Tuesday, June 23, 2015

The Tale of the White Whale and the Stinky Cheese Man


"Call me Ishmael." - Herman Melville

“There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, though the wit thereof he but dimly discerns, and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody's expense but his own.” 
― Herman Melville

     Selling a car is a relatively simple process. The buyer shows up, inspects the vehicle, reaches a decision and makes an offer. The seller can accept or reject the offer, alternatively, the seller can make a counter-offer. If there is mutual agreement, a financial transaction takes place and the vehicle goes home with its new owner. It's not exactly rocket science. It's not a life or death situation. Not usually. However, once you add me to the equation things can go from mundane to absolute chaos in the blink of an eye. In other words, shit happens.

     I've always been a Jeep kind of guy and by that I mean the image and not the reality. Maybe it's that whole manly man doing manly things, wind in my stubble, suave and debonair delusional image that I have of myself, but I'm far too modest to mention any of that. And well, because I'm so butch. To be honest, I've never owned a real Jeep, but I have ridden in them. The Jeeps that I have owned have been Grand Cherokees and don't exactly fit the whole manly man doing manly things, wind in my stubble , suave and debonair delusional image that I have of myself, which I'm far too modest to mention.

     But I digress.

     Ya'll wanna see something really cool, don'tcha?

     I've owned many vehicles over the years, two of which were Jeep Grand Cherokees, One Jeep was great; sturdy, reliable and it played host to many an adventure. If you've read Unsinkable, you're already familiar with one of those adventures. To call the other Jeep a piece of shit would be a far greater act of compassion than I am capable of. Of course, this is a story about the piece of shit Jeep. A Jeep that was not quite affectionately known as "The White Whale." And when I say "not quite affectionately known as," I mean it quite literally. Well, at least I mean the part about "not known as," because that's all bullshit, we didn't call it anything, but I needed a name for the story and there it was. Why? Because fuck you, that's why.

     Anyway, the White Whale had a few minor issues. Little things like the four wheel drive was out, the transmission was shot, it needed a new clutch, new rings; you know, just a few cosmetic details here and there. Now might also be a good time to mention that it wasn't in what I would quite call running condition, hell, that thing couldn't run if it had legs, but it looked great. I mean, other than the few minor flaws that I mentioned, it was a perfectly good vehicle. I'd certainly trust my ex-wife in it, alone, on a steep mountain, going downhill, in the winter, with black ice and no guardrail. Perchance to dream...

     Again, I digress and I used bad paraphrasing, too. My apologies.

     I'm sure that you can understand why I might be considered a very motivated seller of such a fine example of American crapsmanship and why I would shed a tear at the fond memory of many breakdowns spent sitting beside the road, waiting for AAA to come and save my sorry ass.

     But then the Lord shined His light upon me. Fucking Hallelujah!

     You see, sometimes I wonder if there is a God and if I'm just one of those people that He likes to fuck with. Intentionally. Like, for His own amusement. I think He looks over the world, watching it slowly spin around the Sun, mumbling crazy shit to Himself like an old homeless man. You know, He's just enjoying Himself, checking out the beauty of His creation and shit until he notices me and thinks, "Hey, isn't that the asshole that I like to fuck with?"

     Jonah? Yeah... he ain't got shit on me.

     This is how it all went down...

     One day, out of the blue, there was a knock upon my door. I opened the door and... holy shit!

     I heard fucking banjos.

     I smelled cheese. And... shit?


      Standing on my front porch was the complete stereotypical West Virginia example of Pa Kettle, an old, tall, skinny, redneck, farmer looking dude. He had it all. The scraggly grey beard, the beaten John Deere trucker hat, the denim jacket with the sheepskin collar, flannel shirt and overalls that were so old and filthy, they looked as if they'd been rolled in cow shit and dried to a fine crust. His dirty work boots looked as if they'd just won a shit kickin' contest. I could feel my nose wrinkle in offense. The stranger's stench rolled over me like a dust storm across the desert; vast and frightening.  He was creepy; he had a really weird vibe. I looked at his hands, expecting to find an axe, probably because I've seen way too many horror movies, which kind of does make me an authority on this kind of shit, but there were no sharp objects or small farm animals in his hands which was strange because I had this guy pegged as either an animal fucker (farmer), child molester, serial killer, or even worse, a Jehovah's witness. He was one or the other, of this I was certain. NOTE - Don't even try to fuck with my math here, people. I hate math. Math sucks giant pickled anaconda balls. There are three kinds of people in this world; those who are good at math and those who aren't. I'm in that third category.

     As if this all wasn't weird enough and stranger still, I also smelled cheese. Not just any kind of cheese, mind you. This was the scent of a finely cave aged Limburger that was stuffed inside of a dirty sock and wrapped with shit stained tightey whiteys prior to aging. He smelled like cheese. And shit. Shit cheese. String shit cheese. Not a pleasant thought, is it?

     I'll get back to all of that in just a second. The cheese, I mean. Okay, the shit too, don't worry.

     For brevity's sake, I'll refer to him as the Cheese Man. Parked behind the Cheese Man was his own Jeep Cherokee. Fucking great, we could be besties...

     Cheese Man inquired if I might be interested in selling the White Whale.

     I did a little fucking dance in my head.

     Sell it? Would I?

     Show me the fucking money; the moolah, the dough, the cash, the motherfucking Benjamins.

     Let's say that I was easily persuaded. Like I said, I was motivated. Superfuckingmotivated, come to think of it.

     Cheese Man made me an offer and I made him a counter-offer. We negotiated a price and reached an agreement and he counted out the cash and handed it to me. The money felt greasy and smelled foul, but I counted it and stuffed the money into my pocket faster than shit through a goose, which judging by the smell, is where Cheese Man kept his cash.

     Now, I just needed to find the title and Cheese Man could be on his way, so of course I couldn't find the title. I looked and I looked and I looked. No bueno. I finally found the damn thing in the filing cabinet, right where it was supposed to be. I had already looked in there several times, file by file and paper by paper and found nothing. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada. And suddenly it magically appears? Right where it's supposed to be? I call bullshit. Magical witchcraft fuckery is what it was.

     With a flourish, I signed the title over to Cheese Man and he pockets it faster than his dick through a sheep and then Cheese Man sticks out his grime covered hand. A handshake? Really? You expect me to shake that filthy shit stained hand? I shook his hand, it felt greasy and foul. "Fuck it," I thought, "I'll just saw off my hand and incinerate it later."

     Cheese Man walked back to his Jeep, started it up and drove over to the White Whale. He emerged from his Jeep carrying a large chain and starts chaining the two Jeeps together, opting to tow the White Whale backwards out of my driveway. Good luck, with that. After a very short run, my driveway was nearly vertical, with an extremely sharp right or left turn at the top, as it met the road. Misjudge that turn and there's a good chance that you'll make a very quick trip down the mountain. I couldn't wait to see this, I'd watched many people fail at trying to escape from my driveway. This was going to be good. Even I had managed to turn a vehicle sideways and almost over the edge of the mountain in  my driveway. Don't ask. Don't even fucking ask.

     After Cheese Man got the vehicles chained together, he inspected his work, gave himself a porcine snort of approval and walked back over to me.

     "Please don't shake my hand again," I thought.

     My worry was quite needless as Cheese Man had one simple question.

     "Do you think you could steer the white Jeep out of the driveway for me, while I pull it up?" he asked me.

     "Sure, no problem," I replied.

     What could possibly go wrong?

     Have you ever looked back and identified that singular moment where everything started to unravel? You know, that moment where you lose all control and you realize that you're completely screwed. This was that moment, although I was too clueless to realize it at the time.

     This was the moment that God decided to fuck with me. The moment when he looked at all of his little angel buddies and said, "Hey, ya'll wanna' see something really cool?"

     I carefully explained how to get out of my driveway to the Cheese Man before climbing into the White Whale and buckling myself in. I was pretty sure that he had listened to my instructions.

     Cheese Man gunned the engine on his Jeep. I felt my sphincter contract. Pucker factor. He gunned the engine again, I felt a quick jerk and we took off up the driveway.

     We came back down just as quickly, which is when I discovered that the White Whale had no breaks. The Jeep came to a sudden stop as it pulled against the chain, throwing me against the seat belt. I loudly informed the Cheese Man that I had no brakes. In response, he gunned his engine again. I'm really not sure what part of "Hey, I have no fucking brakes," is so fucking hard to understand. Fuck me.

     We tried again with the same result. And again. And again. Six fucking times. I was a little over that shit by this point and I had much better things to do with my time, like spending Cheese Man's money.

     Nobody ever fucking listens.

     After the sixth attempt, I got out of the White Whale and I carefully explained to Cheese Man, once again, how to get out of my driveway and reminded him that I had no brakes. I'm fairly sure that he was half-listening to me.

     Cheese Man said that he was good to go and I climbed back into the Whale. He gunned his engine again, another quick jerk on the chain and we were off. Another fail. Cheese Man tried again and I could just imagine the grim determination that furrowed and cracked the crap caked into his brow. He gunned the engine into a deep throated growl as we launched down the driveway once again. Cheese Man made it to the very top of the driveway, gunned the engine again and made a sharp left, adding more power and I felt the Whale pull out of the driveway and onto the road. We made it! It was magical witchcraft fuckery, alright.

     Well, sort of...

     I had no brakes, remember?

     Cheese Man had stopped on the road facing uphill and the Whale was about to smash into his Jeep.

     No bueno.

     I quickly hit the brakes and nothing. Nada, zilch, zip; no fucking brakes. I had forgotten that I had no brakes. That's some serious fucking no bueno shit, right there. The Whale slammed into the back of Cheese man's Jeep and bounced off. Now, this wouldn't have been such a big deal if Cheese Man hadn't stopped his Jeep on an uphill portion of the road, fucking genius that he was and if the Whale had functioning brakes, which it didn't.

     The Whale started rolling downhill. I kept hitting the brakes, somehow hoping that some sort of magical witchcraft fuckery would happen and the brakes would suddenly start working. They didn't.

     The Whale rolled down to the edge of the mountain and before I could so much as shit my pants, the behemoth rolled straight over the edge, quickly picking up speed.

     Things are way the fuck beyond no bueno at this point. My shit was about to get seriously fucked up. I still hadn't soiled myself. Hey, it's a minor point of pride.

     The Whale was speeding down the mountain and headed straight for a copse of very large trees. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as the trunk of the largest tree grew larger and larger in the windshield. Suddenly, I felt like Captain Ahab, strapped to the side of Moby Dick, about to take that final, fateful plunge.

Yeah, just like that.
     Strangely, I wasn't scared; I don't think there was time for that because everything happened so quickly. My life didn't flash before my eyes and I didn't break out some dusty, old, forgotten prayer to the Invisible Sky Man that loves to torment me. All that I could think about was that I would have to give Cheese Man his money back and that really pissed me off. "Fuck that guy," I suddenly thought, I totally deserved the money after experiencing Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.

     I had just braced myself for the impact with the tree when I felt the chain jerk again and the Whale came to a sudden, violent stop, bare inches from hitting the tree. I was thrown hard against the seat belt, but that was the worst of it. The best part? I still hadn't shit myself.

     Suddenly, there was another violent tug on the chain and Cheese Man was able to pull the Whale out of the gully and back onto the road. Thankfully, he kept going until the road leveled out and, you guessed it, the whale slammed into him again, but I was saved! My money was safe!

     Cheese Man jumped out of his Jeep and asked me if I wouldn't mind steering the Whale while he towed it back to his house. I agreed, because I'm an idiot and lack any sort of common sense, yet lead an obviously charmed life. Fabufuckinglous.

     We made it safely over the river and through the woods to the Cheese Man plantation, until the very last moment, where of course the whale had to give me one last beating, by once again slamming itself violently into the back of Cheese Man's Jeep.

     I hopped out of the Whale and hit the ground, taking a good look around. I made the horrible mistake of taking a deep breath and I was staggered by the stench.

     You see, Cheese man lived on a pig farm. There were pigs everywhere, so many that it was like roving herds of bacon. The smell of the offal hit me like a physical wave and I swallowed my nausea. There were piles of pig shit everywhere, you couldn't avoid them. That was one mystery solved; I now knew why Cheese Man smelled like shit, still, another mystery remained. Why did the Cheese Man smell like cheese? I noticed that there was something else strewn all over the ground, little clear plastic wrappers that upon closer inspection appeared to be Kraft Singles wrappers. Aha! Another mystery solved. One thing still puzzled me though. This guy didn't smell like processed cheese, he smelled like ÉpoissesÉpoisses, for those of you who don't know, is one of the smelliest cheeses in the world. Indeed, Époisses has been banned from public transportation vehicles all over France. It is made from raw cow's milk and its rind is washed with pomace brandy. Just a little fromage knowledge for you.

This little piggy went to market.
     I think I might have even thrown up in my mouth a little.

     I walked around to the front of the Whale, wanting to leave this madness behind me as quickly as possible.

     And that was when things started to get a little weird...

     Stay tuned for Part Two.

     If you enjoyed reading this story, please give this one a shot. Thanks!

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Don't Touch That Dial - Sneak Peek

Here's a sneak peek into the next story. There are just a few paragraphs here, but it's almost finished. I'm just working on the editing and the ending, but it's getting there. Edit: Apparently, I'm rewriting the entire story, but it's important to get this one right. Let me get started by painting you a little picture...

All names in this story have been changed. Where possible, I have avoided using them entirely.

That first sweet kiss and a first broken heart. The things that we choose to remember and the things that we choose to forget. We pick and we choose and we throw away the parts that we don't like, only keeping those that fit in with our preferred narrative. Memories are funny things; they have an ability to sneak up on you at the oddest of times, these dreams of the past that smolder and burst into flames, opening a rabbit hole that sometimes you tumble down, down into the vast kaleidoscope of days remembered and days that were best forgotten; days where you learn all that your heart is willing to reveal and the many dark secrets that it still keeps. Moments of mourning for all that once was, all that was lost, with all that remains now ashes and shadows. Ashes and shadows.

Atlantic City was the first city that I fell in love with, the first place that I ever truly called home, a home to summer loves and the world in which I came of age. Like scenes projected onto a celluloid screen, the past comes to life.

My family owned a summer home at the foot of the Boardwalk and California Avenue. It was a cramped little condo, so small that there was barely enough room in which to draw a breath, but it had a spectacular ocean view that never failed to steal my breath away.

The city was vibrant then, it lived and it breathed, undulating with the flow of people. The mind's eye takes in the vast panorama of the beach and the ocean beyond, partially obscured by the roofs of the shops and arcades that once lined the boardwalk. Laughing gulls drift lazily overhead like so many summer clouds, their cries a lonely chorus of ephemeral notes. Blink and it's gone forever.

Atlantic City is where I stole my first kiss, drowning myself in the sweetness of her lips, awkward and fumbling and sweet, making my move in a poorly lit tunnel beneath the old Convention Hall, my first kiss on my first date with the girl who would become my first girlfriend and in time, my first heartbreak. 

Salt water taffy and fudge from the candy stores; ice cream on a warm Belgian waffle; Mack Fries with apple cider vinegar; pizza on almost every corner; and that warm sugar scent of cotton candy in the air. 

Summer jobs; working at a real newspaper stand at night and hawking newspapers on the beach by day; casting custard across the counter at King Kone; hustling hoagie rolls for Amoroso out of the back of a bread truck; slinging slices and working the grill at Three Brothers from Italy; ruling the world from my lofty perch while making change at Fun Spot and Playcade arcades at the height of the pinball and video game era and a posh lifeguard gig at the California Villas, where the closest I came to saving lives was skimming bugs from the pool. Basically, I was a glorified pool boy, cleaning the pool, hauling lounge cushions and babysitting brats. 

The Ice Capades, parades and arcades on the boardwalk, fireworks over the ocean on the fourth of July, sand castles, skateboards, and tourist traps. The amusement piers; Steel Pier, Steeplechase Pier, Central Pier and my favorite, Million Dollar Pier, with their carnival rides, games and sideshow like atmosphere. I can still see the crowds running from the "Wild Ape Woman."

People were everywhere, you couldn't escape them in Atlantic City. Gambling had been legalized not long before and people would throng to the shore, emigrating en masse and emptying entire cities, while filling the catacombs and coffers of the casinos. Dreamers dropping dollars on daydreams.

And that's the end of the sneak peek. If you like what you've read so far, give this story a shot:

Monday, March 16, 2015

Someone's Been Sleeping In My Bed

A friend is a friend, so good and so true, but fuck your friends before they fuck you.

Many years ago, I had two roommates, Craig and Jeff and we shared a shithole of a trailer that was literally falling apart around us. The three of us were great friends and loyal to one another, but the torments that we inflicted upon each other and the adventures that we shared were the stuff of legend. The stories that I could tell about the things that happened under that sagging and leaking metal roof...

Jeff was this wonderful guy who had the biggest heart and would do anything to help anyone. Unfortunately, his kindness was always repaid by people taking advantage of him. Even worse, Jeff suffered from horrible depression and silenced his pain with copious amounts of alcohol. 

Craig, on the other hand, was this huge mountain of a man who also had a heart as big as he was. You could always count on Craig to lift you up; to make you smile and laugh. 

We also (briefly) had a puppy named Lumpy. Lumpy was a lovable mutt and dizzying ball of energy who loved everyone and everything. The only bad thing about Lumpy was that he had an acute form of canine IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome). That dog was just a shitting machine that spewed volcanic eruptions of fecal matter everywhere. When he started farting, you literally had seconds to get him outside, or you would be scrubbing shit for hours. Literally. It was like the shit had truly hit the fan; it would spray everywhere; the floor, the furniture, the walls and more than once, the ceiling. Imagine the surprise you would feel to come home, plop yourself on the couch and feel something cold and wet splash down upon your head. Your first instinct is to wipe your head with your hand. Bad choice. Instincts can be bad things and nothing says "Surprise!" quite like a splatter of shit to the top of your noggin. Trust me on this one. Even worse was looking up while wondering, "What the fuck?" just in time for the next dollop to land on my face. Not quite the way that I wanted to be welcomed home by my dog.

A couple of quick stories about Lumpy...

One very early morning, Jeff and I were awakened by Craig yelling and cussing up a storm. Thinking that there was either an emergency or a murder, Jeff and I sprinted down the hall to Craig's room, our hearts racing with worry. When we burst through the door, we both stopped short and our concern turned to hysterical laughter. Apparently, Craig had decided to let Lumpy sleep in his bed that night and at some point, the puppy had crapped all over his pillow. Just as apparently, Craig rolled over in his sleep landing squarely on the aforementioned pile of puppy poo. Craig's face was completely covered in crap; running rivers of shit were streaming down his face as he frantically tried to clean himself up. Jeff and I should have and could have helped him clean up the mess, but we were too busy laughing and mocking Craig to be of much use as a cleanup crew. For reasons that I still can't understand, Craig didn't share in our laughter and he never seemed to appreciate his new nickname of Shithead. I've always wondered why... Hell, I still practically piss my pants with laughter every time that I think about it.

After several experiences with Lumpy and his fountain of feces, Craig started locking Lumpy in the bathroom at night and I would liberate the poor pup and sneak him back into Craig's bedroom, where Lumpy would then proceed to leave his little presents on the floor, making miniature minefields of manure. Many was the morning that Craig would wake us up by yelling at us and showing us just how creative he could be with foul language, but I always denied everything and blamed it all on Jeff, who was either still too drunk to wake up, or too hung over to try to defend himself. Craig didn't know who to blame, although, I'm fairly certain that he always suspected it was me. He just couldn't prove it or catch me. Good times...

One night, Jeff came home early, got drunk and passed out in his bedroom. I was out whoring around and didn't make it home until late. Forgetting to liberate Lumpy from his potty prison because I was a bit tipsy myself, I staggered into my room and promptly fell asleep only to be awakened by a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass. Apparently, Jeff had woken up, staggered to the bathroom, hadn't bothered to turn on the light and promptly slipped on a pile of shit. Lumpy must have had a rough night, because it was like a shit slip & slide in there. At some point while he was practicing his shit skating skills in the bathroom, Jeff managed to become airborne and while he was flying around like Superman in his tighty whiteys, he went headfirst into the shower, breaking the glass door. By the time I got to the bathroom, there was blood and shit everywhere; it was pretty bad. It was obvious that Jeff was in need of medical attention, but there was no fucking way that I was going to put him in my car. I wrapped Jeff's head in a towel and Craig carried him outside where he dumped our roommate's limp body into the backseat of his own car and we sped off to the hospital. When we got to the ER, Craig carried an unconscious Jeff inside and up to the counter. The astonished looks that we got were priceless. Here was this giant guy carrying this little guy that was covered in blood and shit. Keep in mind that Jeff was wearing underwear and nothing else. People were tripping over themselves to get the hell out of the way. The triage staff were completely professional and sprang into action, taking him straight back. Poor Jeff, he left there after spending the night, with seventeen stitches in his scalp. To make matters worse, Jeff had to explain all of this to his insurance agent, because he owned the trailer and had to make a claim on his homeowner's insurance. I only heard one side of that conversation, but let me tell you, it was pure gold. Listening to Jeff stammer out that explanation was one of the funniest things I've ever heard and because Jeff had been so drunk, he didn't remember a thing.

And then there's the story of Lumpy and the pizza, but I'm going to be nice and skip that story, just in case you haven't eaten yet. No need to thank me, I'm a paragon of virtue and kindness; the epitome of purity and innocence, I am. I even have a halo around here somewhere. 

Craig found a new home for Lumpy. I was heartbroken.

I decided to bring home a new pet, but the guys made me promise that it would be something that could be easily taken care of, so Craig and I went down to the reptile shop that had just opened to see about buying a monitor lizard. Craig decided it was a bad idea after it tried to bite his finger off. I think he was a little scared of it. For such a big guy, he sure was a pussy. I mean, what's one little finger or toe? You have nine others, right? Hell, if you're the guy that killed Inigo Montoya's father, you even have a spare.

I ended up buying a breeding pair of Giant Day Geckos and all of the associated paraphernalia instead. What could possibly go wrong with that?

I also bought a hundred crickets. I had to feed those little fuckers.

Day Geckos require some special care. They are mostly a terrarium species and are a little shy, but over time,you can get them to eat out of your hand. They really aren't meant to be handled as their skin can slough.

While I was promised a breeding pair, I'm not so sure about that. As far as I know, they never mated and I don't know if I had a male/female pair, or two females. Had they both been males, they would have fought until one of them was dead. I had no way to tell what sex they were and I certainly wasn't about to start looking for a little lizard dick. So, I just appreciated them for their beauty.

The crickets on the other hand, were a fucking nightmare. Do you know what it's like to have a hundred fucking crickets chirping in your house? Even worse, they would escape from their box and hide all over the damn house. The chirping was incessant. Crickets everywhere. I couldn't wait to feed those little bastards to the geckos. To this day, I hate the sound of crickets, they drive me crazy. 

Crazy? I was crazy once. They put me in a round room and told me to sit in the corner...

The geckos were working out well, except for the crickets that kept escaping and that fucking chirping. We would hunt them down whenever possible and we took a great sadistic joy in watching them get devoured by the geckos. It was so cool to watch them feed on the little bastards.

One day while I was in the reptile shop for a refill on the crickets, I saw these wonderful little creatures. 

They were ginormous. And disgusting.

"What the hell are those?" I asked the clerk.

"They're giant mealworms," he told me.

I smiled, thinking of all of the wonderful possibilities.

"How much are they?"

He told me a price that wasn't too bad for what I had in mind.

"I'll take a hundred," I said.

"They're too big for your geckos," he told me.

"They're not for my geckos," I replied, "I have other plans for them."

He quickly bagged up my crickets and mealworms, I forked over a little cash and headed for home. I think that I have the same evil little smile on my face right now as I did back then. Ah, memories.

I got home, fed the geckos a few crickets, completely enjoying watching those little bastards get consumed.

I was the only one home. It was perfect.

I headed for Craig's bedroom and pulled his blanket back from the bed. I then proceeded to dump all of the mealworms onto his bed, spreading them out to get a nice, even distribution.

I quickly covered them up and tucked the blanket back in. This was going to be epic. I practically skipped down the hall on the way to the living room, turned on the TV and waited for Craig to come home. It was a bit of a wait, but I didn't care. I knew this was going to be awesome.

Craig finally arrived home and we hung out for a bit and then he decided to go to bed early. I was so excited, I was ready to piss myself. I waited outside the door to his bedroom.

It didn't take long.

He screamed like a little girl. Like I said, Craig was a big wuss. I burst through the door and I swear that guy was in midair. Seriously, what's the big deal about crawling into bed with a hundred giant maggot looking things? It didn't bother me, but then again, they weren't in my bed, crawling all over me.

I was laughing my ass off.

He started freaking out and stuttering. His face got really red.

I looked death straight in the eye.

"Oh, shit," I thought.

I showed incredible courage. I ran like hell and headed for the door to the trailer.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" he raged. 

Craig started chasing after me. I made it to the door running like Bruce Jenner headed for a free sex change. He was right on my heels. For such a big guy, he could run really fast, but I was faster. There was no way I was going to let him catch me. I poured on the speed. He sped up too.

"Calm down," I urged him. "It was just a joke."

He told me that he was going to make me eat the mealworms after he finished kicking my ass. No way. Fuck that. I needed to put a stop to this.

"Dude," I yelled back, "If you make me eat them, how will we get Jeff?"

Well, that was the right thing to say, because it was like music soothing the savage beast. Craig stopped running.

"Get Jeff?" he wheezed.

"Well, yeah," I said. "You don't think I'd waste all of that money just to fuck with you, do you? It's better to get two for the price of one."

"Let's do it," Craig said breathlessly, "I can always kill you later."

It was progress of a sort.

We headed back inside and I collected the mealworms and we headed for Jeff's bedroom, where I repeated the process of hiding them in Jeff's bed. Two for the price of one. Yeah, this was going to be sweet. 

Jeff came home  and started drinking. Big surprise. After about an hour of drinking, he told us goodnight and went to bed. Craig and I stood right outside of his door. Once again, it wasn't a long wait. Jeff screamed even louder than Craig had; longer too. It was pure fucking awesome. Craig opened the door and Jeff was cowering next to his bed. The poor guy was so terrified he could barely form a coherent sentence.

"Y-y-you m-m-m-m-motherfuckers," he stammered, "That's not funny. What the fuck is wrong with you guys?"

Craig and I couldn't stop laughing long enough to answer him. I was laughing so hard that I could barely breathe.

After a few minutes, I cleaned up Jeff's new friends and tossed them outside and we all decided to call it a night. Jeff crawled back into bed, Craig headed for his room and I went into mine, locking the door behind me. I pushed my dresser against the door to block it. There was no way in hell that anyone was getting in.

Within a minute I heard Craig yell a string of profanity that was directed at me. 

Oops, must have missed a few.

Sorry, bro.

If you liked this story, you might appreciate this one:

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this story, please leave a comment. Positive comments encourage me. If you hated it, leave a comment as well, although I'll probably just tell you to go fuck yourself.
Comments, criticisms and suggestions are always welcome.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Check Yourself, Wreck Yourself

Technology is like the most bestest thing, ever.

When it works properly, technology is all sorts of gee whiz wonderful. The magic of technology enhances our mundane, everyday lives by eliminating the need for most physical interactions. No longer are we tied to the arcane physical world that surrounds us, not when we have our farms, our Facebook (please stop sending me game requests), Snap Chat, Candy Crush, Instagram, Blogger, Mafia Wars, to name just a bit of the bevy of bullshit that keeps us occupied and isolated. Almost gone are the days of having to deal with actual people.

You can get anything you need, want or desire online. Food, clothing, medicine, sex, whatever; it's there, just whip out your dick debit card. At most, you might have to deal with the delivery guy. You can pay all of your bills online, work from home, do your personal banking, pay traffic fines without having to go to court, schedule services, go to church, order a Russian bride, watch movies and television, regulate our smart homes; the list goes on and on. And you can do it all without having to get out of bed. As for personal interaction such as phone calls, you can always ignore those and answer back immediately with a text. That really annoys the shit out of people and it's fun, too. That salient little fact makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Even when you do go out in public, you can manage to avoid most interactions with people if you try hard enough, at the very least, you can try to minimize them. So, we can all agree that technology is this great, life enhancing wonder bestowed upon us, right? Maybe. It's all fine and well when things work the way that they're supposed to, but technology doesn't always work the way that it"s supposed to and when technology doesn't work properly, well, it's just so much shit.

We've all been there, stuck at the grocery store with just a few things while the place is going insane; long lines are everywhere, the Express Lanes are miles long, people are ramming carts into each other, screaming kids are everywhere, panicked New Yorkers are fighting over the last of the kale and you're thinking, "Dude, I just want to be able to wipe my ass and eat some ice cream (just not at the same time). Wtf?"

And that's when you see it. The heavens part and that gleaming shaft (heh - I said shaft) of light falls from the sky and illuminates the self check out area where there are only a few people in line. There's a reason for that. Those people are stupid and I'm about to show you a prime example of why that is using the principles of Darwinian evolution and the idea of thinning out the herd.

You see, the smarter beasts know to avoid the self check out at all costs, but you're not one of them. It's okay, I'm not either. We can commiserate together, like besties having a tea party. Be sure to bring some fucking ice cream.

However, since you're not my bestie just yet, I'm going to switch over to the first person because that's what works best for me, but you can still tag along.

Okay, so the heavens part and the light falls and all of that dramatic epiphany bullshit is happening and now I hear the seductress call of the short line, even though I should know better than to fall for the Siren's lure. She whispers to me, lies to me. "Come and give it to me baby," she says, "Come on, baby, it will be fast and fun."

I know better than to believe that bullshit. I do, I do.

Tell me more.

"Come on, baby. A quickie. Just a little in and out," the Siren whispers sweetly.

The thought of that self check out was giving me full on wood. My pulse had increased, my palms were sweaty and my breathing was heavy.

It's like being offered a free blowjob at Hooters while you eat their shitty wings. Although, in my case, it's usually something more like this:

Or this:

Nothing says love like clowns, puppies and free candy!

How many times do you think I'm going to fall for that, Mister?

It's tempting, oh so tempting, even though I know it's not going to work out, like that time that I had sex with the woman who had a bad case of the seriously fucking crazies and then I fucked her again and again. I even had sex with her one more time after that. Hey, the sex was unbelievable, but she was clinically and violently insane (I'm saving that story). I know that I'm going to give into temptation and do it anyway. I'm going to give in to the crazy, take the tour, climb in the van, listen to Grandpa, nail the psycho chick and use the self check out even though I know that I shouldn't. How could I even dream of saying no? I'm a man; I'm genetically predisposed to doing stupid things. I can't help myself. It's not my fault. I feel like such a monster.

I was ashamed, but I did it anyway; I walked over to the self check out line. In my mind, I could hear the other customers laughing and snickering at me as I slowly shuffled toward my fate, but there were only two people ahead of me, so I actually thought it would be a quick "in and out."

I'm patiently waiting in line and as I mentioned previously, it shouldn't be a long wait and I'm known for my patience, but now I'm taking notice of the people who are standing in front of me, The first person is a man with three items, but the woman that is directly in front of me has one of those mini shopping carts that appears to be pretty full and just because I'm bored, I start counting her items. I stopped counting after I hit twenty, not because I couldn't count higher with my pants on, but because the signs clearly state twelve items or less and I was getting pissed off by someone who either couldn't count or just didn't give enough of a fuck AND had absolutely no common courtesy, you know, just like when you're stuck in traffic and some asshole is in such a fucking hurry that he has to drive on the shoulder and then wants to squeeze back into traffic, directly ahead of you. Now, I don't know about you, but I learned to count when I was two years old, but the self checkout and express lanes seem to be a freaking black hole that sucks in people that either can't count or are just complete douchebags. Fer fucks sake, it's basic math, people.

To make matters worse, this woman still had her kids roaming the aisles and coming back with more items. Really? I hate that shit; it's incredibly rude. So I did what any self-respecting dickhead would do and I blocked the aisle to keep her snotty little kids from getting past me.

The little bastards pushed past me anyway. I wanted to trip them. I didn't. I think I'm entirely too nice. I'm a fucking saint, I am.

That guy at the head of the line? He moved on up, scanned his stuff, paid for it and got the hell out of Dodge. He got his in and out. This was starting to be more and more like my sex life, all promise and no delivery. I usually end up at the self checkout there too, only it's a lot more satisfying.

Those little bastards are asking their mother for candy and gum. Sure, why not? Go ahead, add some more shit to your shit. She tells them to grab some drinks, too. Mountain Dew. Of course. That's exactly what those hyper little shits need. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I screamed it at her. No, not really, but I thought it right to her face.

Finally, the bitch and her bastard brood step up to the register and she starts taking the items out of her cart. I'm wondering if she can move any slower. But then...

"We forgot to get the eggs," she says. "Can one of you boys run and get a dozen?"

Holy Mother of God, you have got to be fucking kidding me. To make matters worse, we all know where the eggs are, they're at the back of the damn store and on the other side. Her kids take off running and she continues unloading her cart, as slow as molasses. After what seemed like an excruciating lifetime of waiting, they show back up with the eggs and a package of cookies, running like hell for the register. Cookies? Really? They had to stop for fucking cookies? How could this little sideshow of horrors possibly get any better?

Wait, it gets better.

The little fucker carrying the eggs trips over his brother and loses his grip on the carton. The eggs go flying through the air and explode all over the floor. She sends them back for more eggs. I'm now frantically looking around for where they keep the fire axe. It was probably for the best that I couldn't find one.

They're back. I'm still the paragon of patience. Patience is a virtue and I'm a fucking virtuous guy. Really.

Believe it or not, she still hasn't scanned a single item. Apparently, that's what she had children for. The kids start fighting over who gets to scan what. Unfuckingbelievable. Mom decides she will scan instead. It's okay, take your time, bitch, because my time isn't valuable. You're the only one here that matters.

Sometimes I think that the world would be a better place if some people would have been a backseat blowjob or trapped in a condom, but that's just my opinion.

The bitch can't even manage to scan her shit right.

I look around and notice that if I had been in any of the regular lines, I'd be gone by now and stuffing my face with ice cream, but I'm not. I'm still here and my ice cream is melting. If I only had a shiv.

I've started mentally murdering the woman in front of me. I came up with some really inventive ideas, but there were entirely too many witnesses.  If I can't kill the bitch, I might as well kill some time. This goes on and on and on. How fucking hard is it to scan a fucking item and put it in a fucking bag? It's not exactly rocket science, you fucking nincompoop.

The cashier that supervises the self checkout area comes over and scans her order for her.

She starts fumbling through her purse and pulls out... her checkbook.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

The cashier comes over and starts going through the process of accepting her check. The bitch starts looking for her id. All of this time wasted and you're still unprepared? Fuck the witnesses, I'm about to murder a motherfucker.

After more than twenty minutes of shenanigans, my ordeal is over. The bitch and her bratty brood are on their way out and it's my turn to step up to the plate. I'll show you bitches how it's done.

I scan my first item and the machine tells me to place it in the bag..

Fuck me...

This machine is not going to beat me. I can do this at least I think I can. You know, just like the little fucking train that could.

I scan my next item. It won't scan.

The machine is laughing at me. I'm going to kill it.

The cashier comes over and works her magic. I feel like a complete fucktard, but the rest of my shit scans properly. All I need to do is pay and get the fuck out. I swipe my card and... nothing. Nada, zilch, bubkiss. Fuck me.

The cashier comes back over and works her magic, but this time she looks at me like I'm a moron, because the card scans for her on the first try.

Of course it does. Fuck me once and fuck me twice and fuck me, once again as the old song goes.

I'm done! Hip fucking hooray! I can get me ass home, take a dump and then eat some fucking ice cream. I race to my car, throw my bags in and haul ass for home and start unpacking my groceries.

In my rush to get out of the store, I left the bag with the toilet paper at the register. I found some paper napkins and a half paper towel and ran for the bathroom. It wasn't pretty. 

At least I still had my ice cream, right?

Wrong. It had completely melted and looked more like what I had just left in the toilet. 

I fucking give up...

If you enjoyed reading this story, please give this one a chance:
It's The Simple Things That Kill

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Peanut Butter and Bacon Cookies (Gluten Free)

I'd happily roll myself in this while attempting to eat every bite.

Face it, bacon makes everything better and there is nothing quite like that salty, crispy manna from heaven to punch up the most mundane of flavors. When bacon collides with peanut butter, the results are unbelievable.

Today, I am starting a new public service, because, well, that's just the kind of guy that I am. You know little old me, I've always got your best interests at heart, just so long as they coincide with mine And so, without further ado, I bring you recipes that are simple, quick and easy; perfect for singles, students, stoners and lazy fucks like me. I know that f bomb was totally unnecessary, but that's okay, we (meaning me) talk a lot of shit  around here. 

My very first recipe for you is simple, easy and gluten free. The fact that it's beyond good is amazing and best of all, you'll only need six ingredients that virtually every single student, stoner and lazy fuck has lying around in their kitchen.

Peanut Butter and Bacon Cookies (Gluten Free)

Preheat your oven to 350


1 cup gluten free peanut butter (I like Skippy, it's damn Skippy!)

1 cup sugar or equivalent 

1 large egg

1 tsp vanilla extract (don't cheap out, use the real stuff; the flavor makes a huge difference)

12 oz bacon, cooked crisp and crumbled (I usually use a pound, but I eat some of it) 

2 tbsp bacon grease (just recycle some from the bacon pan)

That's it, six ingredients. No flour. There's absolutely nothing else to get between you and your bacon and peanut butter fix.

You can also add other variations, such as chocolate chips, peanut butter chips or whatever else your little heart desires, princess.

Now, mix that shit up. Mix it. Mix it real good.

You're going to need a cookie sheet. Do you even know where it is? Stoners, now is a good time to try and find one. ;)

Drop the dough, by rounded teaspoonfuls onto the cookie tray about two inches apart and then mash the cookies down with a fork, making the pound sign #.

Put the tray in the oven. Don't forget to close the door. Set the timer for ten minutes, pull out the tray and let them cool. 

Repeat, as necessary.

If you want to be all extra fancy, you can dip the cookies in melted chocolate and/or garnish them with mini strips of bacon.  Good stuff.

I had some pics of the process, but can't seem to find them anywhere. Oh, well. Next time I make some of these, I'll take some new pics and update this.

And now for some important stuff (I was going to type shit, but I didn't. You should be really fucking proud of me) that you really need to know about bacon:

Bacon is supposed to be unhealthy:

Yet somehow it's nourishing. I like that explanation better.

There are all kinds of wonderful things that you can do with bacon. Some wonderful examples include apple pie:

Apple Pie recipe is excerpted from Desserts from the Famous Loveless Cafe cookbook and is available here: http://www.lovelesscafe.com/recipes/bacon-apple-pie/

Baby Formula:


The Bacon Weave Breakfast Taco

Bacon Guinness Chocolate Pancakes
Recipe: http://geekslovebacon.com/bacon-guinness-chocolate-pancakes/

Bacon and Egg Cupcakes
Recipe: http://kirbiecravings.com/2011/09/bacon-egg-breakfast-cups.html


The 'Merica Burger



Mac & Cheese:

Mac And Cheese BaconWeave Taco




Chocolate Bacon Pecan Pie with Chocolate Whipped Cream

Potato Chips:

I have yet to find these in any store and have no idea what they taste like. I don't think they really exist.

A limited time offering that is only available at Wal-Mart. A can full of true deliciousness.


Bacon S'mores? Yes, Please!



As if the idea of a bacon soda wasn't weird enough, they also feature flavors such as Buffalo Wing, Sweet Corn, Coffee, Peanut Butter & Jelly, Pumpkin Pie and Ranch Dressing (shudders)

And finally, Tacos:

The Bacon Weave Taco

It's bacon, ffs, how can you go wrong?