxworthy insightful and hilarious and often compares himself to Hank Hill.
He has pissed in a sink more often than you’d think reasonable.
Most of his hobbies involve killing animals or fish.
He voted straight republican on account of the blacks and queers.
He has been in the emergency room for both firework and beer can related injuries.
He calls his wife his Ol’ Lady.
His Ol’ Lady gets violent on the hard stuff.
He doesn’t quite know how he feels about the International Monetary Fund but he doesn’t think he likes it.
He is a premillennial dispensationalist but has never heard the phrase and wouldn’t know what it meant if he did.
He suffers a deep seated sense of inadequacy around people who are outside of his social standing/circle and tries to cover it with racism and lawyer jokes. Mostly learned from the Redneck Comedy Tour featuring Jeff Foxworthy.
Girl in Prius with Yoga bumper stickers
She presents a serene, slightly ambivalent face to the world but if you happen to make her angry, especially during her Colon Cleanse *With Acai Berry® week, she’ll turn all poltergeist and destroy you and everything you hold dear.
She fancies herself more enlightened than the masses and can’t help but feel a sense of superiority, even though she knows that she’s not supposed to. She hates camo hat guy and secretly daydreams about breaking his jaw with a new move she learned in Yoga Boot Camp® class.
She listens to a lot of PBS and Radio Active even though it sometimes goes over her head and other times bores her to death.
She talks about ‘cashing out’ one day, buying a yurt and living like the ancients in the wilderness. But she never will since nature itself doesn’t have nearly the selection as Natures Finest®.
She’s passionate about sustainability.
She either has a Reiki session or a Reiki class scheduled for this week.
She knows that The Secret® is mass produced, intellectually vapid drivel but she still practices the Laws of Attraction® because the basic premise is right on.
Her tramp stamp is the infinity symbol.
She named her dog Deepak and tells people that it’s part wolf. She’s lying.
Guy in an Ed Hardy t-shirt
He’s a douchebag.
He’s also a tool.
Guy in ridiculous pajama pants because real person pants no longer fit him.
He owns two MMA style shirts and 3 Ed Hardy shirts but only wears them on special occasions.
He spends most of his mental energy planning and fine tuning his nutritional regime. He’ll be more than happy to tell you all about it.
He spends most of his money on steroids and supplements.
He can’t walk by a shiny surface without making his pecs jiggle.
When a good looking couple walks by he checks out the guy. Only to re-assure himself that he’s bigger and/or more cut.
He’s definitely, totally, not gay at all.
He’ll fucking kick your ass if you even suggest it.
He’d probably let you suck his dick though.
Because that’s not really gay.
Dear Old Men Ball Danglers at the Gym,
I go to the Y because it’s cheap and gritty. I like cheap and gritty. I hate those yuppie gyms with sparkling chrome and polished leather equipment that no one uses because no one is there because everyone is terrified of their hard sell and their tight shirts and their perfect hair. I go to the Y because I like cheap and gritty. I like to see some handicap people around, giving it their all. I enjoy my conversations with drug dealers and gang bangers. It’s inspiring to see the homeless coming in; sure, I have to watch that the crackhead doesn’t steal my stuff and watch that the elderly alcoholic doesn’t spill his beer, or piss, or whatever the hell is in that gallon *water* bottle. These are my peoples. I’m like Jesus in that way. I love the street and the flotsam and jetsam that get washed in with it. I like cheap and gritty, I like the Y.
What I can not abide, however, are you, the Old Men Ball Dangler Brigade. When I’m getting dressed in the corner of the locker room, keeping my eyes on the crackhead who just wandered in and is methodically searching for an unlocked locker, and you choose to dry off right next to me and you swing your leg up on the bench and everything just comes alive right before my eyes, dangling and swinging and twisting and bouncing and undulating and pulsing I feel kind of sick. I don’t appreciate it when you run your towel up your leg and one, lone, testical escapes like an orbital, fleshy Shawshank Redemption. I don’t like that.
I don’t like when I’m working out and one of you begins stretching or performing an ill advised exercise on nautilus equipment wearing too short shorts and I’m forced to witness a pink, veiny ball of soup working its way down your leg.
I hate when I’m in the sauna, donning the appropriate swimwear as clearly indicated on the easy to read signs, and you saunter in like John Wayne, lie down and de-towel yourself, revealing a lack of appropriate swimwear and a horrific lesson in physics and gravity.
Dear Obviously Gay Guy at the Gym,
I’m not at all interested in your nutritional regime. Also, although I tend to stare at balls, I’m not gay. At all. Sorry. If you really need a blow job, you could probably work something out with Crackhead.
Dear Lottery Clerk,
Please stop asking me if I also want to play my numbers in the afternoon draw or if I’d like to play the Powerball. I’m a
gambling junkie, I can’t say no. What if I say no and the guy behind me wins and I have to come back and kill every mother fucker in the store?
Dear Bureaucrat Who Came up with the Afternoon Draw,
Dear Casey Anthony,
That was kind of a bitch move. You make me yearn for the innocent days of my youth when I still believed in heaven, hell and some form of ultimate justice. Sadly, that’s not the way things work. But, given that you still live here in Florida there’s a very good chance that you’ll die a violent and horrible death just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like a crackhouse on a Friday night or Wal-Mart on check day.
Also, if I see you I’m going to be all passive aggressive because I’m gangster like that.
Dear Michele Bachmann,
If you win and turn this country into a Christian theocracy, I’m going to be nice to Casey Anthony just to spite you. I’ll also be on the first plane to Costa Rica.
Since Monday countless Americans, and presumably people from other countries as well (I’m not sure because I don’t know how to check) were raptured as Jesus began his second coming round-up. For thousands of years, or at least since 1830, many Christians have believed that Jesus was going to descend from heaven to rapture his church. Jesus’ church is generally considered anyone who professes their faith and love in the lord and is white, protestant and republican and owns at least one horrific winter sweater. Most had assumed that the rapture would be an instantaneous, co-ordinated event, but so far it looks like it’s going to be a long process, at least based on the early pattern.
The loved ones who have been left behind by those missing are predictably remorseful. Norma Jean Druitt, widow of William ‘Buck’ Druitt issued the following statement to the media: “On Wednesday night we went to our separate bedrooms, him being a Leno man and me not being sexually attracted to him in the least and when I got up Thursday morning he’d been raptured away. The only things left in his rooms were his bible, dentures, bedclothes and body. But ol’ Bill was gone, any fool could tell that. All those years that bastard went on and on bout Jesus… I shoulda listened.”
The Druitt’s weren’t the only ones caught up in this strange, supernatural phenomenon that swept the country however. Sharon Pearson watched as her husband was raptured right before her eyes. “One minute he was ranting on about George Soros and the anti-Semitic Semitic progressive socialist movement and drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper and the next he was grabbing at his chest as if in love, and acknowledging Jesus’ presence by saying, “Oh Jesus Oh Jesus Owwww Shit.” Then he fell down on his face and was…. gone, just gone.”
Most Christians had erroneously believed that when they were raptured they’d be taken bodily to heaven, getting to avoid the reality of a physical death, but they were wrong, dead wrong, in all but a few mysterious cases. In one such instance a teenager, staying with his slutty girlfriend in a creepy little cabin deep in the woods told the slut that he’d heard a strange noise ‘out there’ and was ‘going to check it out.’
Coincidentally, the only other instances where the body was also physically raptured were all preceded by a cryptic message uttered from the soon-to-be rapturee the last time they were seen.
“I’ll bet you five dollars I can swim across this fucker.”
“There seems to be something stuck in the wood chipper Matty, let me call you back.”
And, “Dude, have you ever mixed Ketamine with PCP?”
Were all among last words uttered by the vanished.
In the strangest case of all, the man who made himself rich and famous by wrongly predicting the rapture in both 1994 and May 2011, and who subsequently re-re-prophesized the event for October 2011 has been partially raptured. It seems only the right side of his face and partial use of his right arm and penis were raptured.
PS- I know that you guys are probably getting tired of all the rapture all the time on this blog so I swear this is the last one. Unless, you know… something comes up.
PPS- Everything that I have against modern/right wing Christianity is perfectly exemplified in this one thread. I may make fun of Camping and others but these good Jesus people are just orgasmic that he had a stroke. They are the epitome of unconsious evil. And schadenfreude.
Three weeks ago we enrolled The Puppy into an obedience course held at the local municipal center. Aside from the occasional screeching wife beater or flighty crackhead being hauled into the police station it’s a lovely location, right on serene waters of the Gulf. There is a skateboard park only fifty feet away which, while distracting and frightening to my ADD addled, easily startled dog, serves as a constant reminder that I’m younger and cooler than the rest of the people in dog training school. While they often glance over with irritation and distaste, I watch the hip youngsters with the admiration of shared athleticism, knowing that I could top their daredevil antics provided I had enough OxyContin in my system and Icy-Hot on my back. I also fucking love it when they fall down and get hurt.
The woman who runs the class, Sarah, reminds me of myself because, while she’s attractive, charming and well intentioned, she lacks focus and has the organizational skills of a pipe bomb. Her biggest character defect seems to be her late stage Alzheimer’s memory. Every Tuesday starts off the same, with a re-introduction of ourselves and our dogs, a re-writing of email addresses and phone numbers and a re-promise to send lesson plans and the recipe for the dog crack that we were given the first week but haven’t seen since. She gave us all a sample the first week and I’ve never seen a dog react to anything that wasn’t a dead animal covered in shit with such utter delight. It’s like how cats would react to catnip if the catnip had injured baby canaries and ecstasy mixed in with the green leafy stuff.
I can’t blame Sarah for her inability to remember names however, especially not with this class. There are four small, fluffy, white dogs: Bentley, Brady, Bella and Beasley. There is a large, dim witted Labrador named Buddy and an adorable Bulldog puppy named Bradley who stole Puppy’s thunder because he is actually puppy shaped. The two couples who own Bentley, Brady, Bella and Beasley are just as pedestrian, bland and Caucasian as their dogs. I can’t remember their names and can only assume them to be something like Brad and Betty and Bob and Buffy. Who cares? The point is that all eight of the vanilla looking, weak tea drinking, boring beings are interchangeable and easily forgotten.
Buddy’s owner looks like a younger Marge Schott. And when I say younger I mean not yet dead. But still pretty old. She shows up nicely buzzed and is hammered by the end of the class. She carries a large gray water bottle filled with something that causes her to grimace and shudder after every sip. The more she ‘rehydrates’ the more her New York accent comes out along with a disposition that progresses from surly to caustic. She also has a hard time with names and has taken to calling the men Buster, the women Honey and the dogs either Hey or God Damn it.
The owner of Bradley The Bulldog Puppy is a supersized black man with bulbous, bloodshot eyes and an easy smile. This is my kind of people and it’s him that I feel a kinship with, although I can’t remember his name. I want to say Bernard but that can’t be right.
Despite all the confusion, Puppy does quite well with instruction. She’s nervous and twitchy, especially around Marge Schott and Buddy but so far she’s managed to accomplish every task that she’s been taught. Especially after getting a taste of that canine crack the first week. After hearing Puppy’s Corpsey Cat story and witnessing for herself how nervous the dog actually is, Sarah treats Puppy like the ear taster in a special ed class. This culminates in both Puppy receiving special attention as well as having to sit out of some of the more difficult or anxiety producing tasks. We all must take care not to upset the ‘special student.’ All of this gives Puppy an undeserved air of accomplishment and pride that she wears like an oversized copper metal from one of those socialist sports competitions that give everyone a prize.
This last week we had to ‘Pass The Puppy,’ an exercise in which The Puppy was ironically excluded due to her neurotic nature. As Sarah explained Pass The Puppy, our dog, The Puppy, looked around expectantly for an instruction with the hope of doggy crack to follow. “Ok now pass Bucky(?) to Bennett(?) and Burt(?) to Belinda(?),” said Sarah, tilting her voice upward like an Australian and turning every pause into a question. While everyone looked around with confusion she told me to walk The Puppy around the outside of the loose circle. “Ok good, now pass Bitzi(?) to Bonner(?) and Bess(?) to Bambi(?),” Sarah continued. The eight Caucasians condescendingly grumbled that they didn’t know a Bitzi or a Bonner, Marge Schott swore and sipped and grimaced and shuddered and eyed my black buddy Bernard with suspicion all while The Puppy pranced around the outside of the chaotic circle with a false sense of accomplishment like a mildly retarded stallion and I stared wistfully into the distance, hoping that somebody took a header off the half pipe.
In my pre-rapture exuberance, I zigged when I should have zagged. And by zigged I mean I mainlined a *speedball* of Prozac and Ambien and died. So I guess I missed the rapture which didn’t occur anyway but I did get to see heaven and meet God so I think I’m slightly more Christiany than Harold Camping.
I woke up (from death) in a bright yellow kitchen. That’s probably what all those near death experience people see, a bright yellow paint job that catches the sun and is really hard on hung-over eyes. When I came to I was sitting at an enormous dining room table and in the grains of wood I could see all of creation, the true essence of time, and all that ever was and will be. I thought it was weird. Why would God put a dining room table in a kitchen? If God was this tacky then we must have gotten our sense of style and refinement from Satan. But none of that mattered, not in this kitchen. God was an elderly, ancient even, Italian woman, who only stopped cooking long enough to stand at the back door and smoke foul smelling cigarettes. At the table with me were 15 or so people, who were also dead. Some I recognized and some I didn’t. They constantly shifted and morphed into new sets of people. I saw Bin laden but he was in the time out chair so I didn’t get to chat with him.
In front of us were plates of the most delicious foods imaginable. When we were finished with one course, God would bring us another. She seemed generally happy but also seemed to feed off of our moods. When we’d laugh at something George Carlin said, she’d cackle and slap her thunderous hips. When Hitler or the apostle Paul would complain or act out, as they often did, she’d rush over and curse loudly, doing that thing with the back of her hand under her chin. Sometimes she’d hit one of us rather hard with a dish towel or wooden spoon, and it hurt like hell. Apparently God doesn’t know her own strength. The only other time she’d get truly angry is when one of us would push our plate away and beg off. She’d mumble “Mangiare di piu” and bring a cannoli and some espresso. If we still wouldn’t touch that then she’d turn into Samuel L Jackson and tell us that we’d better eat before she got motherfucking wrathy. Then we ate more. Except one time when Marvin Gaye said he was too high to eat anotherr bite. Then God/Samuel L Jackson shot him in the face. Then she turned back into Old Italian Woman God and blamed Samuel L Jackson, who wasn’t even there anymore, for making her shoot Marvin in the face. So God can be a little psychotic and delusional but only when she’s Samuel L Jackson. Besides, by the time the next course rolled around, Marvin was back like nothing had even happened. His appetite had improved drastically though.
Then God came over to me personally, bent over, kissed my cheek and slapped me really hard in the face and the next thing I knew I was alive again. Lying in a pool of my own urine in the back of a stolen Escalade. And no, it was NOT an Ambien based hallucination, it all really happened. I could tell because when I woke up I still had that cannoli taste in my mouth and my cheek was red and sore from God’s over zealous affection.
* I’m pretty sure Prozac and Ambien isn’t technically a speedball. But it’s still dangerous as shit. Obviously.
“…Be…u….ti…ful… friend” blares out from the speakers of my Cadillac Escalade in the parking lot of Mermaids, a strip club on St. Pete Beach. I hoover another line of blow and rig up another fix, my second in as many hours. I have more drugs, whatever anybody could want, in a duffle bag on the backseat. I have a nine millimeter tucked into my waist and an AR 15 on the floorboard. I’m ready like a motherfucker.
“…This is the end…”
I emptied my meagre savings account last week and bought a gun. I went to 34th and MLK and robbed a drug dealer. Then I went to Gulfport and robbed another couple men, hard. I shot a kid because he reached for his piece. Damn. I drove back home and tried to park but my Russian mafia neighbor had taken up two parking spaces with his obnoxious SUV. Again. I scribbled over a pizza menu with a Sharpie, left my car in the street and knocked on his door. When he answered I handed him the note. He read it, ‘Parking Enforcement’ and, just as his eyes narrowed with irritation and accusation, I pistol whipped him into a coma. I think. He was breathing but not moving. I think that’s like a coma? I took his car keys from his pocket and his wife’s vibrator from between the mattress and box springs. I was looking for money but when I saw that thing I impulsively took it. I’m kind of a klepto. And a freak. Apparently.
“No safety or surprise… the end.”
I haven’t been eating much but when I have it’s been double cheeseburgers with bacon and dipped in mayo. Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food to wash it down. I’m now only a few blocks from what was my happy home. It feels like miles. States. Countries away. I kissed my pets and stroked my wife goodbye and I’m not going back. I don’t want to see them suffer.
“…I’ll never look into your eyes… again.”
I’ve always promised myself that when the time came I’d go out in style. This is it. Drugs. Strippers. Scratch off lottery tickets. Maybe try anal sex with a small lavender vibrator. I have to work up a state of mind for a thing like that, I guess. The strippers are all willing to come out to the Cady and do a line or three but so far I haven’t had any luck convincing them that we should fuck like wild animals. Like vampires fuck on True Blood. Especially like that. It’s like these people don’t even care that we’re less than a week from the apocalypse.
When I found out that the animated corpse of Harold Camping not only predicted, but guaranteed, that the End of Days would begin on May 21st, I knew that it was time to party like it was 1999. Times a thousand. Like if Charlie Sheen and Lindsey Lohan had a baby and the baby celebrated its 21st birthday in Vegas on Kill a Hooker day which also coincided with a Red Bull promotion in the hotel he was staying. That’s how hard it’s time to party. Harold Camping has amassed 100 million dollars on the back of this prophesy so you know it’s got to be airtight.
“In a… desperate land.”
Now I just need to recruit a few like minded road warriors, preferably really good looking slutty women, to ride west with me on an apocalyptic crime spree ending at Camping’s front door. I plan to make him clear his throat at gunpoint before giving him a message to give to God from me. “Thanks for all the fish. And opiates. Mostly the opiates.” Then, after those retards get raptured, I’ll be sitting on a huge pile of cash. And weaponry. Those End Timers are big on the guns right? Or am I thinking of the Branch Davidians? I can never remember my cults. The gravel mouthed crypt keeper says that those left behind, us, that we’ll have to endure 153 days of torment by the antichrist. Beats seven years. Fire my old apocalypse attorney. It’s a huge win for America. We’ll finally be free of conservatives and Christian rock. This is going to be a huge adrenaline rush. I’m ecstatic. I think I’m ready to try the vibrator.
“It hurts to set you free.”
Now, I’m going to blast another line. Then, I’m going to take a shit in the frozen food isle of the grocery store across the street. I dislike the night manager. She accused me of assaulting her husband and stealing her vibrator. That lying bitch.
(This is) The End
PS- To the SPBPD. This was a purely satirical piece of fiction. Any dead drug dealers, pistol-whipped Russian citizenry, stolen Escalades, or piles of steaming shit in local grocery stores, if they do in fact exist, are purely coincidental.
PPS- The only thing funnier than this zombified enema, Camping, are all the ‘normal’ Christians losing their shit and saying how crazy he is because nobody knows when it’ll happen. But all the other stuff is totally going to happen. “Shiny mirror make scary.”
PPPS- Seriously though, how cool would it be if this did actually happened. If it does, meet me at the corner of Hollywood and Vine on May 22nd at 2am and we’ll go all Waterworld except we’ll be on land. And without Kevin Costner. I hope.
PPPPS- Anyone interested in a 5 inch, gently used, lavender vibrator, please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
“But you’ll *never* follow… me”
Too many of us possess the bluster, bravado and largesse necessary to be successful in the Pimp game but are sorely lacking when it comes to the nuts and bolts of the bizness; keeping a stable of healthy, happy, well trained hos. The results of this are as obvious as they are heartbreaking. Every day hundreds, even thousands, of hos are abandoned to fend for themselves, or, even more tragically, have to be put down. Most of these hos were never adequately trained and the fault lies squarely at the crocodile skinned boots of the bitch-ass pimp who never bothered to learn how to care for his hos.
Whether you are bringing home your very first bright eyed rookie or are still struggling with a stubborn but simple minded veteran, the approach you take always has to be the same, consistent. Your hos have to always know what to expect from you. You are their world and you have to be a motherfucking rock of stability if you can dig that. You always need to display calm, patient assertiveness because those bitches can smell fear the same way you can smell a twenty hidden all up a vagina. The trick is to gain their love and respect without causing them to fear you. A scared ho is a dangerous ho and a dangerous ho is apt to do all types of low-down rotten ruthless shit.
The trick is knowing exactly how to handle the many behavioural problems that crop up like unsightly lip herpes before they get out of hand like two has-beens with a thousand dollar royalty check and a motel room in the hood. With the proper schooling (that’s this) you’ll be able to calmly and effectively deal with these situations (like lip-herpes) before they get to the Bobby/Whitney stage (like lip-herpes on steroids. And when I say steroids I mean crack).
Potty Training Your Ho.
Many hos come from the Eastern Bloc or the Deep South, where their menfolk were too drunk and/or uneducated to teach them how to use the bathroom. The fastest and easiest way to train them is to just place them on the toilet every two hours, and especially every time they start looking antsy and sniffing at the carpet. If your ho is a malt liquor drinker you’ll have to increase that to every 30 minutes. When accidents do occur, never, ever smack them or rub their noses in it. This will only cause your ho to become neurotic about potty time and she’ll likely sneak off to drop a load under the pool table or in the walk-in hat closet. If your ho is already potty trained but backslides and begins piddling on the floor again, it may mean a bladder infection. If she suddenly drops a Steve Ducey on the bearskin rug, it may be that her grippers have gotten knocked loose by an overly zealous customer. Either way, handle your bizness and take her to a ho doctor as soon as you finish your drink.
A (Mostly) Drug Free Ho.
There was a time not long ago when it was considered acceptable to keep your ho stoned, tweaked and strung out. Oh how the pimp zeitgeist has changed. After the China White epidemic of the early 90’s when we had ho’s falling out left and right, I guess it was. Plus, we now know that drugs be making bitches ugly and crazy. The only exceptions are your longtime junkie hos. Even if they’re not physically addicted because you’ve been tricking them by giving them mostly water shots, you need to get them on methadone immediately. This is actually beneficial for you because you always know exactly where they’ll be at 7:30 in the morning. That’s why they call it liquid handcuffs. If you have an overly excitable ho, it’s ok to give her a Xanax, provided it doesn’t make her too lethargic to perform her ho’ly duties. After a long day of ho-ing you should allow them to enjoy alcohol, weed, or even a few lines of coke, if you feel they’re responsible enough to handle it without running around your bouncy moon room with a machete.
Bringing Home a New Ho.
When you bring home a brand new ho, you’re likely to have to deal with some unpleasant behaviour from your other hos. Some will show immediate aggression and may even scratch or bite, while others may revert back to old, unacceptable behaviours like piddling on the carpet. This is all perfectly natural; they are just feeling insecure about their new rank in an ever changing pack. Remember the basics and you’ll keep your bizness running like a well lubricated sex organ. Remember to walk through the front door first. This will show the other hos that you are still the alpha daddy. If any of your hos react negatively, just remain calm and with a strong, clear, dominant voice say any of the following, “Back, ho,” “Bitch please,” “Down,” and “Put your skirt back on now, please.” When they respond positively, immediately reward them with a shot of Patron or a blunt of your finest Hydro combined with a nice pat on the head. Positive reinforcement works every time!
Bitch don’t got your money/refuses to get your money.
This is obviously the most troublesome issue. Why else do we bother to get out of our 18 foot, heart-shaped beds and go through our byzantine routines just to get our fine asses presentable to run shit proper and take what’s motherfucking ours if our stupid ass bitch hos ain’t even going to make a goddamned effort? These are the times that’ll make you want to take out your AK and just start blasting motherfuckers. But you can’t make money off dead hos. Not for more than a few hours. So you need to man up and handle this like an adult. If done properly this will be the pinkest, fluffiest feather in your metaphorical hat. The feather and the hat are both real but I’m using the example metaphorically.
You can’t even give into the urge to go Ike Turner on that ass. You can’t even go Chris Brown, not anymore. That’s not the game son. You need to fuck her up… but with your mind. You need to mind-fuck her. Just walk away and act like you don’t care. Maybe sidle up to your other hos and laugh. She’ll instantly feel uncertain. Put word on the street that indie hos are being rounded up and forced to volunteer at Acorn and Planned Parenthood. She’ll be back in your loving embrace by the end of the week. And if not, you can just catch her at the methadone clinic on Monday morning. It always works out if you have a plan.
Remember that with the proper training and dedication your ho will be so much more than a decade long source of income, she’ll be your friend, lover, confidant and spades partner.
*For the purpose of simplicity I used the feminine for ho and the masculine for pimp but we all know that men can be hos (times, they are a changing motherfucker) and, as Jay-Z so eloquently pointed out, ladies IS pimps too. Just not usually.
For as long as I can remember Easter was my least favorite holiday. I’d much preferred every other Sunday of the year where I was free to roam the streets honing my unique awkwardness. I was never big on cheap, mass produced candy. I’d always try to prolong and savor the only thing I really loved, the peanut butter melt-a-way egg, by only eating a sliver or two a day but it would always magically disappear while I slept at night. My mom told me that was why it was called a melt-a-way egg; because if you didn’t eat it fast it would melt-a-way until in was ‘all gone’ but I always suspected she was using my fucking Easter chocolate as a coping mechanism. Probably for the guilt she felt at eating my Easter chocolate. Or maybe it had to do with her sex life. I try not to think too much about the whys.
It didn’t help that this was also the only time of the year that we had to go to church, a place that I never felt comfortable. I felt that at any moment, the pries,t or a gaggle of alter boys, or perhaps the statues themselves, were going to suddenly glare at me and point with shaking fingers, saying, “You!” as if they saw me steal that packet of gum or maybe saw what I made my GI JOE do to Princess Leia. They wouldn’t even blame her for being such a royal slut. Had I had any inclination of the maelstrom of future lawsuits coming against the RCC I would have confessed it all to the first priest I saw with a slight lisp and dressed as a pool boy. Would I shatter my youthful innocence and pimp out my own young ass for tens of millions? In retrospect, yes. Even without the retrospect, yes. I’ll do it right now if someone has 13 million for a 38 year old anal virgin. Seriously.
Even when I was young and naive and still held a modicum of respect for religion, I found the Easter story to be horrific, sad and completely incongruous. I could always get into Christmas, what with the eggnog and Rudolph and Frosty and lights and toys to open and the winter solstice to sacrifice a goat to and Christmas cards to check for money, but as far back as I remember I was freaked out by the eclectic mix of contradiction and weirdness that was thrown at me on the third Sunday in April.
Looking back I can see why; because this was the way that my young mind interpreted the Easter Story…..
The human race (they were all brown) was stuck in a rut and God was really sad that he kept having to send almost everybody who’d ever lived to be burnt up and tortured for eternity so he hatched a plan. He’d shoot his seed (I thought it was a watermelon seed) into a virgin’s stomach without defiling her. (Which I thought meant he didn’t get poop on her.) This also fulfilled ancient prophesy by allowing Jesus to have direct lineage to David without actually being related to David(wait what?) since Joseph didn’t get to put a watermelon seed in Mary’s belly.
Jesus did amazing things and helped all the people and shone his little light on me and everybody. He wrestled with Satan (managed by Bobby Heenan) in the desert and kicked his butt. Then Judas (also managed by Heenan) double crossed him by turning gay and trying to kiss his mouth. There was a big kerfuffle and when Bobby Heenan’s ear got cut off, Jesus felt bad so he agreed to go be tortured and murdered because he knew he was God so the prosecution wouldn’t be able to ‘make it stick.’
He was bullied and beaten (I’d imagined with a wooden spoon) for a long time and it was mean and horrible. Then the bad far-a-sees hung him up on my Uncle’s jewelry medallion thingy but it wasn’t gold it was wooden. Because nobody’s that rich. Then he hung there and died and everybody was really sad and crying. His friends took his body and put it in a cave with a bear. (I think I thought there was a bear in every cave?) Everybody went to look three days later but the body was all gone. (I remember that this made me want to steal a corpse, strangely.)
Jesus came back to life three days later but nobody believed him even though he still looked like Jesus. Then one of his friends stuck his finger in Jesus’ rib-hole, like some kinda sicko, and then everybody knew that it was really Jesus. Because if you can finger it, it’s supernaturally alive. (I still believe this.) Then everybody was like, “Holy crap!” And Jesus was like, “I freaking told you guys!” then he took off into the air like Superman but he never came back and everybody was all like, “Is he coming back again?… … … Jesus?” Then everybody cried some more and wrote really long letters and stuff.
So God split himself in two and made half of himself be tortured and killed as a sacrifice to himself so that the other half of himself could stop the other half of himself from burning and torturing human beings just as long as they said ‘sorry’ and ‘thanks’ and had magic water dropped on their head when they were a baby. And God knew that he’d be ok because he knew that it would only be two really bad days in an otherwise awesome life and after the really bad two days he’d get an awesome eternity which was made even awesomer now that God had himself to talk to. Then, the two one-Gods made a third one-God of themselves and called it the Holy Spirit and its job was to kill archeologists who found the Ark of the Covenant and to possess a giant bunny rabbit named after a pagan goddess and take a bunch of crappy candy and one delicious melt-a-way egg and hide them all over my apartment on the spring equinox.
Now that I’m grown and *totally understand* Easter, I still don’t like it. All the bars and restaurants are closed, the city is dead, and nothing’s even on TV. The only thing I still enjoy are small slivers of my melt-a-way egg, before it all magically disappears on the nights that my wife stays up later than me. Maybe they really do melt-a-way.
It was my wife who first pointed out the similarities between Ryan Air’s business practices and the shady dealings of time share pitchmen/hostage takers. Once I begun shifting through the grainy, overexposed, somehow Dali-esqe memories I have of those flights, I knew that she was right. The similarities are obvious; get a great vacation (or at least to your vacation destination) for a ridiculously cheap price in exchange for a few hours of your time. Sure you’ll suffer a little annoyance and inconvenience, maybe have to deal with an obnoxious salesperson or two but then you’re done. –Just like with a time share.
I think you’ll appreciate the subtle nuances in the similarities between the two situations. I find them quietly charming.
Once Ryan Air begins the boarding process it’s all about people herding. They make you stand in line for an hour, narrow the lanes with those little vinyl ropes and plastic poles, make you move up fourteen feet, cull the herd by picking off a few of the lame or elderly, narrow the lanes again then move you up seven feet while glaring and swearing at you and occasionally stabbing you with an electrified cattle prod. I believe that this is done purely to assert their dominance as the alpha class and loosen your resistance to utter, soul crushing domination. They basically just make you their bitch.
Once you’re allowed to board you have to present your thrice shredded ticket to the First Steward who then rips it from your trembling fingers and throws it to the ground while turning his pant pocket inside out. This you must hold submissively while you are escorted to your seat and while the other attendants jeer, whistle and spit at you. From this point on you will be not be able to move about the cabin without your ‘sponsor attendant.’ I saw one man attempt to disregard this rule to take his young son to the restroom and the resulting beat down/anal gang rape, while sickening and horrifying, did serve to present a lesson. After all, rules are rules.
Once you’re allowed to claim your seat, you’ll enjoy a brief moment of peace during takeoff. This may lull you into a false sense of security and when you’re offered coffee you may stupidly accept. If so, the stewardess will promptly pour tar flavored battery acid in your cup/lap and then demand $2.50 with a malicious cackle. From this point on, it’s on and poppin’ like a Redenbacher with a cheap crack pipe. Every time you allow yourself to let down your guard and relax another demonic attendant will appear with the rustle of blue polyester and the smell of hair spray and spermicide, either to humiliate you with unprovoked violence or to bully you into buying one of their endless wares.
They start out with the $2.50 ‘complimentary coffee’ then proceed to $5 hot dogs and burgers. Then comes the alcohol cart and this has the exact effect you’d think it would in such an unpredictable and dangerous environment. Like a fucking match in a meth lab. Then they tease any and all children with toys until the parents finally relent and buy a Chinese made, lead painted, Dora the Explorer for the price that would actually buy a Mexican child. Then they hawk perfume, cosmetics, clothing, jewelry, cigarettes that don’t smoke, cigars that won’t light and then follow that up by throwing all the leftover wine on you so they can sell you the wet wipes to clean it up.
They already charge a luggage fee, a seat tax and rumor has it that they are contemplating charging for use of the restrooms and cabin oxygen, both being purely optional of course. During my last flight I was lucky enough to get in the shitter before it became a premium service and once I latched the door another sadistic stewardess popped down from the ceiling and cut lines of coke and ecstasy on the sink and fixed a rig with junk in case I was in the mood for a little recreational heroin.
AND THAT’S HOW THEY FUCKING GET YOU!
After I’m floating in a narcotic induced utopia I always seem to devolve into frenzied consumerism, opting for both the blow job and the tied twins while paying to watch midgets beat hookers with dead salmon in the engine room and before I know it I’m spending money hand over foot… no, no, shit, that was a knee, the knee of a dead fucking midget and everything has just gone to hell and now I bought the fucking scratch off too… shit.
Just like a god damned time share pitch thing.
-In hindsight I realize that I wasn’t qualified to quantify that comparison since I’ve never actually experienced a time share meeting and only have the vaguest notion of what it would be like. I guess I just assumed that it is a drug and sex filled orgy in a maximum security prison atmosphere and where annoying, androgynous yet abusive types try to sell you hot dogs and scratch off lottery tickets plus or minus a few dead midget prostitutes.
Update: I’ve been informed that time share pitch meetings usually end with more dead midget prostitutes.
Update X2: I’ve been informed that you apparently can NOT buy actual Mexican children on board.
Update X3: I’ve just been informed that while you can not ‘buy’ actual Mexican children on board you can, in fact, obtain actual Mexican children but only for the express purposes of adoption.
I remember a big fuss over how smart I supposedly was at around the age of nine or ten and the fact that the hoopla has died down considerably since then doesn’t diminish the sweet memory of the false sense of superiority it gave me at the time.
I was in the fourth grade and it all started with my teacher telling my mom that I was reading at an eleventh grade level. We quickly rushed out and had my IQ tested and when the results came back that it was 163 my mom devoured the news like it was a chocolate filled donut after being on a diet for months for a guy who just took his secretary, his fucking secretary, to Hawaii with him and had the nerve to tell her, just like that, about it. She held onto that 163 like it was a tangible thing that she could hold onto and maybe eat, because fuck that bastard and his slut secretary.
When we’d see old friends or meet new people it was the one thing she’d mention in the overly zealous way that Kato Kaelin used to drop his address, at least until all the unpleasantness. She’d say things like, “It’s been in the 70’s all week. Which reminds me, my son’s IQ is 163.” Or, “I’m so sorry to hear your brother died, my son’s IQ is 163.” She was never the family newsletter type but I’m pretty sure she found a way to add that magic number to Christmas cards and tax returns.
I was smart enough to figure out that I could get away with murder, at least for the moment; I wasn’t shooting bottle rockets at kids I hated on the street, I was testing aerodynamic propulsion theory, and when I accidentally set the school bathroom on fire, or got marbles stuck up my nose, well, she might not be able to explain why I did what I did but I was smart as a whip and that was good enough.
The 163 always felt heavy and oppressive, even dangerous, like enhanced uranium in the hands of country without proper sewage treatment. Still, I enjoyed the benefits. When I was in Jr High I’d barely have to study or show up and I’d manage A’s and B’s. It was then that I developed the atrocious habits and lack of focus that would have a far greater effect on my life than that ridiculous number.
About the time I discovered alcohol and drugs and the girls to do them with, my grades had started to plummet. When I actually put effort into math by only smoking one joint before class every day and found myself still struggling, the truth began to set in. I’d known from the start that there was something inherently wrong with a system that called me smart. I barely had object permanence awareness. I never even missed the X, much less was able to solve for it. But I’d eat the shit out of some X when you put it within reach.
As I grew older, people gradually stopped using words like brilliant or genius to describe me. Even my mother was surprisingly mute on the subject. By that time I was just the idiot who fell through the glass coffee table or the moron who set the bathroom on fire, again.
When Karen and I both took the test again, albeit online, I wasn’t even surprised when she scored a 162 and I’d dropped to 160. I wasn’t surprised because the test is flawed. This is a woman who can watch a movie or read a book for the first time every week. She has no short term memory (despite never indulging in vice the way I have) and little reasoning skills. She can perform her accounting duties at CPA level but can’t remember if she’s supposed to take 3 or 5 Tylenol for a headache or how to order lunchmeat at the deli. When she distrusts someone she’ll say that they have “an interior motive.” When I ask her if she’s ‘lost her words’ again, she’ll invariably say, “exterior… Right?”
I’m not one to point fingers either. I couldn’t put together an IKEA coffee table (to replace the one I fell through) if you gave me directions and a sharp turning stick. –I’m being told that I’m referencing a screwdriver.
I’m not sure whether it was all the partying or an undiagnosed case of ADD but I know now that I’m nothing special. Sometimes when I’m feeling inadequate or insecure I’ll tell people that I have a monster IQ and that I could really be ‘doing something’ but I no longer buy into my own bullshit. Whatever it does mean, it doesn’t fucking translate to my beautiful mind.