I scan the faces and signs in the passenger meeting area of Phnom Penh International Airport until I make eye contact with a short, sweaty Cambodian man holding a sign that says Richard Perkins.
I smile. He smiles back.
"Mr. Perkins?"
"Yes."
"Welcome to Cambodia. Right this way, please."
He takes my duffel bag (no checked luggage) and ushers me through the crowd into a black Lincoln Town Car. Moments later, we've left the airport and are driving into the capital.
Outside our air conditioned car there are hundreds of scooters with three, four, five passengers on them. Concrete schools, palm trees, water buffalo, gas stations, billboards in Khmer, English, and Chinese.
After the usual post-arrival small talk, we get into talking about the coming weekend: the conference, my business proposal, the mood at headquarters, things like that. I answer his questions as best I can, but it's not easy. I'm not up on the mood at headquarters. I'm not prepared for any sort of proposal. I know nothing about this conference.
I'm not Richard Perkins.
But the airport pick-up guy doesn't know that, so hey, free ride into town.
I ask the driver to swing by a crowded roadside market where I buy a couple of Tiger beers and offer him one. He declines, and I've killed them both by the time we pull into the hotel, where I play the pickpocket card. Somebody must have gotten my passport and wallet at the market!
We have a tug-o-war about what we should do, and eventually I'm able to talk him into getting the hotel to check me in sans ID (the conference will vouch for me) before we go to the police.
I get to the suite and move fast. The clock is ticking. The real Richard Perkins will be contacting somebody soon if he hasn't already.
I call room service and order a steak (medium rare) and three bottles of Johnny Walker (black). Then I shower, change (business casual to backpacker), sign for the room service when it arrives, empty out the contents of the mini bar into my duffel bag along with two of the three bottles, and slip out the back exit of the hotel to enjoy my walking picnic.
Most people don't eat T-bone steaks with their hands. Most people are idiots. Walking the streets of Phnom Penh with a grilled steak in one hand and a bottle of Johnny Black in the other? You're indestructible. You should try it sometime.
I finish the steak, throw the bones to some stray dogs, and take occasional hits off one of the bottles, selling the other two to a bar owner on the outskirts of the backpacker section of town.
The next few hours are a blur of smoky go-go bars, back alley Mahjong games, street vendors, cockfights, pool hopping, cheap cigarettes, and alcohol. I end up crashing at a cheap guest house near the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.
The next day, I take some fancy schmancy hotel's free shuttle service back to the airport, scan the signs and faces at the passenger greeting area, and try to figure out which one looks the most promising.
This shit never gets old.
My friends keep telling me I'm stupid for doing this kind of stuff, especially when it's so unnecessary. It's not like I can't afford a cab ride into town or whatever. But I've tried the straight and narrow brand of travel, and it's not nearly as much fun as the crimes and misdemeanors route. Besides, in all my years of doing this, I've never once gotten arrested or been confronted by the real Richard Perkins or whoever.
You should try it sometime. Seriously.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
September 1 - Legs
It wouldn't be an overstatement to call her a freak of nature, although it would be exceedingly callous and indelicate, especially considering how gentle and unassuming she was. Unfortunately, those were characteristics that almost nobody ever got to know her well enough to glean: Her parents kept her out of public as much as possible. And considering how cruel kids could be to anyone who was even slightly different from the rest of the group (in other words, anyone), their decision was perhaps understandable. It was unsettling to imagine the mean things kids might call someone like Cindy Jenkins.
Standing a lanky six foot five inches, Cindy was almost completely legs. They were approximately 75% of her height.
Her torso was about the size of three sandbags stacked on top of each other. Her left arm ended in a knotty nub at the elbow and her right arm had a smooth, hairless hand that had three long fingers and no thumb. She had a normal sized head and no neck to speak of. Other than that, she was all legs.
Her parents and doctors had no explanation for how it had happened. She had just been born that way. No other families near them had children with any birth defects. Neither her mother nor father had any sort of genetic abnormalities in their family histories. Furthermore, they had a younger son named Scott who was normal in every way.
As was Cindy, with the exception of her legs.
And so during her early childhood years, her parents tried to both treat her normally and also minimize her contact with the outside world. It was a difficult balancing act, and keeping her hidden away at home usually took precedence.
After Cindy finished kindergarten, she and her family moved to Wilmington, Delaware so she could be treated at the Alfred I duPont Hospital for Children. Because she would be spending so much time in the hospital, her parents decided to home school her and her brother.
Another reason why they home schooled her--the bigger reason--was because they were afraid of how children in a new town would treat their daughter. By then Cindy was becoming increasingly aware of how different she was from other children. And it horrified them to think of how cruel the other children might be to her.
And so as much as possible, they kept her sheltered at home. Other than the hospital and family vacations taken in strategically chosen (and highly secluded) spots, Cindy never went anywhere.
By the time she finished elementary school, the focus of her treatment had shifted from trying to find a cure to trying to help her stay healthy and live as normal and independent a life as possible.
She was well on her way. By then, through years of occupational therapy, Cindy had developed the ability to use her feet to write, use a cell phone, brush her teeth, and do just about everything else that other people did with their hands. She felt capable and confident, but a little lonely.
Years later, after finishing middle school, her brother Scott decided he wanted to go to a 'real' high school, and so with some trepidation his parents enrolled him in the local public high school. He gradually made friends with some of the boys on his soccer team, and sometimes they came over to play video games and watch movies.
Sometimes Cindy would join them, and Scott's friends never knew how to treat her. The general tendency was for them to be overly nice to her for the first 15 seconds and then spend the rest of their afternoons looking at her as little as possible. So desperate were they not to cause an awkward situation by staring at her that they caused an awkwarder situation by not looking at her at all.
That changed gradually as Cindy joined them on the PS3 where she schooled them in Madden, Halo, and Grand Theft Auto, manipulating the controller with her feet.
In time, Scott's friends treated her almost like any other friend's sister. They still erred on the side of niceness, but that was more than OK with Cindy's parents, and it was these positive experiences with Scott's friends that caused them to rethink their decision to keep Cindy sheltered from the outside world.
As for Cindy, she had always wanted to go to a regular school. And so together they made the decision for her to be enrolled at the same high school as her brother for her senior year in high school.
The first days were nearly overwhelming for her. Up until then, her only experiences with school had been occupational therapy sessions at the hospital and what she saw on TV and in the movies, in particular, Glee and High School Musical. Her high school was not that world, not that she expected it to be. In fact, after her first week, it was hard for her to remember what she had expected.
She certainly hadn't expected it to be so crowded, although she had more or less anticipated the stares. She'd gotten them every time they went to the hospital when she was younger, but they never lasted as long as they did in the school's hallways because during the trips to the hospital they were always just getting into or out of the minivan. It was always a brief moment on the way to someplace else.
But in the hallways and classrooms of school, she was there. And unlike Scott's friends who couldn't really gawk because there were only two of them, at school the herd instinct prevailed. Everyone looked, though not necessarily in a cruel or mocking way. They just looked, sometimes out of the corners of their eyes, sometimes behind her back, sometimes indirectly, and sometimes straight on.
Cindy could sense it all around her, the way she would turn a corner or walk into a classroom and the noise level would drop suddenly as everyone tried (with varying degrees of success) to not be too obvious about staring at her. Often, she tried smiling and saying hello, but it was like they didn't notice. They almost never reacted to her efforts to engage them.
The first few weeks were hard. Most people tended either to ignore her or be overly nice to her. Rare was the person who treated her like any other 17-year-old girl. That went for students as well as teachers.
Classes themselves weren't a problem at all, though. During the time when she was being home schooled, she had been taking most of her classes for AP credit. To her new teachers, she was the ideal student, eager to answer questions and always going above and beyond on her homework.
For group projects, she usually got paired up with two or three other students at random. And she almost always ended up doing most of the work while the other members of her group goofed off, chatted with each other, and texted. At first it bothered her, but soon she decided it was just easier for her to do all the work herself than to try to make them do something she would just have to correct later.
Most of the other students at her school were pleasant to her, but they never invited her to hang out with them. They might say hello or something, but then any time it seemed like their exchange might progress into an actual conversation, someone else would show up, hijack the exchange, and Cindy would be left out of a conversation full of references to people, events, couples, and scandals she wasn't familiar with.
In an effort to make friends, she dabbled a bit in extracurricular activities, going out for the track team. With her long legs, she figured she would be a no brainer for hurdle events. But because she was afraid of injuring her feet, she ran and jumped too cautiously. If she had been any other member of the team, the coaches would have punished her, run her harder, pushed her, or kicked her off the team.
But they were nice to Cindy.
They encouraged her, clapped for her efforts, and were quick with a "Good job!" and "Way to go!" In effect, Cindy felt like the coaches were treating her like she was competing in the Special Olympics, while the other girls glared at her behind her back. She quit the team after a week, and stayed away from extracurricular activities after that.
Her parents started to worry that maybe they had all made the wrong decision, but after her first few months, things more or less normalized for Cindy. She worked on the yearbook committee, and was soon eating lunch with the other yearbook staffers every day. The other students in her AP classes gradually warmed up to her, and in time, she had made a few friends. As the school year continued, she goofed off with them more and more, and even managed to get in trouble a couple of times (but not too seriously).
Come spring, she got her driver's license, went to the prom (with a friend), and graduated from high school toward the top of her class.
More importantly, she got her first experiences with the outside world under her belt, allowing her to feel much more confident about the prospect of going away to college, which she did last week.
Her parents aren't really sure how she's doing, though, because she hardly ever calls home. Scott keeps telling them that this is probably a good sign, but they can't help worrying. She may be a six foot five college freshman, but she's still their little girl.
Standing a lanky six foot five inches, Cindy was almost completely legs. They were approximately 75% of her height.
Her torso was about the size of three sandbags stacked on top of each other. Her left arm ended in a knotty nub at the elbow and her right arm had a smooth, hairless hand that had three long fingers and no thumb. She had a normal sized head and no neck to speak of. Other than that, she was all legs.
Her parents and doctors had no explanation for how it had happened. She had just been born that way. No other families near them had children with any birth defects. Neither her mother nor father had any sort of genetic abnormalities in their family histories. Furthermore, they had a younger son named Scott who was normal in every way.
As was Cindy, with the exception of her legs.
And so during her early childhood years, her parents tried to both treat her normally and also minimize her contact with the outside world. It was a difficult balancing act, and keeping her hidden away at home usually took precedence.
After Cindy finished kindergarten, she and her family moved to Wilmington, Delaware so she could be treated at the Alfred I duPont Hospital for Children. Because she would be spending so much time in the hospital, her parents decided to home school her and her brother.
Another reason why they home schooled her--the bigger reason--was because they were afraid of how children in a new town would treat their daughter. By then Cindy was becoming increasingly aware of how different she was from other children. And it horrified them to think of how cruel the other children might be to her.
And so as much as possible, they kept her sheltered at home. Other than the hospital and family vacations taken in strategically chosen (and highly secluded) spots, Cindy never went anywhere.
By the time she finished elementary school, the focus of her treatment had shifted from trying to find a cure to trying to help her stay healthy and live as normal and independent a life as possible.
She was well on her way. By then, through years of occupational therapy, Cindy had developed the ability to use her feet to write, use a cell phone, brush her teeth, and do just about everything else that other people did with their hands. She felt capable and confident, but a little lonely.
Years later, after finishing middle school, her brother Scott decided he wanted to go to a 'real' high school, and so with some trepidation his parents enrolled him in the local public high school. He gradually made friends with some of the boys on his soccer team, and sometimes they came over to play video games and watch movies.
Sometimes Cindy would join them, and Scott's friends never knew how to treat her. The general tendency was for them to be overly nice to her for the first 15 seconds and then spend the rest of their afternoons looking at her as little as possible. So desperate were they not to cause an awkward situation by staring at her that they caused an awkwarder situation by not looking at her at all.
That changed gradually as Cindy joined them on the PS3 where she schooled them in Madden, Halo, and Grand Theft Auto, manipulating the controller with her feet.
In time, Scott's friends treated her almost like any other friend's sister. They still erred on the side of niceness, but that was more than OK with Cindy's parents, and it was these positive experiences with Scott's friends that caused them to rethink their decision to keep Cindy sheltered from the outside world.
As for Cindy, she had always wanted to go to a regular school. And so together they made the decision for her to be enrolled at the same high school as her brother for her senior year in high school.
The first days were nearly overwhelming for her. Up until then, her only experiences with school had been occupational therapy sessions at the hospital and what she saw on TV and in the movies, in particular, Glee and High School Musical. Her high school was not that world, not that she expected it to be. In fact, after her first week, it was hard for her to remember what she had expected.
She certainly hadn't expected it to be so crowded, although she had more or less anticipated the stares. She'd gotten them every time they went to the hospital when she was younger, but they never lasted as long as they did in the school's hallways because during the trips to the hospital they were always just getting into or out of the minivan. It was always a brief moment on the way to someplace else.
But in the hallways and classrooms of school, she was there. And unlike Scott's friends who couldn't really gawk because there were only two of them, at school the herd instinct prevailed. Everyone looked, though not necessarily in a cruel or mocking way. They just looked, sometimes out of the corners of their eyes, sometimes behind her back, sometimes indirectly, and sometimes straight on.
Cindy could sense it all around her, the way she would turn a corner or walk into a classroom and the noise level would drop suddenly as everyone tried (with varying degrees of success) to not be too obvious about staring at her. Often, she tried smiling and saying hello, but it was like they didn't notice. They almost never reacted to her efforts to engage them.
The first few weeks were hard. Most people tended either to ignore her or be overly nice to her. Rare was the person who treated her like any other 17-year-old girl. That went for students as well as teachers.
Classes themselves weren't a problem at all, though. During the time when she was being home schooled, she had been taking most of her classes for AP credit. To her new teachers, she was the ideal student, eager to answer questions and always going above and beyond on her homework.
For group projects, she usually got paired up with two or three other students at random. And she almost always ended up doing most of the work while the other members of her group goofed off, chatted with each other, and texted. At first it bothered her, but soon she decided it was just easier for her to do all the work herself than to try to make them do something she would just have to correct later.
Most of the other students at her school were pleasant to her, but they never invited her to hang out with them. They might say hello or something, but then any time it seemed like their exchange might progress into an actual conversation, someone else would show up, hijack the exchange, and Cindy would be left out of a conversation full of references to people, events, couples, and scandals she wasn't familiar with.
In an effort to make friends, she dabbled a bit in extracurricular activities, going out for the track team. With her long legs, she figured she would be a no brainer for hurdle events. But because she was afraid of injuring her feet, she ran and jumped too cautiously. If she had been any other member of the team, the coaches would have punished her, run her harder, pushed her, or kicked her off the team.
But they were nice to Cindy.
They encouraged her, clapped for her efforts, and were quick with a "Good job!" and "Way to go!" In effect, Cindy felt like the coaches were treating her like she was competing in the Special Olympics, while the other girls glared at her behind her back. She quit the team after a week, and stayed away from extracurricular activities after that.
Her parents started to worry that maybe they had all made the wrong decision, but after her first few months, things more or less normalized for Cindy. She worked on the yearbook committee, and was soon eating lunch with the other yearbook staffers every day. The other students in her AP classes gradually warmed up to her, and in time, she had made a few friends. As the school year continued, she goofed off with them more and more, and even managed to get in trouble a couple of times (but not too seriously).
Come spring, she got her driver's license, went to the prom (with a friend), and graduated from high school toward the top of her class.
More importantly, she got her first experiences with the outside world under her belt, allowing her to feel much more confident about the prospect of going away to college, which she did last week.
Her parents aren't really sure how she's doing, though, because she hardly ever calls home. Scott keeps telling them that this is probably a good sign, but they can't help worrying. She may be a six foot five college freshman, but she's still their little girl.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
August 31 - The Insufferable Bastard, part VII
Marge: You know, you can be really sarcastic sometimes.
Ralph: Ooh, I'm so sorry.
Ralph: Ooh, I'm so sorry.
Monday, August 30, 2010
August 30 - Cake
You know what job I think would be easy? Conductor.
Orchestra conductor, that is. Not train conductor, although I bet being a train conductor would be a cake walk, too.
You notice I said it would be a cake walk, right? Usually people just use that in the negative like, It ain't gonna be a cake walk. But in the case of train conductor? I think it would totally be a cake walk. All you do is walk up and down the aisles, punching everyone's tickets.
No training necessary. Just give me the ticket puncher and I'll be ready.
Oh please, like anyone has a freaking clue what it means when you punch one section of the ticket instead of another anyway. People would just hand you their ticket and you'd be all click, click, click, and then move on to the next sucker. As a bonus, I'll bet if you were nice to the engineer he would let you blow the whistle sometimes.
And that shit would never get old.
But anyway, orchestra conductor. Seriously, unless I'm missing something (doubtful) there's nothing to it. Just get yourself a tuxedo with tails, an orchestra, and some sort of wand. And now, wave said wand around to the rhythm of the music.
Congratulations! You're a conductor. Here's a whole lot of money! Wasn't that easy?
OK, in fairness, there might be a little more to it than that. For instance, there are probably some serious prima donnas in an orchestra (I'm looking at you, oboe section), so you'd want to make an effort to make everyone feel included and important. But other than that, whatever. And don't talk to me about rehearsal either. As long as everyone else practiced (likely) you'd be home free. All you'd have to do is wave that wand to the music, flip your hair around dramatically, bow graciously when it's all over, and count your money.
And then tap crazy ass afterwards in the green room.
That's a cake walk I'd go on any day of the week, my friends.
Orchestra conductor, that is. Not train conductor, although I bet being a train conductor would be a cake walk, too.
You notice I said it would be a cake walk, right? Usually people just use that in the negative like, It ain't gonna be a cake walk. But in the case of train conductor? I think it would totally be a cake walk. All you do is walk up and down the aisles, punching everyone's tickets.
No training necessary. Just give me the ticket puncher and I'll be ready.
Oh please, like anyone has a freaking clue what it means when you punch one section of the ticket instead of another anyway. People would just hand you their ticket and you'd be all click, click, click, and then move on to the next sucker. As a bonus, I'll bet if you were nice to the engineer he would let you blow the whistle sometimes.
And that shit would never get old.
But anyway, orchestra conductor. Seriously, unless I'm missing something (doubtful) there's nothing to it. Just get yourself a tuxedo with tails, an orchestra, and some sort of wand. And now, wave said wand around to the rhythm of the music.
Congratulations! You're a conductor. Here's a whole lot of money! Wasn't that easy?
OK, in fairness, there might be a little more to it than that. For instance, there are probably some serious prima donnas in an orchestra (I'm looking at you, oboe section), so you'd want to make an effort to make everyone feel included and important. But other than that, whatever. And don't talk to me about rehearsal either. As long as everyone else practiced (likely) you'd be home free. All you'd have to do is wave that wand to the music, flip your hair around dramatically, bow graciously when it's all over, and count your money.
And then tap crazy ass afterwards in the green room.
That's a cake walk I'd go on any day of the week, my friends.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
August 29 - Reno
Man, I ain't seen ass in so long, I bet I wouldn't be able to pick it out of a police line-up.
Jesus, Dad.
Just saying. We can't all be as young and good looking as you, you know.
Should've thought about that before you left mom.
Ouch. Watch it there, Oedipus.
Look, I'm just saying. You left her. It wasn't the other way around.
Right. And somehow she just happened to meet that firefighting ballroom dancer not two weeks after I walked out. Nothing suspicious there.
I'd rather not think about that.
The guy wasn't even from around here. Where was he from, Tacoma?
Spokane.
Right, Spokane. That whole situation's got matchmaker.com written all over it. How else she gonna meet someone from freaking Spokane? And a firefighter! Who's into ballroom dancing! Like she didn't enter that in some search engine.
Like I said . . .
You met the guy, right?
Yeah.
And how old is he? Your age, right?
Younger. By two years.
Can you believe that shit?
You're one to talk.
Good point.
Just let it go. Don't . . . Just . . .
No, you're right. Besides, we didn't come to Reno to wallow in our sorrow. You and me are here on the first of what I hope will be several father/son titty hunts. High five!
(Slap)
So. Where we going first?
Well, first I think we should get out of this restroom. I think that would be a good start.
He's not coming, is he?
No.
I thought you knew this guy.
No. We've gone over this. Ron works with a guy who scores from him every time he comes to Reno.
And you're sure this was the place we were supposed to meet him?
Unless there's another central bus station in Reno that has a men's room right next to the gift shop, this is the place.
Should we give him another five minutes?
Could we not? I'm starting to get claustrophobic. This stall doesn't feel as big as it did 10 minutes ago. Besides, I kind of feel like a dick for occupying it so long. I think that one guy really had to go.
Probably, but that's still no excuse for calling us--what did he call us?
Ass ramming lot lizards.
Yikes. Not bad from a guy in a wheelchair.
True. Come on, let's get out of here. I know a place that has the loosest slots in Reno.
Now you're talking!
I said 'slots'.
Oh.
By the way, you're not really going to wear that, are you? Tell me that's some kind of joke.
What, this?
Yes, that. Yes, the black leather vest with--what are those?--Judas Priest studs.
You don't like it?
It's not that. I just wish you would wear a shirt underneath it, that's all.
But then people wouldn't be able to see my tattoo.
Yeah, I was going to say it looked like you got it touched up.
A few weeks ago, yeah. What do you think?
Well, it's a lot easier to tell that that's John Wayne on the back of Jesus's Harley. And the flag is a lot more vivid now.
Thanks. I'm glad you like it.
Didn't say I liked it. Come on, let's go.
Where? Hooters?
Sure, wherever. Anywhere but here.
OK, almost done. Crap. Can you check and see if the next stall over has any TP?
Oh, Jesus! Are you serious?
What, you really thought I was sitting here with my pants down because it was more comfortable? You actually believed that?
I was trying not to think--Oh God, you were crapping the whole time?
I told you my shit doesn't stink. Come on, don't let it freak you out. We're gonna have a great time tonight. Just you, me, and all the titties and beer in Reno!
I'll meet you outside. Wash your hands when you're done.
Wait, I still need some TP. Hello! Hello?
Jesus, Dad.
Just saying. We can't all be as young and good looking as you, you know.
Should've thought about that before you left mom.
Ouch. Watch it there, Oedipus.
Look, I'm just saying. You left her. It wasn't the other way around.
Right. And somehow she just happened to meet that firefighting ballroom dancer not two weeks after I walked out. Nothing suspicious there.
I'd rather not think about that.
The guy wasn't even from around here. Where was he from, Tacoma?
Spokane.
Right, Spokane. That whole situation's got matchmaker.com written all over it. How else she gonna meet someone from freaking Spokane? And a firefighter! Who's into ballroom dancing! Like she didn't enter that in some search engine.
Like I said . . .
You met the guy, right?
Yeah.
And how old is he? Your age, right?
Younger. By two years.
Can you believe that shit?
You're one to talk.
Good point.
Just let it go. Don't . . . Just . . .
No, you're right. Besides, we didn't come to Reno to wallow in our sorrow. You and me are here on the first of what I hope will be several father/son titty hunts. High five!
(Slap)
So. Where we going first?
Well, first I think we should get out of this restroom. I think that would be a good start.
He's not coming, is he?
No.
I thought you knew this guy.
No. We've gone over this. Ron works with a guy who scores from him every time he comes to Reno.
And you're sure this was the place we were supposed to meet him?
Unless there's another central bus station in Reno that has a men's room right next to the gift shop, this is the place.
Should we give him another five minutes?
Could we not? I'm starting to get claustrophobic. This stall doesn't feel as big as it did 10 minutes ago. Besides, I kind of feel like a dick for occupying it so long. I think that one guy really had to go.
Probably, but that's still no excuse for calling us--what did he call us?
Ass ramming lot lizards.
Yikes. Not bad from a guy in a wheelchair.
True. Come on, let's get out of here. I know a place that has the loosest slots in Reno.
Now you're talking!
I said 'slots'.
Oh.
By the way, you're not really going to wear that, are you? Tell me that's some kind of joke.
What, this?
Yes, that. Yes, the black leather vest with--what are those?--Judas Priest studs.
You don't like it?
It's not that. I just wish you would wear a shirt underneath it, that's all.
But then people wouldn't be able to see my tattoo.
Yeah, I was going to say it looked like you got it touched up.
A few weeks ago, yeah. What do you think?
Well, it's a lot easier to tell that that's John Wayne on the back of Jesus's Harley. And the flag is a lot more vivid now.
Thanks. I'm glad you like it.
Didn't say I liked it. Come on, let's go.
Where? Hooters?
Sure, wherever. Anywhere but here.
OK, almost done. Crap. Can you check and see if the next stall over has any TP?
Oh, Jesus! Are you serious?
What, you really thought I was sitting here with my pants down because it was more comfortable? You actually believed that?
I was trying not to think--Oh God, you were crapping the whole time?
I told you my shit doesn't stink. Come on, don't let it freak you out. We're gonna have a great time tonight. Just you, me, and all the titties and beer in Reno!
I'll meet you outside. Wash your hands when you're done.
Wait, I still need some TP. Hello! Hello?
Saturday, August 28, 2010
August 28 - Flash
Your heart beats for a final time, your lungs stop drawing air, and all brain activity shuts down. But during the exact microsecond, the very instant that you pass from the world of the living to the world of the dead, you experience a jolt of omniscience that is as brief as it is intense. During this briefest of moments, you gain all the knowledge and wisdom in the universe. All the mysteries of the world are solved, you get a peak behind every curtain, and everything you ever wanted to know is spelled out for you as clear as day.
And then it's over.
Different people fixate on different elements of this omniscience, but the awareness that Lisa came away with was that nobody was as perfect as they seemed.
Nancy, the class president, was seeing a therapist to deal with stress issues.
Melissa had such a negative body image that she was secretly considering liposuction.
Becky and Tom, the All-American Homecoming King and Queen were miserable with each other.
Jeanne, Dana, and Lily hadn't really hooked up with college guys that summer.
Phil hadn't actually gotten early acceptance to Princeton like he was telling everybody.
More than half of the cheer leading squad was only pretending they liked Kim. In reality, they hated her.
None of the other girls on her field hockey team were really as confident as they pretended to be.
Her older sister didn't enjoy high school nearly as much as she had claimed to.
Everybody else in her high school was sensitive, too.
Everybody else worried about fitting in, too.
Everybody else was insecure, too.
They were just better at hiding it than Lisa was.
But by the time she realized that, it was too late. And that was the last thought that went through her head before her neck snapped and the lights went out.
And then it's over.
Different people fixate on different elements of this omniscience, but the awareness that Lisa came away with was that nobody was as perfect as they seemed.
Nancy, the class president, was seeing a therapist to deal with stress issues.
Melissa had such a negative body image that she was secretly considering liposuction.
Becky and Tom, the All-American Homecoming King and Queen were miserable with each other.
Jeanne, Dana, and Lily hadn't really hooked up with college guys that summer.
Phil hadn't actually gotten early acceptance to Princeton like he was telling everybody.
More than half of the cheer leading squad was only pretending they liked Kim. In reality, they hated her.
None of the other girls on her field hockey team were really as confident as they pretended to be.
Her older sister didn't enjoy high school nearly as much as she had claimed to.
Everybody else in her high school was sensitive, too.
Everybody else worried about fitting in, too.
Everybody else was insecure, too.
They were just better at hiding it than Lisa was.
But by the time she realized that, it was too late. And that was the last thought that went through her head before her neck snapped and the lights went out.
Friday, August 27, 2010
August 27 - A Guy in a Muscle Shirt Responds Preemptively to an as yet Unuttered Invitation While Drinking a Coors Lite at a Hooters in South Florida
Just so you know, the answer is no.
I am not looking to do a wife swap.
Not interested in joining your little swinger set.
Gonna have to decline the invites to any sort of key parties you might be planning.
Why?
Exhibit A: My wife.
Exhibit B: Your wife.
Case closed.
Seriously, no offense, but look at my wife.
OK?
Take it easy, partner. I didn't say stare.
OK, now look at yours.
Any questions?
Do you honestly think I'm looking to share this with anybody? You'd better think again, especially when, um, that--your wife--is what what I'd be getting in return. It's like, Hey yeah, I know. I'll just cook up a bunch of $50 a pound filet mignon and bring it to your little potluck dinner where I can trade it in for some hamburger casserole. Maybe while I'm at it, I can let you take my Trans am out for a spin while I jump start your little piece of shit Chevette and see if I can get it around the block before it conks out on me.
Sorry, man. Just being honest.
Seriously, mi hermano, have you seen my wife? Of course you have. Hustler? July 1997? Ring any bells? You probably haven't seen her naked since then (except in your dreams, bitch), but I can put any doubts you may have to rest. Yes. She's still got it. Oh my God, has she still got it.
Not that your wife doesn't. She's still got it, too. Problem is she's got it and then some. In fact, she could stand to lose a good chunk of it, chunk being the operative word. What is she, trying out for the Bucaneers? Tell you what: You can keep your defensive tackle and I'll hold on to my cheerleader. That sound like a deal to you?
I mean, in case you were gonna ask.
Anyway, you ready for another Silver Bullet? Come on, I'm buying!
I am not looking to do a wife swap.
Not interested in joining your little swinger set.
Gonna have to decline the invites to any sort of key parties you might be planning.
Why?
Exhibit A: My wife.
Exhibit B: Your wife.
Case closed.
Seriously, no offense, but look at my wife.
OK?
Take it easy, partner. I didn't say stare.
OK, now look at yours.
Any questions?
Do you honestly think I'm looking to share this with anybody? You'd better think again, especially when, um, that--your wife--is what what I'd be getting in return. It's like, Hey yeah, I know. I'll just cook up a bunch of $50 a pound filet mignon and bring it to your little potluck dinner where I can trade it in for some hamburger casserole. Maybe while I'm at it, I can let you take my Trans am out for a spin while I jump start your little piece of shit Chevette and see if I can get it around the block before it conks out on me.
Sorry, man. Just being honest.
Seriously, mi hermano, have you seen my wife? Of course you have. Hustler? July 1997? Ring any bells? You probably haven't seen her naked since then (except in your dreams, bitch), but I can put any doubts you may have to rest. Yes. She's still got it. Oh my God, has she still got it.
Not that your wife doesn't. She's still got it, too. Problem is she's got it and then some. In fact, she could stand to lose a good chunk of it, chunk being the operative word. What is she, trying out for the Bucaneers? Tell you what: You can keep your defensive tackle and I'll hold on to my cheerleader. That sound like a deal to you?
I mean, in case you were gonna ask.
Anyway, you ready for another Silver Bullet? Come on, I'm buying!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)