I must have jinxed myself and invited bad juju with my last post. I should have known better than to tempt the creative yet evil brain of Jerry Bruckenheimer. Since last week I’ve been hit by a literal shit storm. Before you people get all judgey- yes, I know what literal means. I was literally hit with human shit flying through the air. But I’ll get to that in a minute.
Thursday night, the night before Karen was to start her new job, we took the dogs to the vet. All we had to do was have papers signed off that they could be in the country. While talking to the vet we brought up the fact that we found a small lump in Luca Brasi’s abdomen last year and that the Spanish vet told us that it was fatty tissue. After *probably* blocking out the mental picture of Kirstie Alley’s extra vagina skin, our all American vet, while emoting perfect condescension for Spanish vets and all fools who would trust them, told us that he needed to check for himself.
After taking an ex-ray and finding a tumor the size of a baseball, Luke was going to need emergency surgery. He explained, in far too much detail, the risks involved in operating on a nine year old dog as well as the 50-50 chance that he’d have to call during surgery to tell us that the dog was riddled with cancer and ask us to put him down right there and then on the operating table. My wife went all Sophie’s Choice and told him to just kill me instead before realizing that wasn’t up to him and asking Morgan Freeman instead. I assume that our vet, Steve Sanders, was trying to punish us for having exciting lives in Spain while he hasn’t done anything since gradating from that stupid high school. I’ve constantly tried to reassure him by praising him for banging Kelly and getting Dylan off the drugs, but he just looks at me like, “I’m a veterinarian, not a fictional character from a teenage soap opera” but doesn’t say it because he’s too embarrassed and I’m all like, “Dude, have you done anything, like, AT ALL, since then?” but I don’t say it because I’m too embarrassed for him.
The surgery went well and Luca wasn’t riddled with cancer. Luckily Steve Sanders can cut up animals better than he can act. He got out the tumor and had to take out Bubbalou’s spleen as well. Unfortunately they didn’t save it for me. I would have liked to put it in a jar as a warning to other tumors of what happens when they threaten my family. Because that would be hardcore. Like, “See your cousin? He’s in a fucking jar on my dresser. And your cousin’s balls are in another jar on my other dresser.” Then the other tumors would all be like “Don’t fuck with him Essey, he’s fucking loco.” Because I’m pretty sure that all tumors talk with a Mexican accent.
That night, while still worried about Luke, we took Pablo Escobar for a walk and got caught up in a flash shitstorm. It was exceptionally dark and we were just passing one of the beach restaurants when we noticed 3 things simultaneously; (1) a weird gurgling that seemed to be coming from the earth itself- like Britney Spears had burrowed down into the ground like some kind of gangly hobgoblin, to smoke up my meth farm and got all gurgly and pukey (probably because my meth was rotten because I suck at meth farming) like that chick from The Ring, (2) that we seemed to be walking through inches of mud; weird since it hadn’t rained in a week, and (3) WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THAT FUCKING SMELL???
Just as the shocking and horrifying truth started to sink in, Britney changed DVD’s and went all exorcist and begun spitting large chunks of shit, shit flavored water, and piss flavored shitwater at our legs and torsos. In those last few seconds as the broken sewer line/meth-ed out, demon possessed Britney spewed out the contents of the underworld, I glanced down at The Puppy and she wore an expression of rapturous bliss. Like Mitch McConnell might look while eating a pint of Cherry Garcia while being blown by Harry Reid while congress repealed health care and the blue states burned.
While Karen ran home, I ran to a nearby, random house with a visible hose and went all mean prison guard in Rambo on myself and the dog, violently hosing away the gross. Karen had thrown away her shoes, her only shoes, before coming home so as soon as I got home I had to run out and buy her flip flops.
While I was gone and Karen was in the shower, The Puppy, still wet from her hosing and still euphoric from the unique high of human feces, chewed up a God damn library book. The one I was reading. The one I’m now going to have to replace at full retail value. I only had a one chapter left. The dog only chewed one chapter, the last one. And even though it wasn’t that great a read, my personality being what it is, I’m going to have to borrow it again just so I can read the predictable ending that I know is coming. So I’m going to have to borrow a book, that I actually bought, from people who will likely be all judgey and superior even though, technically, I pay their salary. Or will when they start taxing meth farming.
Update: Since I wrote this post things are bouncing back to awesome again. An old, old, old, (he’s really old) friend of mine, Ricky Martinelli sent me a shirt that is so full of Win I don’t think I’ll ever lose at anything again. Not even *New* Risk, or as the press likes to call it; The Mexican Drug War.
I know one thing; I’m never again going to tempt Morgan Freeman and Jerry Bruckenheimer. I think they re-did the Job bet thing. Staring me. That’s ok though because I fucking Won.
Sorry, this isn’t really a post. There will be no fat, white Buddha, no black, kindly God, no Snooki, no Zombie Papa Smurf, no Shapeshifter Tara Reid, no Rapture Reality TV, none of that. Instead, this is an eclectic mash up of disconnected ramblings which pretty much mirror the functioning of my mind right now. There will also be a joke:
What will the Green Bay Packers secondary be known as after today?
I thought of that all by myself but I have no doubt that the national media will steal it and run with it. That’s what they always do to me.
So why the Holy Shit title? Two reasons; The Steelers! Super Bowl!! Stairway to Seven!! Holy Shit! Those exclamation points are all well deserved!
Also Holy Shit because we booked our flights and are leaving Spain for America on February 24th. Karen’s rat-like dog, Luca Brasi, is going in a little airplane safe, Paris Hilton purse-like bag which can stay in the cabin, under the seat. My cat, Tunado, and my Dog, The Puppy, Big Pappy or Pablo Escobar depending on my inclination and her mood, are both going into cargo hold. I’m just praying that Big Pappy doesn’t chew through her crate and start eating random mechanical parts of the plane. This is a dog that chews cement steps and licks the paint off of walls in her down time. Fuck Snakes on a Plane, Samuel L. Jackson would meet his match with My Spanish Mutt on a Plane. On some real shit.
Before we even have to worry about her going all jihadist though we have to get the three of them from Cadiar to Madrid. I don’t know how many of you have ever ridden with a cat or one or two nervous dogs; but very, very bad things can happen. Usually they happen out of both ends of all three animals as well. After we get to Madrid, we’ll then have to try and get three pukey, shity animals somewhat cleaned up and fed in preparation for a twelve hour flight.
When we pick them up on the other end I fully expect them to be covered in excrement, vomit and possibly landing gear parts. From there we’ll just have a seven hour drive down alligator alley from Miami to St. Pete Beach. The problem with the Tamiami Trail is that if you stop to take a piss, you will be covered by mosquitoes from head to toe before you even undo your fly. Also you’ll probably be eaten by gators and/or stabbed by a Cuban coke dealer. That’s true of any road in Florida, honestly.
Once we get ‘home’ we just have to pick up the keys to the apartment we’ve never actually seen and start life over, pretty much from scratch. Again.
Still, I’m extremely excited and can’t wait to get back now that it’s actually happening. Since the apartment is temporary I don’t even know if we’ll have internet. With the move and all I will probably be absent from blogoland for a couple weeks/a month until we get everything sorted out. Don’t worry though, I still have two more (real) posts (which will be funny) after this boring ramble.
I have a few questions for you guys now though, so this is the interactive part. (See how current, modern and hip I am?) Even though I’m probably going to have to either get a real job or go back to painting houses on the side, I’m obviously going to continue all of my writing. I’m still writing my book but I keep going back and forth between it being a novel or a looser collection of humor stories all based upon three central characters. I feel like, since I’m not known, my only chance of success is for it to be a novel. Or can I just do a David Sedaris type collection right out of the gate? Would that ever sell? I look at the non-novel humor books that do sell: Stuff White People Like and Shit My Dad Says and they all had followings before the books came out. Which would you guys be more apt to buy? Right now I’m going along as if it’s a novel but I can simplify it easily.
Also; a few people have told me that I should put together a short funny book about being American in Spain, the time I spent here. The problem is that I didn’t do much as far as integrating into Spanish life. I’m not sure that I did enough period. I mean, who wants to read about a guy who downloads The Wire and Lost and watches his laptop like a TV for three years. The only thing I’ve done a lot of is complaining. But that’s pretty much true to my character.
What if I took a couple of my blog posts about living here in Spain, 10 or 20, and edited them and added to them. Maybe I could write a few more dealing with the major societal differences, some things about their unique customs seen through my American eyes. Describe how their way of life affected me, by making me mellower and less stabby. I’d keep everything humorous, obviously. I’d write a quick intro at the beginning and wrap it up neatly at the end. Maybe lessons learned(?) or something….? It’s something that I could do quickly and painlessly, that’s why I’m thinking about it. I could add some fantastic photos but that would drive the cost way up….
My question: would you guys buy that book? Not will you as my friends. But would you, as consumers? Would it be entertaining? And also will you as my friends? Like buying a date with an ugly chick for charity? But this wouldn’t be for charity. It would be for cocaine and hookers. Would you rather pay more and get photos? Is 50 or 70 pages enough?
Seriously, give me your advice and opinions about both books.