Not So Friendly


A man in a somewhat silly looking rhino outfit, complete with horn on his head, lay sprawled on the ground in the middle of the street, unable to free himself, hogtied.  A small trickle of blood ran from his mouth, his eyes slightly glazed over. Stunned and looking around, stone amazed at his predicament and the pain he was in, he let out yell that echoed off of the hills and the surrounding shops.

A crowd of people had gathered in a wide circle around the general area but stayed back a distance, not knowing what to do with the situation.  The only one who came close enough to him was the one who had beaten him and tied him up.  A tall muscular looking man wore a resplendent red and blue outfit  that covered him from head to toe, a giant onesie with black lines in the shape of a spiders web.

“You’re an asshole, you realize that, web boy? Dafuq’d you hit me with?”

“Jealoussh caussh you can’t win a fight againssht me?”

“I’m not the one wearing the latest in onesie fashion out in public. I’m one to talk in this get-up, but I am just an ordinary man, you realize that, right?  I ain’t crazy like you are.”

“Ssho what, horn head? I kicked your asssh, and sshtopped whatever criminal activity you were clearly taking part in.”

A few people who had been in the wide circle moved in closer to listen, and also to get through, as it was lunch time and they had things to do.

“So it’s criminal to do my shit paying job? It’s illegal to wear a rhino outfit in public a block from a zoo and try to get tourists to take your picture? What law is that? Can you tell me what I did wrong? Can you tell me how that is criminal?” His head spun

The man in the spidery outfit looked around nervously and said “There’ssh been a man dressshed up as a rhino robbing banks.”

“Sounds like fiction from a drunk guy who read too many comic books to me.  Nice slurring, drunky.  And what the hell did you hit me with?  I ask only because when the cops show up I want to be able to tell them so they can arrest you and get your crazy ass off of the streets.”

The man in the web covered outfit looked at his right hand, and a worried look crossed his face under the onesie mask, and he wondered for a second whether he should just run like hell or not.  Then he thought No, I’m the friendly neighborhood superhero here.  I don’t run, I make crime run.  This guy is a criminal.

:”You’re a criminal and you are a menacesh.  I did the right thing.” It sounded less like a statement of fact and more like a man trying to convince himself that he did the right thing.  A few people moved in closer and one said to the man in the rhino outfit “You ok, buddy?  You want a hand?”

“No need to thank me shcitizshen! For I am your friendly neigh…”

“Friendly?  I saw you take this guy here and flatten him with a two by four and then hogtie him.  We thought it was a Spider-man show and stopped to watch.  But listening we realized it wasn’t. I’m calling a cop buddy, andI ain’t the only one?  You need an ambulance?”

The man in the Rhino outfit said “Any help would be appreciated. And by the way, my name is Alex.”  The man nodded and reached for his cell phone, but the man in the spider web costume approached him and began to speak “Don’t letsh him trickss you, citischzen.”  He was slurring his words and walked with a gait that suggested he was having difficulties of some type.

A siren sounded a few blocks away.  After a few seconds it was clear that it was coming towards them.  The man who was on the phone backed away from the oddly dressed spider web pattern covered man and walked down the street as he dialed the police on his cell phone. Alex said “They’re coming for you, web head! You can’t do that to people here! You’re going down!” He said this with a large measure of joy in his heart, though the pain running through him was still significant, and he could not quite tell what was wrong with him.

“Sshonofabitch!  I gottsha gets outta heressh!” Said the bad, seemingly drunk spider man impersonator, and he began to run.  Two of the other men who were there saw him try to get away and tackled him as he tried to get away after only a few steps.

“No you don’t!'” One of them yelled as he tackled the man.  The mask came off in the struggle after he was taken down and glazed eyes and a dirty scruffy face that looked nothing short of deranged stared back at the two men who were on top of him.  He barked “Gets off of me!  Don’t you know who I am?”

“Ya!” The spindly red headed man in the blue suit said “You’re the idiot who’s going to jail for jumping this guy and hitting him with lumber, asshole!”

The whole thing would have been heard by the spider man wannabe, but the police car showed up at that moment with sirens blaring.  The man in the bad spider man get-up tried to get away from the two men with a frenzied panicked struggle, but it was no use.

The cops said “What’s going on? What are you two…”  But never got to finish as an older woman who had been standing on the periphery of the entire thing walked up to the officer and said “That guy in the long underwear beat that guy up with a two by four, and the two men on top stopped him from getting away! They should get a medal!”

Nodding their thanks, The two police officers stepped past the old woman and tapped the men on the shoulders and said “We’ll take it from here, fellas.  Thanks.”  The shorter officer, broad shouldered and square jawed, knelt on the assailants neck as the other two men got up and off of the man. The name plate on the officers barrel chest read Johnston.  Sporadic applause broke out for the two men as they got off of the costumed man..

“I got the wacko over here.  You cuff him, Les.”

“Got it…Check this out.  He’s got rope and…a few knives and a blackjack in this thing on his back.  What are you some kinda terrorist?”

“No!  I’m schpider-man!”

“Well, wall-crawler, you’re under arrest.  You have the right to remain silent…”

The drunk in the spider man costume began to cry.  Johnston said “Spidey don’t cry, son.  Man up.”  Then he laughed and looked at said “Stupid kids.  I’ll start re-reading him his rights.  Don’t want spider nut getting away on a technicality, Les.” Les nodded.

Johnston began to re-read his Miranda rights while his partner whistled the 1960’s spider man theme with a smile on his face.

Just Being Helpful


The small fishing village was inundated with snow and was hunkered down for yet another blast of winter.  Almost no one was outside. The forecast was for nearly another foot and the winds being up to 40 knots coming off of Nantucket sound had almost everyone indoors.  Almost.

A small shivering form dressed in a great many layers and covered in snow shambled slowly down the sidewalk near Buzzards Bay. Tears ran down her face from the wind, and she pushed her once regal blond hair out of her face.  With a craggy, rough hewn voice she said to no one in particular “God damn winter, God damn cold. Wicked nasty out here. And is my boy here to help me? No.  Has to be gallivantin’ around with his snow plow, leaving his poor old mother to fend for herself in this crap.”

She turned to her left and began to cross the street. The howl of the wind grew louder and the snow intensified.

– – – – – – – – –

The police car sat at the light at the corner of County street and Union Avenue opposite the old unitarian church, the one that looks like a castle and saw what looked like a person in the distance trying to get across the street.  And failing.  The officer in the passenger seat,  a  dark haired hawk nosed jarhead whose head was buried in his phone looked up from his phone and when he saw something in the distance, said ‘See that, Arnie?”

“What, ya got, Paully?”

“That. Up there. A few blocks up.  Is that someone standing in the street, or someone walking straight down the street?”

The driver, a bald man with a slightly graying goatee and wraparound sunglasses on smiled a thin smile and said “Let’s find out.” And turned on his lights but kept the siren off and blew through the light on the otherwise empty street heading east up Union to see who or what it was.

– – – – – – –

She held her cane in one frail gloved hand and she was bent from cold and age and walked slowly across the street.  A strong gust came in straight of the harbor and cut across the street she was trying to cross.  She stopped involuntarily trying her best to cross the street but simply unable to, walking as she was headlong into the gust.   Pushing forward with all her might she thought Dammit, Mary, now, you’ve done it.  You’re gonna die out here, frozen and alone. You should have stood home.  She tended toward the melodramatic to begin with, but being unable to walk forward in the wind turned melodrama in an honest struggle.

She felt completely powerless.

Arnie looked at the shambling old woman and said “Looks familiar.  Gonna pull up next to ‘im, see what happens.” Arnie pulled the patrol car up within a few feet of the old woman and rolled down the window and said “Are you OK?”

Mary looked at the police car for a moment before recognizing it was a police car, as she had forgotten her glasses, and said “Hello officers! I’m OK, I think.” As a gust of wind blew and nearly knocked her down.  Paul said to Arnie “Let’s ask her if she needs a ride anywhere.  Nothing else doing right now.” Arnie nodded and said “Good idea.  She might die out here if we don’t.”

“Excuse me.  Ma’am.  Where are you going.  We could take you where ever it is.  This weather is fit for neither man nor beast.  Get in!” Arnie nodded to Pauly and said “Get out there and get her.” Paul scratched his neck and pulled down the ear flaps on his hat and said “Got it.” And thought I shouldda kept my mouth shut.  Colder’n fuck out here. Where are these plows? A second squad car came by and rolled down a window. The driver said “You OK here, Davies?

“Ya!  Saw this old woman crossing the street and thought we’d give her a hand.” Then when the wind blew in their cars blowing snow up at them both men blinked and shook their heads and Arnie said “Easiest job in the world!  See ya back at the station in a little bit, Kev.”

“Easy for a Polar bear!  See you there!”

Paul got to the old woman and, opening the side door of the squad car said “What’s your na…Mrs. McGivens? is that you?”  The old woman recognized the face she saw after a second and said “Paul Davis!  How are you!  I haven’t seen you in..”

“Mrs. McGivens.  Get in the car.  We’ll get you where ever you have to get to.” While holding the door open and gesturing for her to get in.” She said “Why thank you young man!”but when she started to walk towards the open car door she slipped. Paul extended an arm and caught her but that simply kept her from hitting the pavement. She was still wobbling and nearly fell again, but this time Paul using both hands caught her and directed her into the car as gently as he could, while nearly slipping and falling himself and the yet unplowed streets.

After a moment she was in and the door was closed behind her, and she sat breathless behind Arnie.  He turned and said “Are you OK, Ma’am?” Mary said “Quite alright young man!  Thanks to your friend, Megan Davis’ grandson Paul.”  Arnie gave her a curious look and said “Is that so?  Small world!” Paul got in the car and took off his hat and turned to the rear of the police car after a knowing glance from Arnie and he said “Why are you out in this Mrs. McGivens? Trying to get yourself killed? We’re in the middle of another foot of snow, and the wind is howling out there.”

The old woman moved her cane to her left and it fell to the floor of the car and she looked at it and while trying to grab it said “I know, I know.  Old people don’t belong out in this weather. But I needed milk for my coffee, and wanted to pick up some pfefferneusse and my boy Danny isn’t due back until the roads are plowed, and I don’t know when that is gonna be. I thought I could make it. Thank you for picking me up and helping me out, Paul!  And thank you too, officer!” She said smiling and shivering in the back seat.

Arnie and Paul looked at each other and Paul said “Take her to the station to warm up before getting her back home?” Arnie scrunched up his face, leaned over and whispered “She does still need milk. We, or you or I could go pick some up for her while she’s waiting.  Should be you though.  You started this, and she knows you.” Arnie laughed at this.The car began to smell like the old woman, a vague impression of onion scent wafting through it.  Paul raised an eyebrow and after a quick sniff said “You agreed to come see.” But nodded and said “Mrs. McGivens, We’re gonna take you to the precinct to warm up for a few minutes and we’ll get the milk for you.”

The old woman didn’t seem to like this too much and it showed.  She wore a perturbed look on her face and after a moments hesitation said “If it’s OK with you I’d like to just go to the store myself.  I am old but I’m not feeble.  I’ve been independent for my entire life, married though I was for most of it.  Most of my ninety two years I’ve been strong enough to stand on my own.  I can do this, thank you very much boys.”

Paul looked at her and thought I’ll just guilt her into it and said “Now listen. We’d love to just let you go to do what you like, Ma’am, but you couldn’t cross the street there.  We can help you.  That’s all we want to do. I’d feel guilty as sin if I let you out of this car and you never made it home.  Danny would never forgive me, especially with him out there working and thinking you are home safe. We could call Danny and let him know…” His voice trailed off purposefully.

Mary rubbed her warming cheek and said “It is nice and warm here, and I’m sure it’s warm at the station house.  Are you sure it isn’t too much trouble? I wouldn’t want to impose…” Arnie smiled at Paul and said “No trouble at all, Ma’am, isn’t that right. Paul?”

Paul smiled at the old woman, ignoring the subtle jibe that was the inflection in Arnie’s voice and said “Is milk all you need, Mrs. McGivens?”

She said “Ye…wait.  I wanted something else… Sitting in this nice comfortable car and I can’t remember a thing.”  Paul said “That’s not the first time that’s happened, Ma’am. Suspects forget what they were doing and where they are going all the time.” Arne smiled at this and Mrs. McGivens earnestly replied “Then stop arresting people with Alzheimer’s!”

Both officers burst out laughing and headed two blocks east to the precinct house to drop off Mrs. McGivens and get her milk and a few other things.

In a Pickle

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Blindingly bright lights lit up the scene from multiple angles, and a group of people stood in a wide circle around the scene of what looked like a car wreck.  There was broken glass and the wreckage of a late model black dodge charger bent around a telephone pole at a painful looking angle, with the bloody body of a man hanging out of the broken passenger side window.

“Don’t push me, Jack!” said the short muscular man with the cheesy thin mustache to burly red headed square jawed man.

Jack smiled and said “Why not, Bobby?”  Bobby smiled and pulled the .38 from under his jacket and said “This is..”  Jack saw the weapon out but aimed at nothing but the ground and pounced on Bobby, grabbing the gun and pushing it away from him and towards Bobby’s buddy, Carmine. The two men grunted and strained as they fought over the weapon.

Carmine laughed at this, grabbed his .41 caliber, and after waiting a moment for a clear shot, walked over and shot Jack in the head at point blank range. Click.  No shot fired, but he fell over in a semi convincing fashion. Bobby said “Thank y…” but could not finish as Carmine aimed the gun at his head and fired again. Click.  Again no bang.

Bobby layed on the ground shaking for a moment then stopped.

Carmine waited until both men were motionless and looked clearly dead on the ground, then blew down the barrel of his .41 like the old west gunslingers did on television fifty years ago and said “Two birds with one stone.  I’ll get paid well for this.” And after looking around, he walked leisurely to his black Lincoln town car and backed it up and began the hard work of taking both mens bodies, seemingly motionless and began to job of getting them in the thin clear plastic lined trunk.

“CUT!  That was a great take, Mario!  We’ve got five takes and all the angles look good, so let’s go to the next shot.”  The director, Gary Bivens was a fat short balding man with wrap around green sunglasses and a hook for a left hand. He saw that Mario who was walking kind of funny and walking towards him with that look on his face.

Again.

Gary thought Dammit Mario what this time? You talentless fucking hack, what?  but what he said was “Mario, are you alright?  I see a bit of a limp.  Did the hooker blow you that well last night?”  He knew there was no hooker, he just said it to get Mario’s goat.

Mario sighed and said in his trademark Brooklyn Italian accent “These god damn pants don’t fit.  My dick and balls are too big for these things! Why do you think I’m limping?”  He said this loud enough to get the attention of the entire crew, including the two actors who had just played Bobby and Jack, who had just began to go over this part of the script again.

Lawrence Diaz, who had been playing Jack said “Quarter inch killer here is full of shit.  This ought to be good.  I got a dollar Gary makes him look like an asshole again.”  Edmond Seabolt in his particularly wispy Australian accent said “No fucking dice, mate.  He made Mario look like an asshole last time because Mario is an asshole.  He’s a great actor, but he’s an asshole.  No bet!”  Larry and Ed looked at each other and laughed and Larry said “I’m moving in closer.  I might be able to use this the next time I get to do stand up.”  Ed walked up a step behind and just to his left, looking like kids who were about to do something they know they shouldn’t.

Gary was not afraid of anyone or anything and this was his set.  He was annoyed at having to stop literally every take to listen to one of Mario’s complaints.  He got up and waddled over to meet Mario rather than have him walking over to the directors chair for the fifth time on this shot alone.  Mario stopped the moment he saw the little man walking towards him and sucked in air between his teeth, almost hissing.

Mario turned to one side and flaccidly shook a hairy hand at Gary and said “Don’t you touch me!”  Gary shook his head and small tufts of graying hair shook wildly and hung in his face and he made a face like he had just eaten a box full of lemons and stuck out his hand and said “Give it to me.”

“What?”

“You know.  The…enhancement.” And kept his meat hand extended, fingers gesturing “gimme”

Mario looked quizzically at Gary and said “Excuse me?” With a stone still emotionless and motionless face, trying his best not to give away that he felt like the man just ripped his heart out.  He thought Nononon I won’t do it!  I Can’t!  It’s part of the role! No! Screw you old man! I won’t do it.  Not in public.  Fuck you if you don’t like it and he gibbered internally and his hands began to shake.

“Now. or I’m booting you off set, and If I have to get someone else to star in this I will, you prancing preening primadonna fuck.  Enough complaints, from you.  Give it to me, or shut up and do your job.” He offered this last as  a way to give his star an out without having to pull out his…enhancement.

Mario glared and glowered at Gary, but after a moment staring at him looked away and said “I’m going.  I’m going.” and he went.

Gary said as the star walked away “Throw it out if it bothers you that much.”  then muttered “Gutless fuck.” after a second.  Mario shook his head and walked with a slight limp to his trailer and screamed “Leave me alone!” at his assistant who ran up to see if he needed anything.  She looked around with a confused look on her face and hands raised to indicate she had no idea what the fuck that was about.

Ed and Lawrence sauntered in their dirt covered blue suits to Gary and Ed said “Can we get a few minutes to grab a quick smoke and a sammich?”  Gary nodded and said “Yeah, sure.  I want a grab a bite myself, and I wanna go through the next scene with you guys after that, the Zombie rebirth scene is really gonna be a winner but the writers and I have a few ideas we wanna toss in.  The action will mostly be CGI, like it was meant to be but it’ll require some extra work from you guys.”

Ed nodded, but Lawrence said “Tell me, Boss.  What was that about?  What’s Mario’s problem this time?”  Gary shook his head and said “He’s a great actor but he’s a friggin primadonna. He thinks no one knows about his prosthetic.”

“Prosthetic?  Gary, He ain’t missing an arm…Umm, sorry.” Larry looked sheepish and held up his hands and made a face that indicated he really was sorry and was not actually trying to go there with a man who had lost his hand a few years back.

Gary looked at the hook, shrugged and said “No worries, Larry,and yes he is missing something, something important to him.” Larry looked down at his own crotch and it dawned on Larry when he remembered him about him talking about his dick and balls being too big for his pants.

“What’s he packin in there? It looked like he was trying to smuggle olives past the grips for most of this shoot.”  Gary laughed at this, laughed hard enough where he stopped and actually bent over and grabbed his knees and laughed so hard he started coughing uncontrollably. In between coughs and laughs he kept saying the word “He was smuggling Pickles, dammit! Pickles!” and finally fell over.

Lawrence and Ed looked at each other with wicked grins and muttered “Pickles?” and they laughed, then finally decided to help the man, along with several crew members who walked over.  People were walking over from all over the set and were all talking at once”Are you alright, mate? Relax.”  “Don’t have a stroke man.” ‘Can we get Gary some help here?”  Gary calmed down after a minute, and one of the steady cam operators and Lawrence grabbed him and got him to his feet.

Gary wiped the tears from his eyes and said “Pickles would be a step up.  He has been using different fruit in his pants every day. Remember he smelled kinda like oranges two days ago during the bar scenes?  He had an orange down his pants. He almost burned himself with a pepper than had more heat to it than he was prepared to deal with last week.  That was why we had to stop shooting for a day.  He used pickles yesterday.  His assistant hasn’t told me what he grabbed today to put in there to make himself look larger.”

The young woman with long black hair with the Stanford sweatshirt and black jeans heard the conversation and said “He still has those Pickles in his trailer.”

Everyone laughed and Larry’s hands shot to his face and with a smile on his face said “No more salad or condiments for me!”  Ed thrust his hips forwards provocatively and said in his best Mario impression “Pickle delivery, lady?”

The entire crew burst into laughter.  And Pickle jokes flew from all corners of the set.

Gary red faced and laughing again said “God damn it stop! Stop! Some of us are going to lunch! Shut up!”  But it was clear that no one was shutting up.  Lawrence said “I know…We have to hide all the food tomorrow morning, so he has no food to use!  I wanna see what he does! Jenn, we have to steal his Pickles!”

Into this a grim faced Mario walked. After stepping out of his trailer he walked into this melee, his pants fitting significantly better, no longer limping.  The laughter died down a bit, and the jokes kept flying, but they were much quieter.  Mario smiled serenely and not comprehending what was up said to Gary “Listen I’m sorry about before. Is there anything I can do to make up for it?”

Gary said “Yes.  Avoid the Salad bar from now on.”  The entire crew burst out laughing and fell away from him like an explosion went off where Mario was. It left him looking annoyed and confused and after about fifteen seconds, alone. He shook his head, not knowing what to do with that and walked back to his trailer and read the script and had his lunch delivered to him by a stagehand.

They sent him a salad.  With extra pickles.

This Alleged Post is Supposedly Like This On Purpose

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I am all about imagination.  And that is why I don’t believe in you, because I know what imagination is and how it works.  You are a figment of it and there is not a damn thing you can do about it.

And yes, I am talking to you, dear reader.  You do not exist.

It’s OK that you don’t exist. I don’t either, and both of those things are fine.  If readers are not real, how can authors possibly be?

If, for example, jokes are not true, or if stories are not real how can the world they exist in be real and true?  Sure I can get punched in the face for telling a bad joke about the failings of this non-real world to an angry man’s face, get beaten halfway into an imaginary grave, but fact of the matter is, if I am not real, that pain isn’t real, despite the evidence that my clearly unreal nerve endings produce.

Proof through a joke: What do you get when you cross Chuck Norris with Carrot-top? NOTHING, because they aren’t real, non-existent god damn it!

See!  No laughs!  Nothing real there! or anywhere!

Plus, I can take hypothetical painkillers after getting allegedly beaten for telling immaterial shitty jokes, or maybe even from the shitty alleged jokes themselves.  And Painkillers are yet another proof of our insubstantiality.  If pain is real it is there, how can something that is there go away, unless it was never there and never real in the first place?

Oh we can create other fictions like time and the universe and the earth and reality and alternate reality and life and death and the like to make up for our lack of narrative skill (which we can’t have because we don’t exist) about the imaginary nature of the world in which we pretend to live in. (you realize most political thought is based on similar unreal thought processes) We can suspend our disbelief and watch with awe and wonder as unreal fantasies flash before our imaginary eyes and pretend they are there.

Sure you can knock on a table and say This is real. I feel it. I can hear it.  Can I deny the evidence that my ears and brain give me?  Just because you think you are knocking on a table, and other people are reacting to you in my mind does not mean anything.  You are a figment as much as I am, as is that knocking and that table, and the people in our lives, and the people not in our lives.

Again, can I deny evidence that my ears and brain give me? Absolutely you can!  If I took a hallucinogen, or suffered a brain injury and imagined a tiny elephant walking on my testicles, would the fact that it exists as evidence in my brain make it real?

Would auditory hallucinations of an elephant making…whatever noises an elephant makes, Braying?  Farting? Elephantine noises of a deafeningly raucously unreal variety…whatever they are called, would that make it real? No! So how can you tell anything or trust any information except by experience, experience from a sense organ that can clearly be tricked and fooled into almost anything? How do you know? You don’t and you can’t.

And all that you know and see and understand, all that anything is, is a sensation in an unreal sensory organ that can clearly be fooled.  Look, for example at the experiments done at Harvard.  They did an experiment there where they blocked a persons view of one arm, and gave them a prosthetic rubber one that looked like it was attached to them… and if this crazy shit doesn’t prove to you the dream like hallucinatory nature of what you think of as real, you are fucking high out of your clearly illusory mind.

ANYWAY…they did this experiment and petted the hand over and over again, and after only a few minutes of this, the participants could actually feel the petting despite the fact that nothing was touching them.  Nothing but their own imaginations, there was nothing actually there, nothing actually touching their skin.

Proof that since they got sensation from something with no sensory connection whatsoever, the something that is normally there cannot be said to be real and as fake night follows unreal day all sense perception is  therefore unreal, does not and cannot exist in any real sensory perceptible fashion and that the organ doing the experiencing is in fact flawed and failed and for all intents and purposes unreal.

FUCK that was a long run on sentence.  Doesn’t matter though.  Neither it nor you or I are real, so fuck it.

Best part of this shadowy and unreal study?  At one point every test subject was hit in that clearly fake hand that they clearly had feeling in with a hammer.  And guess what?  They experienced pain! In a hand that had no nerve endings and that was made of fucking rubber!  Don’t believe me, go to that fake ass website youtube and look it up!  It’s there, if anything can be said to be anywhere in this distinctly baseless world.

So what are these thoughts? What are these… things in our lives?  What are these people that both inhibit and inhabit our world?  How can even the imaginary exist if there isn’t something real imagining it?  There can be no bubble of imagination without a corresponding bubble of reality somewhere, right?

Wrong.  What you call reality, those small bubbles of life and sensation that you claim are experiential do not in fact exist.  They are not real because there is no personal subjective universe to observe and live in…

I don’t have to see you to see the looks of confusion and disbelief.  And…I gotta tell ya, I’m not happy with your illusionary bullshit.  I live in your non-existent universe, with your non-existent god (there may be a god, he isn’t the one you think he/she/it is if at all though) and listen to you talk about your non-existent morals and non-existent ethics and dilemmas and other bullshit and your non-existent maneuvering for non-existent sex from non-existent drunk blonds.  Fine!  I deal with it, pretend any of it matters, for my entire life!  But just once I show you the emperors new clothes and everyone gets all glassy eyed.

Fuck you non-existent fuckers!  Get me a beer, you non-existent reader and shake that spectacularly non-existent ass for my non-existent pleasure.

Now if you don’t mind, I am going to go the unreal store and get some fake milk to put in my illusory coffee.

May your circadian diurnality be idiosyncratic.

(anything in this post that seems humorous or even slightly sane is a clearly faulty connection to what you think is but clearly isn’t what you perceive to be reality inside your undoubtedly fictitious mind)

Too much?  Maybe?  Just a shade? I dunno….

And They Danced

Vallotton-Valse-LeHavre

Heather smiled over the rim of her glass at the table by the bar at the man she was seated across from.  She was thin and tall and had blonde hair that shimmered under the black light and her red dress swayed slightly with the breeze caused by the ceiling fans.  Her eyes were blue and magnetic, the kind that suck you in, and don’t let you go until she is ready to let you go.  She ran the fingers of one hand through her hair while the fingers of the other weaved the air gently as if she was trying to form the right words with magic out of the air she said “What are your… guilty pleasures?”

Steve was a roguish looking man with permanent five o’clock shadow, a square jaw and green eyes. He smiled over the rim of his beer and took a pull of it as he ran a hand through his longish black hair and thought a minute.  His tight black shirt and tight black pants accentuated a tight muscular frame that he was more than happy to show to a woman as beautiful as heather. He smiled and said “You are asking me what my guilty pleasures are?” He smiled and sighed slightly and after a second said  “I am honestly not sure.  Seriously.  It’s not like I think of stuff like that.  I’m not sure I even know exactly what you are asking me for when you ask me what my guilty pleasures are.  Give me an example. if you could.”

She smiled broadly and thought well played, and after a moments hesitation said “Guilty pleasures, you know, stuff you enjoy doing that you feel a kind of slight remorse over doing because you know deep down they are just a little wrong, a little too decadent or immoral. Like…Hmmm…eating an entire container of Haagen-daas after exercising or Oreo cookies for breakfast, that kind of thing.  Slight remorse over something you enjoy but shouldn’t for whatever reason.”

“Slight remorse.  Ok.  Not like the robbing a bank kind of pleasure because that is big league immoral if you , you know, were raised a law abiding citizen like I was. More along the lines of really liking nineteen seventies disco despite the fact that you are a die hard death metal fan.  That range of thing. Yours seem to involve food which is surprising looking at how stunning you look in that dress.”

She blushed and broke eye contact for a second, then kicked her head back, and tossing her hair back said “Thank you.” then thought Wow this guy is amazing, so far and said “Ok, no to bank robbing, yes to seventies disco?  What else?”

“Nononononono, I  hate disco, capital H Hate the stuff. It’s wretched, i’d much rather rob a bank than listen to it.”  He thought She is hot as hell! Hearkening back to the bank robbing thing was a nice touch. Could have used less volatile wording with the disco tho.  She might like it, damn I wanna fuck this girl.  He continued “I was just using that as an example.  And to give me time to think of one for real.  And you know to be perfectly honest I don’t think I really ave any.  The things that I like doing I like doing, and the things that I don’t like I don’t like.  I don’t try to hide things from either myself or anyone else. I don;t think I do anyway.”

She frowned at him. It was a mock frown, she really liked him and pushed him just a touch.  She felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand when she touched his muscular chest and said “Oh C’mon, everyone has something they like doing but doesn’t readily admit to liking. Not a single TV show, not a single food, not a single fetish, not anything? You can’t be serious. There has to be something!”

He thought I could tell her about the writing.  I think it’d surprise her to know about that.  He said “Ok, ok.  There is something that I guess you could call a guilty pleasure.  Ya see, when I was a kid I used to think no one ever listened to me.  In large part because no one ever listened to me, but also because I was a kid and everything bothers you when your a kid.  So I took up writing.  I have these little journals at home and I have been writing in it for years.  I write stories, jokes, I write about my angst and my joy, everything. I’ve been doing it for ages.  It’s not something I share or like to share or talk about.”

Her eyes brightened noticeably when he said he was a writer. She was keenly interested in writing herself, having taken a stab at it in college before she found she was more interested in teaching  She said “Oooo I’m sure there is some juicy stuff in there.”

“There is, but you’ll never find out.”

“Why not? Don’t you trust me?”

He smiled and said “I’ve never shown anyone this stuff.”  Then he decided this would be a great time to get closer and moved around the table and walked up next to her and whispered in her ear ‘Can I trust you to keep whatever you read there a secret?’ She smiled at him and did not move away, and tilted her head just a little bit, her eyes riveted on him, his eyes riveted on her. She smelled sweet and he said “You smell like candy.”

They kissed.  For a long minute the world spun around them and she picked up one foot off of the floor, just like they do in the movies when the hero kisses the girl.  Her toes crinkled up just a bit when she did that.  So did his.  She smiled and noticed the world around them and suddenly felt a little self conscious.  She was in love, and so was he.  She suddenly became aware of the music behind them and she said “Let’s dance!”

Steve grabbed her hand and they went to the dance floor and neither one seemed to touch the floor as they walked, both smiling having a hard time looking away from one another. It was seventies disco but he didn’t care now.

Heather said to him pushing her hair behind her left ear “Can I be in your next chapter?”

He said “Only if you can be my guilty pleasure.” And they both smiled and then wrapped their arms around one another and kissed again.

And they danced

Just Another Day 2/16

Gyosai_The_Munificent_Mice

I was walking home from my daily run today, a run of about three miles.  Three and twelve one hundredths of a mile if you must know.  Why I would think you want to know that I have no idea, but there it is.  Anyway.  I was struck by a few thoughts, there and at home afterwards.

– – – – – – – – – – – –

Fuck it’s cold:  Well, in actuality that thought was there the whole time, but especially after i stopped being warm from running like a rat in a maze in the park near where I live. Twenty plus mile an hour winds do cut through several layers of cotton clothes rather easily when it’s only eighteen degrees out.

Mother nature, being an asshole. Again.

C’mon! Turn up the heat, mom! What the hell?!? Do you like frozen Squirrels? Iced testicles? Is that your idea of funny?  Cause I ain’t laughin!

– – – – – – – – – – – –

What is wrong with drivers: I see this person pull out of a parking spot in front of her house, a very nice house BTW, and when it isn’t covered in snow a meticulously well-kept lawn.  From looking in her windows (there wasn’t anything worth stealing so I kept moving) (lulz)her place was immaculate.  Her truck was perfect. A big blue chevy truck that looked like it was just washed.  No salt, no crap, no nothing on it.  She pulls out, then decides she needs something inside, near as I could tell, and turns around and brings her truck back around.

Ass end of the truck stuck out in the road, both front wheels on the grass next to the sidewalk.  So much for fucking meticulous, huh?  We don’t need to pay attention to how normal humans park, do we?  There’s snow everywhere, so I can say fuck it and park on the grass, amiright?

Did I mention that I was trying to walk on that sidewalk by when this happened?  Didn’t even look in my direction, despite the fact that I was right in front of her.  Did I also mention that I was wearing an Black and blue, kinda hard to miss when the rest of the world is white from snow.

The space for the truck where it was initially parked was where she pulled in, except that she pulled in friggin sideways.

Now I gotta tell you that I respect a well put together sense of fuckitall, I have a rather subtle and dense one of those myself, but don’t get your fuckitall all over my smelly damn running outfit, especially when I am still wearing it.  That’s rude

I don’t need the hospitalization at this moment in my life.  I’ll pass, thanks.

Now the driver that was driving by in the other direction when she made the U-turn didn’t even move and nearly sideswiped her, and had the temerity to blow his horn at her and stare at her like she was crazy.

Well…she was, but so was the old man… in his chevy truck.

Maybe it’s a chevy thing.  But I dunno, I’ve seen lunatics drive subaru’s so ya can’t tell that way.  Maybe it’s a local Staten Island thing.  But I dunno about that either, I’ve been a lot of places and most people drive like maniacs.  Maybe it’s a driving thing…

Ya know, I don’t know about that either. For all that i’ve seen and experienced shitty drivers all over the fucking place, I’ve also seen masterful drivers and conscientious drivers too.

Fuck I dunno

– – – – – – – – – – – –

What is wrong with me:  After dealing with the bad parking at the corner of Sanford place  and Screw you avenue and I got home, I got to thinking about my finances and work. Had I been working I would not have been out running, and it gets me thinking about work whenever I run and the sun is up.

This is rarely a good or constructive thing in my life when it happens.   But this was one of the rare times.  I wanted to put a happy spin on it in my head. Because …  well … fuck unnecessary stress. Because I want to be happy.  Because I was getting sick of beating myself up over not having enough money to exist stress free, when I stopped for a second and thought wait.  Is that even possible? Can a human live stress free?

Everyone has stress of some variety and much of it attached to money, at least here in America. Money is how we live, it is why we work, it in many ways defines who we are. What do you say when people ask what you do? Do you say you sleep and fuck and shit and piss? Of course not.  Those things don’t define who you are, unless you are a narcoleptic porn star with a toilet fetish you don’t.  Do you say you are a guitarist if you don’t make money doing it?  No.  At that point that’s a hobby.  If you said you were would you also say you were a chronic masturbater as well?  Maybe not but that counts as a hobby if the money the porn industry pulls in is any indication.  No, you are your job in many ways. It is the identifier of the lives of most humans. And it creates stress, no matter how much you have.

Mind you I would much rather have the stress of having to pay taxes on a billion dollars worth of income than the stress of having to worry whether I’ll be homeless next month thanks to the complete lack of money, which is closer to where I am right now.  And I got to thinking.

Money is an albatross around the neck of humanity, a weight we could all do without.

Mind you I also thought, we can’t not have money, not at this point in the proceedings.  We’ve been a civilization for …how long has there been writing and agriculture?  The first story was written over five thousand years ago or some such and farming has been around twice as long.  Back then we needed something better than barter, better than I’ll give you these five chickens, and you give me that cow and that cucumber.  I can kill and eat the cow, or breed it should I so choose, and diddle the wife with the cucumber (they didn’t have battery powered sex toys in Ancient Sumer.  Just saying.)

You could get robbed without some means of creating fairness in the market, that cow could be ill and I might never know it till I get home.  That cucumber could be a squash(I’m blind as a friggin bat, don’t mind me,) and she breaks out whenever that shit touches her who-ha…

Fuck, I just wrote that didn’t I. Don’t delete it Mike, Own it. 

Lulz.

ANYWAY ….. Money was a great way to create that fairness on that individual level, takes the guesswork out of that part of the market.  A shekel is a shekel is a shekel. The shekel, the concept of money created a ladder of commerce, and that ladder has different rules at the bottom than it does at the top, or so it seems. Seems because emotions rule here, and the emotions that come along with the attachment to money and the need for things both creates and distorts reality.  The reality of that ladder and that shekel came with a price.

A price we’ve been paying ever since, and that price is one where he who has the most wins.  And that is bullshit because that motherfucker may cheat and lie and steal and be immoral as fuck to get his pile. My pile isn’t even a mole hill of pennies.  If I try to do what he does, without the access to the things he has and his methods I fail. If I try it hard enough, be unscrupulous enough, like him, I’d go to prison. I’m not nearly as polished as him, and you know shit would go wrong in a hurry.  And in this system, our system, you are not allowed to be immoral to people…unless you are rich, so it seems.  Then it’s cool.

And he gets rewarded for it (think hedge fund managers, oil barons{and yes there are still oil barons, pay the fuck attention}, tech czars making billions while the chinese people who make their shit die young, get worked to death, and make barely enough to exist, and cannot even dream of freedom you and I take for granted.

Money is slavery.  But slavery we all willing submit to, so we can all live.  There is something wrong with that.  And no I am not a communist.  I love America more than you, bitch. My red white and blue dick is bigger than yours, and your wife already knows that shit.

I can be a rude son of a bitch when the mood strikes

So…how is all this positive?  Knowledge is power, and knowing it is there makes it easier to traverse the road we all travel from birth to death.  Knowing the landmines, knowing where they are and who controls them gives me more control in my life, in a life where control is something that is a rare and precious commodity.

Especially with all these bastards not letting me steal not even a measly single billion dollars.

Assholes.  Everywhere.

– – – – – – – – – – – –

I love writing. I really do. I have been writing for years but I have not had this much joy this much sheer happiness from writing I think since I started.

I finished a story that I had been having problems with for the past few weeks, including having to take a nearly complete eight thousand plus word story and scrap it because it became untenable and start over.

I’ve been watching comedy a lot the last three days.  A lot.  A fucking huge amount.  At random, I decided to search for a comedian I had not seen in a while, one that I loved in my twenties.  I wanted to show my wife some stuff he had done.  Lo! and Behold!  He had a show that I had never heard of!  And the people on it are awesome!

So after watching it, and other comedians for hours on end I get it in my head to write jokes.  Good jokes?  Fuck please.  If I’m writing jokes for ten minutes, would you expect to get an entire George Carlin-esque sequence out of me on the first go?  NFL.  Not. Friggin. Likely.

I’ll start at the bottom like everyone else and write shitty jokes and let them ferment and see if I can’t eventually write some good jokes.  But god DAMN I am enjoying the process.

More fun than a little I tell you that.

– – – – – – – – – – – –

Epilogue

My balls are not frozen like they were before I got home.  The lady is probably fine, sitting at home in front of her big screen TV, dreaming of tomorrow when she can park her truck on someone elses lawn or some other silly shit.  And while broke, I am at least relaxed about it,and I’m even writing shitty jokes about it.

Not a bad day, not a bad day at all.

He Shouldn’t Have Done That

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“The poor guy is dead.”.

The big man with the bandaged hand sat in the poorly lit room recounting the tale of events that happened not an hour before. The large dark living room was covered in old tan wallpaper with flowers of some variety on it, lit with a single small lamp on a small table some distance from the big man. There was one other small arm chair and a small sofa some distance away from the big man. There were three men there with him, brothers who rented this house. All dressed similarly, barefoot with shorts and t-shirts, all smaller than him.  He was dressed like most men did, jeans and a t-shirt with a baseball cap on his head, tilted slightly to one side. He differed from them in that his t-shirt, once white, was yellowed with age and had blood stains on it.  The clock ticked away the seconds.  It was quarter after midnight.

The big man spoke again, saying “That no good son of a bitch had it coming.  When I first tagged him, it was an absolute joy to watch his face and head twist the way they did.  An absolute joy.”

“Do tell, Johnny.  Do tell.” said the man sitting in the armchair, his face covered in shadow.

“I’m getting to it, Benny.  He shouldn’t have talked about my girl like that.  I love her with all my heart and I will be DAMNED if any skinny pencil necked son of a bitch is gonna get  away with calling my girl a whore.  Who the hell does he think he is anyway? He shouldn’t have done that.”

“He thought he was a tough son of a bitch!” said the thin man with a plain black shirt sitting on the right side of the sofa.

“Not much tougher than I gave him credit for, tell ya that, Sherm. Surprised me when he turned around as fast as he did and clocked me back.  Didn’t hurt much, he is after all only five foot four and might weight a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, and me six foot three and two hundred fifty if i’m an ounce.  I did move though.”

“I guessing your eyes light up when he got you there.”

“I’m sure they did, Benny. Pissed me off but good.”  He thought back to the fight itself, and how he wanted to re-tell the story. As he recalled,  the other guys around were doing what they usually do when this kinda thing happens outside a bar, which is yell stupid shit at the pugilists to rile’em up further and show their support for their guy.  Kinda like boxing, only there’s no cheating and no gloves and no money.  Just fists and beatings.

The yelling annoyed him, he remembered, dimly.

The story continued “He went to throw that second shot and I stuck my left up there to block it.  Blocked it easy enough but the crazy monkey was swinging for the fences with the other one as well and he caught me square in the chin That shit hurt!. That’s when I really got angry. Sure my eyes lit up fierce then.”

“Sure they did, Johnny.”

“I reared back and tossed a right at his head with all my might.  I mean ALL my might.”

“Is that why yer hand is all wrapped up now?”

“Maybe. Cracked a knuckle on his face when one of my punches landed. But there he went down hard.  He was a pile of stupid on the ground after that. Pounded him good on the ground too.  Got a few good ones in.” Johnny laughed for a second, his face springing to life. A second later it again took on it’s more natural gloomier aspect

There was a pause. Benny was trying to be as delicate with the subject as he could be said “So that’s what did him in, Johnny?”

Johnny went back in his mind over the events, and it was hazy in his mind.  He was a savage, a dumb brute to begin with, and the adrenaline that remembering the fighting provided only made it more difficult for him to focus.  His legs were moving rapidly as he bounced them nervously on the balls of his feet, his eyes gripped on the small table with the wilting bouquet of flowers in front of him.

He couldn’t admit it to himself, never mind them.  He said “I…I dunno.  My girl was there and she came up and kicked him a bunch and said he deserved it for calling her a whore and all.  And I might have tossed one or two kicks in as well…”

A siren sounded in the distance and Johnny ducked lower in the chair he was sitting in.  Benny said “What are you gonna do now? And where’s your girl?”

“She went home to her momma, that’s what I told her to do, and I hope she listened.”

“Women never listen.” Sherm said

“Nope.  If they did they wouldn’t be women.” Johnny frowned and shook his head and continued  “I…I went past my place before I got here and there were cops outside my door, w…waiting for me.  I…I…I gotta skip town.  I can’t stay here no more.  It’s…. too hot here.”

Sherm scooted forward in his seat and said”You got family elsewhere? Friends elsewhere, Johnny?”

“Got a buddy I was in the army with a few states away.  He’s back east,  Covington Tennessee.  I have his address…” And he started to reach for his wallet.

George, youngest of the three who was quiet all this time, looked at Sherm and Benny dubiously and said ” We believe you, Johnny, we don’t need to see.. You want to head to the bus station or something, or are you gonna lie low somewhere for a bit? There was a very slight emphasis on the word somewhere.  He wasn’t sure Johnny would pick up on it.  He knew his brothers would.

Johnny look puzzled.  He wasn’t sure.  He said “I….I just don’t know.  What do you fellas think?”

All three looked at one another.  They all realized that the big brute was in trouble, and none of them wanted anything to happen to them as a result of having him around. Thinking his brothers would be of the same mind George said “You should get out of Dodge while the getting is good.  My car is on the fritz, so I can’t take ya anywhere.  How about you fellas?”

They shook their heads and said nothing.  Johnny said “Can I stick here for a few hours and catch up on my sleep?”

Benny’s face looked like he had just eaten a lemon and he said “You sure it would be the best idea to travel during the day with cops looking for you?  Wouldn’t it be better to get out under cover of darkness?”

Ponderously the big man nodded and got up out of the chair he was in, and said “That is some good advice.  I stick out like a sore thumb in daylight.  I should go now.”  He walked slowly past the gentlemen seated in the small room and patted Benny on the shoulder and said “Thanks for looking out for me, buddy.”

Johnny figured Benny might be looking out for himself, but he was right too, even if he was.  And if the cops caught him, well… He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

He walked slowly out the door into the cool, crisp September night

Benny whispered “Good riddance.” after Johnny had left.  The other two brothers nodded and walked away, up the stairs to their separate rooms, back to a sleep they hoped they could get to. Benny reached for the phone and began to dial 911 to alert the police of Johnny’s whereabouts and where he thought he was heading.