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.
“…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”