Friday, August 27, 2010
"14,000 of these were made just last month. Do you know how many of those 14,000 were properly fucked before finding their way into a landfill?" Edgar was walking along the sidewalk with his right arm extended out in front of him as he spoke. Grasped in his hand was a rubber dildo flopping at both ends with every step he took. It's coloration was eggshell brown and it had a remarkable vein protruding down the length of the shaft. A detailed specimen indeed. The damn thing looked like a real dick, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to smack it out of his hand. I pictured it rotating through the air, balls over shaft over balls, and out into the street, bouncing across the pavement.
But I didn't slap it, instead I answered, "14,000 seems like a high estimate for a month's worth of rubber cock, where did you hear that?" Behind us a car slowed and cruised up next to us. It was a green Fairlane, probably late 60's. I remember my father used to own one, his was a '67 in cherry condition. This one was bondo patched in several places and the engine sounded like shit. The green wasn't even a factory green and the front bumper sagged on the side nearest the sidewalk, held in place by a bungee cord stretched around twice. The weight of the solid steel bumper was simply too much, sag was inevitable.
"You motherfucking faggots! Are you kidding me right now?" the passenger up front yelled angrily at us. At first I assumed it was jealousy, because there we were out in the open, enjoying the day, and he was stuck inside that miserable car with a chick at the wheel, no less. My father's Fairlane was competition ready, he had amassed three windowsills worth of trophies and I had bagged a few trophies myself on the original leather of that backseat. God, I loved that car.
But this guy was really pissed. I watched as he motioned to the chick driver to stop, stop, stop with a hand motion that looked as though he were testing the heat of a candle flame near her face. She either didn't give a shit or misread the signal because the vehicle continued down the street. At one point I saw an arm appear from the passenger side with a middle finger aimed our way. Some people just get angry.
"Hey, follow me, I have a quick stop to make" Edgar said as he cut left across the street. My mind was still on the Fairlane, wondering if that asshole and the chick driver had ever fooled around in the backseat. There was so much room to maneuver, you could really get away with a lot back there. I wonder if their car still had original leather? I doubted it.
We were headed towards the 55+ senior living center on Taybin Rd. I didn't want to come off as a douche, so I didn't ask any questions, but Edgar had a way of getting us into awkward moments, so naturally there was some uncertainty lurking beneath the surface. I continued walking, following blindly. Edgar still had the rubber dildo in his hand, but now it was down near his side as he walked. Every once in awhile it would make contact with his jacket and produce a swooshing sound like rubber on plastic.
We approached the "community area" of the senior home. In between, where two of the building complexes abutted, was a space beneath a slanted roof with four tables set out. On these tables was an assortment of miscellaneous items ranging anywhere from books to clothes to toasters. Attached to a wall to the right of the tables was a sign that read: Community Share Space. Edgar stood there surveying all the stuff. The rubber dong was half-shoved into his jacket pocket now, with the ballsack end hanging awkwardly out. From my angle it looked just like a fake puffer fish without any eyes.
"Ha! Look at that, some old lady put jewelry in a Depends box," I pointed out with a retarded grin on my face. "Hey Edgar, you want some jewelry?"
"Depends," he replied and walked over to the table. He shoved the adult diaper box aside and started rooting through some of the junk. He picked up a shirt with a giant yellow banana on the front, and on the back it read COOL CHIMP. "Dude, really?" he chuckled as he tossed it back to the pile.
Near the back hidden beneath another pile of clothes was a wooden breadbox, vintage with a slatted roll-up door. On the lid was a colorful painting of a barn and silo with a pasture full of cows, and I wondered what this had to do with bread. Edgar was suddenly interested in his find. He pulled it out from the cave of clothing and opened it up. It was empty inside. As if this was the plan all along, he removed the rubber dildo from his pocket and placed it into the breadbox, closed the lid and hid it back under the clothes.
"I just stuck my cock in granny's breadbox," he laughed. Without hesitation he began rummaging again. It didn't take long before he found the next thing he was looking for. On the next table over was a Tupperware container full of DVD's. "Ahh jackpot!" He quickly read through them aloud, "E.T., Always, Somewhere In Time, Apollo 13, Left Behind.. a rubber dong, Dutch, The Philadelphia Story, Casablanca, Cocoon.. haha, go figure, never fails." He pulled Cocoon from the stack and opened it up, took out the disc and tossed it in the garbage can. Then he reached into his other jacket pocket and pulled out his own DVD disc and snapped it into the case, closed it and put it back with the others. "Okay, let's go."
Edgar had already started walking away, but before leaving I quickly picked up Cocoon and looked inside. The replacement disc was a burned copy and written on it in permanent black marker was the word 'Cockoon'. As I hurried to catch up with him I wondered which unfortunate senior would be watching hardcore porn later tonight. Would it be a man or a woman? Maybe a couple? Would they frantically reach for the remote to turn it off in disgust or would they smile shyly and watch it all the way through, thanking Ron Howard for his delightful contribution in their sleep. Either way, I was fast on the heels of a genius. "Yo, wait up! Where to next, man?"
Thursday, August 12, 2010
"Start off with a funny video of yourself, then lead into story." Someone once told me that was the best way to roll out a new blog, so I'm trying it here. Let me know what you think of the new format by leaving a comment, okay? Actually I'm just kidding, nobody told me that shit, I just felt like doing it. You don't have to leave me a comment either, I realize your time is very important to you in this life. How dare I try and hurdle that! Now, on with the blog.
I want to tell you a little story about a man named Stan. Stan is my age, he's married with children, and he works with me, we're both garbage men. His name isn't really Stan, I just made that up, but the rest of this story is absolutely true, so calm down. A few weeks ago Stan and I were taking a lunch together in West Salem, I think it was a Wednesday sometime around 11am. It was a typical fast food lunch, nothing special. Our conversation was mostly about chicks. No, not the feathery newborn kind with beaks, the other ones.
I think maybe at one point we talked about nuclear weapons too.
After our lunch we headed back out to our garbage trucks and stood around a minute or two longer shooting the shit. Allow me to depart from my blog for a moment, if I may. I want you, as a reader, to take that sentence I just typed, or more specifically, the idiom within it: "shooting the shit". Now, pretend you have a brain that only comprehends things in a literal sense and then picture that phrase in your mind. I see a boy with a birthday rifle out in his father's cow pasture shooting dried-up cow patties for practice, haha. But seriously, shooting the shit? What the hell could that possible mean? How did it derive and why does it mean you're passing the time? Ugh, tangent alert.
Back to my story. So Stan and I are talking some more, we're over by his truck. It's getting hot outside already, the parking lot is buzzing with cars coming & going and people hurrying to get coffee from Starbucks or groceries from Roth's. We're standing there bullshitting, when suddenly for no apparent reason I decide to ask him this question: "Stan, if I were to undergo surgery and have my penis chopped off and a vagina sewed in its place, would you fuck me?"
He looked at me for a second, eyes blinking. I could see the skin on his forehead twisting with thought as his brain computed the question. "Dude, what the hell?" was all he could reply.
I laughed out loud at the hilarity of my own question and followed with, "But seriously, would you? I mean, I would let you play with it first, inspect it with a finger or two, you know, play with it a bit, make sure it's sewed on proper." By now he was clutched over, both arms tucked in and holding his stomach, he was dry heaving. I thought he was messing around. He kept telling me to stop talking, that I was about to make him throw up. I still thought he was joking, and of course I continued to add more layers to the already disturbing topic at hand. And wouldn't you know it, Stan let his lunch out right there in the parking lot!
I felt like I just dreamed the experience, or that maybe I had walked onto a movie set and witnessed a scene being acted out. Could this be real? Did I just make a grown man throw up by asking a creatively sick question? Yes, that's exactly what I had done, and I couldn't be more proud. It was a moment I will never forget, the power of words spilling onto the ground before me. Off in the distance I thought I heard a wolf howling and the brum, brum, brum, brum of a sacred Indian ritual drum being played. Needless to say I was literally rolling on the pavement in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. I think I heard him toss a few obscenities my way before he climbed into his truck and left. I, on the other hand, had to take a picture of my prize:
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Edgar sat there at the table staring at the empty chair across from him. He spun the white mocha coffee around in his restless hands, glancing frequently at the door of the women's bathroom wondering when it would open again. He gathered too much momentum and warm brown sludge spurted out the sip hole of the plastic lid, making a small mess on his hand and the table. "Fuck all" he murmured as he reached for a napkin.
He was just at this same airport seven days ago, sitting almost in the exact same spot, but it was much different then. She hadn't landed yet, she was still 45 minutes up in the air. Everything was safe then, time wasn't careening out of control. He remembered the text messages and emails sent from phone to phone, inbox to inbox, for almost a month leading up to her final approach. It was fun talking about her pussy in poetry, comparing it to a small hole in the side of a dam. There were many clever exchanges between them, all friendly and inviting, they had a lot of fun with words. And then she landed.
"Excuse me, mind movin' your leg a sec?" Edgar looked up to see a robust man in his mid-thirties wearing a gray jumpsuit standing there looking down at him, a mop handle grasped in both hands. The airport insignia was etched across his chest in jumbo blue lettering, split in half by the unzipped portion of his uniform. A patch over his right breast revealed that this janitor's name was Chappy.
Edgar glanced back over to the women's bathroom wondering if he had missed her. What if she slipped through undetected and made her way into the adjoining gift shop? "She's probably spying on me from behind a Cosmo magazine" he thought to himself, "giggling from afar, pretending to be cute and invisible." She had a way of hiding behind things. She was childlike and everything was a game to her. She would probably try and sneak onto her plane without saying goodbye. He imagined her navigating behind t-shirt racks and candy shelves, ducking low when necessary, revealing her thong and perfect bubble ass to anyone watching this part of her exit strategy.
"Excuse me, sir, it'll only take two swoops to clean that up." Chappy motioned with his head by nodding down at a puddle of brown syrup near Edgar's feet. For a moment he thought maybe it was his own spill. He tried to figure out how in the hell his mocha got way down there. He remembered using only one napkin for the mess on the table, and the mess on the floor was at least a five napkin job. Or two swoops with a mop, as Chappy pointed out.
Edgar got up and walked towards the bathrooms, keeping a close eye on the gift shop and the Beach Hut Bar & Grill next door. He stopped out front and peered in, eyes scanning all possible spots where a petite girl in a tweeter skirt and honey brown halter top could be hiding. He didn't see her in there. The girl at the gift shop counter was looking back at him, waiting for his eyes to find hers. Edgar locked on, she was smiling and looking right at him as she rang up a customer. She never looked away, she knew something. She had the clue he needed to find her before she flew away, back to her hometown where she'd soon be playing games with someone new. The cash register made change and clanged shut and the girl broke her stare and looked over at a door he hadn't noticed before. Edgar moved in for a closer look.
It was tan, same color as the wall, and expect for a small placard that read "EMPLOYEE ENTRANCE" the door was impossible to notice. "Had she really gone in there?" Edgar thought inquisitively. He inspected the door for a handle, but there was only a card swipe mechanism. This girl was good, how the hell did she do it? She was probably waiting on the other side with her cherry out, her clothes piled at her feet, smiling in anticipation. She loved these games, she loved the men who played them. He pulled out his debit card and gave it a try.. nothing. His Safeway card.. nothing. He tried his driver's license and library card, both with similar results. As he pulled out his health insurance card and raised it to give it a swipe, he was tapped on the shoulder and he quickly turned around.
"What are you doing, Edgar?" she stood there with a very cute and curious look on her face. Her clothes were still on her body, her hair was pretty much perfect, but her left shoelace was coming untied. The girl in the gift shop had given him false information, she was a deceiver, she had thrown him purposely off the trail.
"You were in the bathroom the whole time, huh?" he asked sheepishly. Her green eyes were little love magnets that attracted men from coast to coast. She batted them wildly, smiled and winked, and replied, "maybe, maybe not." She really liked her games.
Friday, August 6, 2010
I'll start with a warning stating that this blog may offend any readers who are deeply embedded in Christianity. If I don't offend you this time, I will eventually, but just remember this: I have nothing against God, just the box you keep him trapped in.
I recently heard about the CSH movement and upon doing a little internet research I found this video of teenagers rapping about the Christian Side Hug. For those of you not in the know, apparently front hugging has been deemed sinful and is now on the 'No, No' list. You see, if I were to approach you and in the excitement of seeing one another we decided to 'hug it out' chances are our crotches would touch in the encounter. Never mind the fact that we are engaged in a friendly greeting that's been the socially accepted norm for eons or that our downstairs parts are fully clothed, your junk and my junk still got too close for some people's comfort. Heaven isn't down with that. So what's the solution to said problem? Oh yeah, the new and improved side hug. You might be asking, what the heck is a side hug? Well, it's pretty simple actually. Imagine if you will, that you and a friend are getting ready to have a picture taken and the photographer tells you both to move in tight. The result would be you and your friend standing hip-to-hip, arms draped over each others shoulders. That's a Christian Side Hug!
Ok, on to the video:
You'll notice in the beginning of the video one rapper yells out, "Are ya'll ready to party up in here?!" Hmmm, really? I wonder what his definition of partying is. I also wonder how long it'll take before the same person who banned the front hug will ban "bounce dancing". You'll notice the crowd is really into this song, and the chicks are jumping up and down to the beat, all-the-while their upstairs off limit parts are doing their own dance. The boys can only stare and sway like cobras to a snake charmer's flute, yearning for the infamous front hug.
You'll also notice at the end of the song gunshots ring out and each of the rappers mimic getting shot and fall to the stage dead. What the heck? Is that some type of subversive message on their part that says if they can't front hug they'll start doing drive-by's on churches? I dunno, it baffles me. This is why so many people get turned off to religion. Rules upon rules, upon rules. Is God's love really that difficult? Apparently so.