Some have said, my dear And you know this to be true Thine nighty is quite clear And utterly see-through Now, I would suggest Out of respect for you: Strap in that ample chest Conceal those ample boobs I’ll hate myself near and far Lord have mercy, I recant! Libidos, being what they are Attack me in my pants Thine bodice of flesh rippling, see Erects a standstill down below Momentarily crippling me Yonder ice-water for a fellow? Miss, my dear, Mrs. Bosomly Booty E’ermore you’ve stolen away my heart Though I rush to consume your beauty Amply, you’ve given me quite a head start Let me see again, what I once had decried Let me see again, what I saw but once before I am...disappointed; yonder nighty has belied C-cup bra-size and no measure of wishing more So ends the mystery of how in your corset you fit Oh, I wondered that above all else in the world Noticeably, you look to have slimmed a bit And that’s fine – you’re a beautiful girl! Though now I must run along Alas, my angel, be strong! Seldom will I allow my telephone to ring long
Yesterday, my girlfriend accidentally discovered that my fucking hamstring was multi-coloured: bruise-yellow with a few intensely-red snakes of burst capillaries; I say "accidentally" because she emerged from the bedroom to find me completely disrobed at the front door, laying face-down on the carpet, mumbling "razza-frazza" as though channeling Fred Flintstone after he dropped a bowling ball on his foot.
So, off to the doctor I went, and I told her this:
She said, "Well, you won’t be hitting any homeruns for a while."
I said, "You don’t know that! I’ll train, I’ll put in the effort, I’ll heal!"
I said, defiantly, "I’ll be the best again! You just watch me!"
She said, after a moment, "Didn’t you say that you hurt yourself during your YEAR-END tournament?"
I said, "Oh."
I followed that up with, "Right."
She said, "You’re bruising because you did everything but tear your hamstring; as long as you don’t try to aggravate it, you’ll be fine."
I said, "Oh."
I said, in a tiny voice, "Thank you."
She said, "That’s okay."
She said, smiling, "Now, will you please stop calling us?"
I said, "Never!"
I left the apartment the other day with my pants’ zipper un-zipped.
This, for the record, was not intentional.
I realized my mistake as I approached the high school (on business, mind you), smiling with righteous embarrassment as I closed my barnyard door.
This, of course, is not how the janitor and his tweenage-daughter saw it.
[I look down at my fly]
D’you think my daughter needs to see that?
Me awkwardly doing up my pants? Surely she’s seen that before.
Well, maybe not me doing up my pants, but...
[the Janitor just lets me keep digging]
...well, I’m sure somebody’s done their pants up in her...
[he’s going to kill me]
So, you just happened to have your pants undone in front of a high-school with my daughter standing there?
It could just as well have been a nunnery, a nursery, or a narcotics convention...the point is that my fly was open, and now it isn’t.
Who saw me zip up is irrelevant.
[I try to walk into the school, but the Janitor steps in front of me]
Don’t you take another step towards my daughter.
Me:She’s standing between me and the sch...
[I double-take the daughter – her fly is undone]
[I look at the daughter again, then I stare at the Janitor until he, too, sees his daughter’s fly undone – there is a looooooooooooong pause, and then the girl, who has been standing and watching, looks down and quickly does up her pants]
Me: [as I start my now-unobstructed walk into the school, trying to hold in my laughter] I am OUTRAGED.
I sit here a crumpled mess, repositioning myself every five-to-eight seconds because nothing is comfortable. I’m smoking my girlfriend’s cigarettes and I’m in a tremendous amount of pain...not just because said smokes are ultra-light, but because I hurt myself in our year-end softball tournament this past weekend. There is a mysterious and excruciating pain in my left, non-throwing shoulder, and then there is the hamstring, the muscle in back of my right thigh that feels as though someone is cramming a ball-peen hammer into my tender, though hairy, flesh.
I’m completely befuddled as to the former, but an incident from a couple of weeks back explains away the latter: I managed to spank myself in the ass with the bat on the tail-end of a particularly hellacious swing, dropping me like a stone to the delight of one & all...and while I caught the brunt of the bludgeoning on the fleshy part of my right ass-cheek, there was a little twinge, just a pittance of pain, down in the hamstring muscle. Like an earthquake cracking the concrete of a metropolitan community, this "little twinge" gave my hamstring the perfect opportunity to yank itself into a knot during my first at-bat on Saturday, causing all physiological, right-leg-traffic to stop at approximately 8:40am.
Still, adding to my lifelong ledger of legendary performances, I mashed 5 homeruns in 4 games, 80% of which were one-legged...this should come as no surprise because, as most of you know at this point, I am a hero; it’s just too bad that my decrepit, 31-year-old muscles aren’t nearly as heroic.
Also too bad is the unfathomably un-heroic bitching & moaning that my friends & family will have to endure for the next week or so, sighing in deep irritation as I laud myself further for my incredible on-field exploits and courageousatory heroicitude.
I finished James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces right before all the Oprah-induced hoopla last year, just before the cries of "liar" rained down on the disgraced author...and so what? Good storytelling has an awful lot to do with exaggeration, and though Frey embellished his stint in rehab and his own heroism, his courage, to an embarrassing degree, well, this much was obvious from a chapter or so into the book.
Regardless of the rea$on why Frey fictionalized his own life, I fully identify with his out-and-out NEED to consume, the feeling of over-powering ravenousness...
I, too, need to be over-stimulated, to ingest, but my vices are in the "socially-acceptable" vein, so to speak: caffeine, cigarette-smoke, drama, criticism, adoration...something, y’know, palpable.
Oh, I devour adoration as though it was food; I chew through the supple-though-varied meats of applause, drink in the thirst-quenching lemonade of adulation, suck in the pungent fragrance of affection...
But this need for consumption leads me to the logical conclusion of why meditation is frequently used in addiction-recovery – if you’re a veritable vacuum-cleaner in need of something, why not suck in air?
This would be great but for fact that I sit still about as well as an assless man on a bed of nails; I need sedatives to watch a two-hour movie; hell, I get cranky at a red light...but I’m working on it. I’m drinking an unequivocally MASSIVE bottle of water right now, deep breathing like a hippie at an incense-fair, sitting still like a coyote strapped to a chair, legs and back cramping all around me...
Self-improvement is a nasty bit of torture, yes...but like many other day-to-day tortures, however, this is necessary if I’m to be around long enough to let my age catch up to my over-ripened curmudgeonly-crankiness.
I’ll let you know if "oooooooohhhhhhhhhmmmmmmm" and smoking in the bath are mutually exclusive.
There were two orange-tinged black bugs attached at the ass in the parking lot, moving and jittering, like bugs, but gingerly, like lovers...
I knelt down softly and said:
They stopped; I continued with a question:
"Are you guys fucking?"
They answered with twisting, twitching motions, seemingly pulling away from each other, almost as though embarrassed to be copulating in public, in a parking lot no less, and I contemplated pulling them apart just in case their togetherness was accidental...upon closer inspection, however, nothing about it looked accidental.
No, they were most certainly enjoying themselves but for my presence, so I took off.
*Blog-a-thon! I totally forgot, and am an unbelievable douchebag for doing so.
Shit shit shit!
All right, buckaroos, as far as I can tell (because I haven’t really read the rules NOR paid even one red cent as of yet), we’re blogging forbreast-cancer...well, not for breast-cancer, I don’t think.
Here are the other chaps/chapettes blogging against breast-cancer, I’m assuming, and votes are appreciated for one and all: Bella - Patti - Nathan - Erin - Jason - Michael Now that we’re all caught up, on with the (hastily-written) show; the topic? Religion.
I wrote once that religion is a disease...and while I still believe this to be true, the question remains as to what kind of disease religion would be were one to take said question literally.
Is it like the mumps, or the measles? Is it like herpes, or, failing that, chicken-pox?
What about Tourette’s syndrome? Maybe religion is a disorder of some kind, a problem of some kind of bipolar, obsessive-compulsive, or attention-deficit origin...or perhaps it’s a self-inflicted "disease" like alcoholism.
Me? Well, I think I’ve got it figured out.
Religion, as a disease, is of a hemorrhoidal nature - a complete and utter pain in the ass.
Here are some extremely well thought-out comparisons:
Religion is uncomfortable, as are hemorrhoids;
Religion has a way of making you feel bad, both physically and psychically, and hemorrhoids do the same but from your ass;
Religion makes you spend innumerable hours reading, as does a painful poo, or a proctologist’s waiting room;
Religion is a way to distract and avoid more important issues, as is the case with hemorrhoids if brought up at a cocktail party;
Religion asks for faith because logic doesn’t work within a belief-structure, while faith in the human body’s ability to heal itself is all you have while the hemorrhoids eat away at your ass, ignoring the logic that tells you to buy reinforced underpants;
I’m still getting the cold fingers of terror crawling up my back.
It was a week ago when this woman of indeterminate age, this woman with the flowered, pink bonnet, this woman whom I would wager an age-guess, based solely on general decay, of 145 but for the obvious ambulatory qualities she displayed, this woman limped past my car on a rainy afternoon.
This woman with the apple-sized bonnet-knot hovering in front of her panting maw – was she gasping for air? Gnawing on her bonnet-knot? Gnashing her teeth? – this woman had eyes of black; not pupil-black, or iris-black, but absence-of-white-black...black-black, like a convex void of nothingness.
Mouth agape behind a possibly-chewed bonnet-knot, this woman looked at me with those demon-eyes...and again, and again, the devil herself staring into my car, filling me with horror and bewilderment, an unblinking affirmation that I had unknowingly committed some base-level wrong, and that she alone knew it was me...
As I sat at the intersection, unable to complete my turn because of the varied complexities and flawed ratios involved in dealing with this woman’s distracting visage, a crooked math-problem detailing the effect of an external-oddity on functioning motor-skills, this woman with the night-eyes looked back at me twelve times.
Fear twisted down my arms like coils; a single rivulet of sweat ran down my nose; I hadn’t done anything but stop at my stopsign in a particularly suave-fashion, but I felt as though this woman was one look away from unleashing all manner of hell on me.
Obviously stunned, it took a helpful horn-blast from the irate Jeep behind for me to tear my eyes from this woman’s form that was gently fading into damp silhouette.
Perhaps it was my tried & true lifestyle-choice of Over-Caffeination + Lack of Sleep = Propulsive Paranoia...or perhaps, in West-Hammertown, I was visited by the Spawn of Satan.
Oh, Blogspot...here we are again; another milestone, another chance for me to use a number in my post-title, another in a long line of chances to write something so overwhelmingly self-indulgent that, well ahead of schedule, my being is threatening its eventual fade into an ether of self-involvement, a solipsistic limbo of Me.
No matter; this is my one-hundredth post, and it comes just in time for my birthday...and if one cannot indulge on (or the day before) one’s birthday, well, what in the world is a birthday good for?
In honour of said birthday, sure to be a cantankerous celebration of 31 years of injecting myself into other people’s conversations, here now is a list: a hundred-song lifetime soundtrack, alphabetized into ten-song increments for your enjoyment.
Please note, however, that while it might be apropos to divine some not-so-cryptic meanings from these song-titles alone, I like to think of this playlist as more of a musical life-encapsulation, an easy-fix for the question of what to play at my funeral – a funeral that will, no doubt, battle for the title of Longest Ever if my will is followed to the letter.
(Speaking of which, and without getting too morbid, I want my feelings known: there is a statue of Jesus Christ kneeling and spreading His arms to the mountains on the west-side of Hammertown; I wish to be cremated into an empty coffee-grounds receptacle, a la The Big Lebowski, and dumped over said statue’s head...just for your, and my own, edification.)
Herewith, the soundtrack:
The Air-Conditioned Nightmare – Mr. Bungle Alone – Ben Harper Big Day Out – Fun Lovin’ Criminals Black – Pearl Jam Black Steel - Tricky B.O.B. – Outkast Book of the Month – LovageBorn Again - Marilyn Manson Born To Run – K-OsBullet With Butterfly Wings – The Smashing Pumpkins
Burn – Nine Inch Nails Burning Inside - Ministry Caffeine – Faith No More Capt Midnight – Tomahawk Chowder – The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion C’mon Billy – PJ Harvey Cold Sweat – James Brown Coma – Guns n’ Roses Count Five or Six - CorneliusDarkness – Rage Against the Machine
The Day Brings - Brad Denial Twist - The White Stripes Do You Realize?? – The Flaming Lips Do You Wanna Get Heavy? – The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion Effect and Cause - The White Stripes Eulogy – Tool Everlong – Foo Fighters Exit Music (For a Film) – Radiohead Fight Song – Marilyn MansonFight the Power – Public Enemy First It Giveth – Queens of the Stone AgeFuck Her Gently – Tenacious D Gave Up (Remix) – Nine Inch Nails Get Down Lover – The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion Get It Together – Beastie Boys Go – Pearl Jam God Hates A Coward - Tomahawk Go-Go Gadget Gospel – Gnarls Barkley Good God – KornThe Good In Everyone – Sloan Hail, Hail - Pearl Jam Happiness Is A Warm Gun – The BeatlesHere To Stay – Korn Hitchin’ A Ride – Green Day I Can’t Stand Myself (When You Touch Me) – James Brown I Could Have Lied – Red Hot Chili Peppers I’m Not The Only One – Filter I Wanna Be Sedated – The Ramones I Wish You Were Here – Incubus Jerk-Off - Tool
Jesus Christ Pose - SoundgardenJizzlobber – Faith No MoreJudith – A Perfect Circle Just Like You – Rollins Band Let the Rhythm Hit ‘Em – Eric B & Rakim Liberation Frequency - Refused Longview – Green Day Mama Told Me Not To Come – Three Dog Night Mountain Song – Jane’s Addiction Mr. Brownstone – Guns n’ Roses
Napoleon – Ani DiFrancoNatural Born Killaz – Dr. Dre & Ice CubeNew Way Home – Foo Fighters Old Friend – Rancid Parallel – Bad Religion Penitentiary Philosophy – Erykah Badu The Perfect Drug – Nine Inch Nails Porch – Pearl Jam Rabbit In Your Headlights - UNKLE Ratfinks, Suicide Tanks and Cannibal Girls – White Zombie
Rearviewmirror – Pearl Jam Redemption Song – Bob Marley Revolver – Rage Against the Machine Rosemary’s Baby - Fantomas Runnin’ – The Pharcyde Sadness – Porno For Pyros Say It Ain’t So - Weezer Sexx Laws – Beck Sir Duke – Stevie Wonder (Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay – Otis Redding
Smells Like Teen Spirit – Nirvana Somethin’ Hot – The Afghan Whigs Sonnet – The Verve Sweet Euphoria – Chris Cornell Teardrop – Massive Attack There’s Been An Accident – Twilight Singers Think – James Brown Third Eye - Tool This Lonely Place – Goldfinger Tonight’s the Night – Neil Young
Tribute – Tenacious D True Love Waits – Radiohead 21st Century (Digital Boy) – Bad Religion Untouchable Face – Ani DiFranco Ugly In The Morning – Faith No More We’re Not Alone – Peeping Tom When Will They Shoot? – Ice Cube White Belt – Rocket From The Crypt Windowlicker – Aphex Twin You Got Me – The Roots
For the record, I am an RBI machine; I drive in runs like they’re carpooling; I bring ‘em home like they’re your 18-year-old daughter and I’m four hours past curfew; I plate ‘em like I’m cooking for the Royal Family...
YES it’s co-ed, beer-league, pitch-to-your-own-team softball, and YES I take advantage of the fact that I’m cheetah-being-chased-by-a-Ferrari fast and most co-ed, beer-league outfield arms are suspect, at best...but did YOU drive in 8 runs tonight?
So, this award, this beautiful monstrosity of three separate trophies glued together as one completely fabulous Über-Trophy, well, we each carve our names into the base when we win it; I was doing so tonight, adding a coquettish "X2" next to my name, when I plunged my exacto-knife into the top of my left thumb so thoroughly that I could’ve used said digit as a letter-holder.
To anyone who has tried to open up an individually-wrapped bandage with one-hand, let me just say that my empathy is boundless; I looked like a one-legged raccoon trying to get into a child-proof bottle of Tylenol. Plus, I got a little freaked-out using my mouth to tear into the bandage-wrapper, as I had put my bleeding thumb in said maw first, and then spread diluted-blood onto the disinfectant-white of said wrapper, leaving me believing, somehow, that I had cut into a thumb-artery that connected to my intestinal-wall, causing me to, again somehow, cough up blood from shock and effort alone...
This is a cautionary-tale for hypochondriacs and right-thinking braggarts alike: if you carry a little too much cock-a-doodle-doo in your swagger, you WILL cut your thumb open.
That’s just the way it works.