Archive for February, 2008

Buck’s Got a HUGE Deck (rednecks and beer chatter)

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on February 29, 2008 by tom

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Please, spread the word

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on February 29, 2008 by tom

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CCR: EXPLAINED!

Posted in Uncategorized on February 29, 2008 by tom

Creedence Clearwater Revival had a dozen or two hits in the late 60's and early 70's.  HUGE hits.  One problem was that John Fogerty's lead vocals were sometimes, um, hard to understand.  "There's a bad moon on the rise" was commonly misunderstood to say, "There's a bathroom on the right."  Herewith, a video with the misheard lyrics illustrated for your singing pleasure.  Hilarious. 

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Impression: Hungover Saturday Morning after being Dumped Friday Afternoon (Part 1)

Posted in Uncategorized on February 27, 2008 by tom

(This story took place several years ago, just a couple weeks before tom's adventure in sushi-land, as detailed last week. Names, etc, changed)  

Stumbling through an ancient temple with a model and some girl I work with.  A friend from long ago walks by, smiling benignly.  The model pouts, practiced sensual boredom; the other woman tells me of some office horror.  Good Christ! Not the MacAllister account! I'm filled with fear and desire, delicious mix.  Heart pounding, dreading sales manager fury and horrible sexual overload.  The service begins.  A Japanese Greek Orthodox priest talks about Elvis, and the model heads for the cheese tray.  On and on and ON the work chick babbles about lost revenue and the bottom line.  On and on and ON, a droning foot-long mosquito trapped inside my screen.  Fuck the sales manager anyway.  The model brings me an apple, her eyes seductively hiding a yawn.  The priest now talks about sales, and how never to lose an account.  I think it's Easter, yet it's early summer, and I can't believe I wore jeans and no shirt to church.  Another damn ghost friend walks by, studying the model's legs, drinking in the length and silky tan.  The model does something with her eyelashes, and the friend looks away, embarrassed.  
 
    Some man shouts news at me, yanking me away from the temple, the autumnal Easter service, my lovely model.  My brain has been removed and replaced by wet sand; a spike pierces my skull.  Too drunk last night even to close the blinds.  My hungover eyes, whacked with shafts of light, curse the drunken brain for not closing the blinds.  A quick slap to the alarm clock, and the man stops screaming.  No time for news.  No time.
    Slowly, I stand, my headache moving to my stomach.  Something gurgles; my temples pound.  My feet stick too much to the carpet as I shuffle to the bathroom.  Someone cranked up the gravity as I slept.  Unfair.  Unfair!
    My mirror frightens me: someone stole my reflection and replaced it with a monster's.  Probably that same asshole who pumped up the gravity.  Bastard.  The monster has dark-circled red eyes and flying buttresses of hair reaching heavenward.  Something gurgles again.  I think it's my stomach now.  I wasn't sure earlier.  I think it needs food.  I can't leave my cave with the spikes of hair.  I could shower.  I imagine the quintillion needles of water pounding my body, and know my brain would short out were I exposed to water.  I pray for continued dryness, wishing for a huge box of silica gel. 
    I put on a Phillies baseball cap and dark sunglasses.  Then I struggle into jeans and shoes and, finally, a shirt.  Bright red panties hang on the doorknob, and I think of her.  My arms ache, not missing her yet but still sore from our workout two days ago.  The ache won't fade.  Fuck it.
    Just two more, babe.  Come on.  It's not that hard.  Okay, good.  Now give me three more.  Hey, you did one, you can do four.
    I never trusted her. 
    I open the door and squint hard at the oak tree.  Gravity pulls just as hard outside.  Damn.
    Outside my dream, it's not autumn at all.
    According to the Baybz Wingz & Ribz calendar in my room, it's the last week of the Month of Marcy.  The Month of Marcy is on the cusp between spring and summer here in Central Florida. Marcy sits in a plastic pool chair, her arms crossed, as if it's still a little cool to be sitting poolside in a green bikini.  Marcy has full, round breasts, just like the ripening tomatoes in spring gardens, eyes as green and full of life as the Gulf of Mexico or Tampa Bay.  But it's Marcy's smile that rings a little false, sort of like the cool breeze that still perseveres after a hot day in the Month of Marcy.  It's not a bad smile, really, but it looks like she doesn't use it enough to be comfortable smiling.  One dimple in the right cheek, and nice straight teeth.  The Month of Marcy: not as refreshing as the Month of Shari before, with that exultant spring smile, nor as serious as the Month of Marisa, back where the cold in Marisa's blue eyes could out-frost any cold front.  
    I shuffle toward the stairs, a 29 year-old ancient wino.  I hold the rail, white knuckled and hesitant.  Soon, I'm downstairs, and I walk to my truck.
    It still smells like her.  Her sweat and perfume and deodorant -her total essence, that one Amy-ester some chem-dweeb would manufacture in Organic Chem lab.  Two moles of carbon, one of nitrogen, four grams of water, some eye of newt, a shot glass of musk, and a splash of Chardonnay.  That scent.  Her scent.  Amy’s scent.
    I light a cigarette, a stale glove box-for-two-months cigarette, to chase her smell away.  I know it's hopeless.  Her smell will prevail.  At least I'll destroy my olfactory system.  Let her smell remain.  If I can't smell her, she's powerless.
    DANGER, comes the brain's sluggish warning, DANGER! My right eye isn't working right.  Someone, doubtless an associate of the gravity thug, has smeared some spoo over my right eyeball.  It won't focus.  I have sunglasses on, so nobody will know.  Cool.
    I'm so grounded by gravity that I remain still.  The truck moves the planet beneath me, doubtless snapping universal guy-wires.  The Diner appears on my right.  I manage to park.  I get out of the truck, and walk toward the restaurant, yellow stucco baking already in the morning sun.  I hear a buzz, and go back to the truck, which is still running, door open.  I kill the engine, remove my keys and lock the door. 
    Ooh, cold, so cold in here.  A waitress leads me to a booth, cajoling me by name as if I were a show dog.  Sit, Tom.  Stay.  Iced tea? SPEAK, Tom!
    Arf! I nod.  She goes off to get my tea.  I have no menu; I don't know what I want.  She asks do I want my usual.  I nod, wondering secretly what my usual is.  Scrambled? Nod.  Hash browns? Nod.  I don't care.  I trust her.  She's a good woman, a bit plump under her brown drape-pattern uniform dress.  I feel safe, knowing she wouldn't bring me anything bad, even if it were my usual.
    From my booth, I can see the entire smoking section.  A woman in a tank-top sits in a booth with a beautiful little girl.  The woman is braless, and has a horse tattooed on her right shoulder.  The little girl keeps playing with her pancakes, moving them around in the syrup, gabbing about all the cool shit that's happening now in the second grade.  The woman just watches and smokes, eyes dull, half-paying attention.  The little girl has her whole life ahead of her.  I wonder about the mother.  I wonder how long it will be before the little girl has her own tattoo, and sits braless and grim and dazed in a diner with her kid. 
    Two old women are talking at another booth.  One of them is talking about how she got a nun drunk once on creme de menthe.  You can go to hell for that, I think.  The woman seems proud of her actions.  The other woman looks like a grouper: dead eyes, small nose, and an incongruously HUGE fucking mouth.  I wonder if she has gills under her collar.  I wonder if I alone, of all the patrons in the diner, have noticed that she's really a grouper.  She glances at me.  I see hate in her eyes.  She knows. 
    My regular arrives.  Food.  Sausage.  Eggs.  Hash browns.  A biscuit with sausage gravy.  Hmm.  My usual? I'll have to trust the nice lady that brought it to me (Jeanne? Jennifer? Judy?).  Grouper woman aims a glance my way.  SHE KNOWS SHE KNOWS SHE KNOWS! Grouper aren't dangerous, I tell myself, they're a food fish.  They don't attack people.  Still, I fear for the little girl.  Grouper woman could turn around and devour her in one gulp, I'm convinced.  The poor girl would NEVER get her tattoo then.  Hell, she wouldn't even get proper, bra-worthy breasts. 
    I turn back to grouper woman, watching for her to make a move.  She starts.  I tear off a piece of sausage, grab a fishing pole, bait the hook and cast perfectly across the diner, plopping in grouper woman's water glass.  Her eyes grow big with lust.  She grabs the sausage in her cavernous maw, and I yank, setting the hook, reeling 230 lb grouper woman across the splattered brown and orange carpet, a miracle of physics with 25 pound test line.
    More tea, hon?
    Once more, I'm just a ragged man with a thousand-yard stare.
    Sure, Cindy.
    Shit, CINDY! Why was I thinking all those J-names?
    Amy would've known. 
    Amy knew everything.  Eventually, Amy knew that I wasn't loving her enough, that we needed to break up.  That epiphany hit her yesterday.  She called me at work, and explained that I didn't seem to be serious about "US" and that she thought we should break up, at least for a while.  I told her I was serious and that I loved her as best I could.  She told me it had been fun.  I nodded.  It was a phone call, though, so she didn't hear the nod.  Are you okay? Fine.  Maybe it will work out someday.  Sure.  Okay.  Um, 'bye.
    Yeah, right.  'Bye-bye, now.  B-bye! Hasta luego! Bon voyage!
    While I stared into the parking lot, grouper woman escaped.  I saw her pay and walk out with the nun-temptress.  Fine.  I look back to the little girl, and she's safe.  Thank God.  Horse-tattoo stubs out her cigarette and wipes the little girl's mouth with a napkin.  The little girl drops a crayon as she slides out.  Horse-tattoo sighs irritably, and bends over to pick it up. 
    I hate myself for looking, but here's a woman with no bra on, wearing a loose tank-top, and she bends over without holding her shirt closed? Sure I look.  Her breasts look tired.  Her entire body reeks of old-whore languor, like my dream model carried to a horrific extreme.  Oh, the model! Christ, how could I forget! She never spoke, and had no tattoo.  She smoked elegantly, but I know her cigarettes didn't smell.
    The woman I called Cindy brought me a THIRD glass of tea.  It's working.  The fluids have washed away the wallpaper paste poured into my mouth as I slept.  The food has appeased the gurgling, at least for now.  I know that if I eat another bite of food, I will surely explode.  Not from being overfilled, but from an overload of sensory input.  Grouper woman and horse tattoo have taken up too much brain-space, too much RAM.  There's no room left for food.
    Shit, there's not much left.  I light another stale Marlboro.  The cigarette shakes between my fingers.  I wonder if I've grown a brain tumor in the past couple minutes.  The shakes fade slowly, and I curse the Scotsman who filled that J&B bottle.
    Now I feel bad.  The man was only doing his job.  Did he think, though, that I might buy that bottle of Scotch? Did he ever imagine each of the 750 ml of liquor he put in that bottle would pass into my bloodstream in one night? No, of course not.  He didn't know Amy, and didn't think that anyone would be so stupid as to drink that much in one night.  He'd be shaking his head now if he knew.  Ian, your pa's done a terrible thing.  I filled a bottle of Scotch, and some American man drank the whole bloody thing in one night.  Yes, my son, the whole bloody thing.  I'm afraid 'tis my fault.  I just always thought people would buy my whiskey, enjoy a glass or two at the end of the day, and be happy.  I didna know this could 'appen.  I'm gonna have to quit the distillery.  We'll be on the dole, but my soul couldn't stand another 'angover like the one this Yank's feelin'.
    Shit, that's Cockney, not Scottish. 
    I feel bad, so I rescind the curse.  I rescind it, and absolve the man -Ian's pa -from any blame for my 'angover.
    There should be paperwork on curses.  I'd like to bring a curse on someone.  Personal or professional? She's an ex-girlfriend, but we work together sometimes.  Is the curse based on something she did at work? No, ma'am.  Then you need to file for a personal curse.  Ah.  Fill out this form, and bring it back when you're done. 
    Name of cursed: Amy Engleman
    Age: 32
    Relationship: Ex-girlfriend
    Actions bringing about curse: Dumped boyfriend (plaintiff)
             without suitable explanation or just cause.
    Degree of pain requested: Eh, slight to moderate

    Are you the ex-boyfriend?
    Yes. 
    Did you show enough affection?
    I think so. 
    Did you tell her you loved her?
    Yeah. 
    Did you spend time with her?
    Sure, we saw each other almost every day. 
    How was the sex?
    Fine. 
    Did she enjoy it?
    Well, she seemed to. 
    Hmm. 
    Hmm?
    Yes, Hmm.  Does she engage in a lot of physical activity?
    Yes, she works out three or four times a week, and power walks or does StairMaster every day.     

    How about a pulled hamstring? We'll make it a good one, so she's laid up for a week or so.  She won't have to miss work, but she won't be able to enjoy herself. 
    Perfect! That's a GREAT curse! How can I ever thank you?
    Just doing my job.

    The woman I called Cindy brought my check, and asked if I'd been down to see my parents recently.  How does she know I have parents? Shit, that's obvious, but how does she know I have  living parents close enough to visit? Suddenly, I wonder about Cindy.  Hmm.  Yes, hmm.
    I put on my sunglasses and head for the cashier.  Gravity is still too heavy, but it's slacked off a bit.  I set down my check and wrangle a piece of money from my wallet.  The cashier takes it and gives me more pieces of money back.  I know I've succeeded.  I take a couple pieces of money back to the table and leave them for Cindy, although I still wonder about her.  No curse, though, for she did bring me a plate of food she called my usual.  I walk outside.
    The sun is about a mile above the earth now.  Ninety-three million miles? Bullshit.  It's a mile above Florida.  The air feels heavy with all the energy.  The truck's seat burns my leg when I sit down.  Too hot for fucking life.  My kingdom for a shade tree. 

    There was a man, once, who had a shade tree, a big-ass oak.  For my job, I had to go and do something in his yard on behalf of Sarasota County.  He sat there under the tree, Rusty the pit bull at his feet, a beer in his hand, a cigarette between his fingers.  He talked about the old days.  Mostly, it seemed, he talked about snakes.  As if every memorable thing in his long life had to do with snakes.  "Hell, there's a snake under my wedding bed.  When my son was six, an anaconda swum up out of that ditch and ate him.  Ma never did get over that.  Couple years later, she's baking a pie and a King Cobra bit her arm off.  That sumbitch was right there in the damn stove! 350 degrees! I reckon he's pissed, being hot and all.  Ma? Hell, I had to take her out behind the barn and shoot her.  Poor ol' soul.  Damn snake got away with her arm, too.  Two years later, there he was, tryin' to eat that old Chevy over there.  Got his fangs stuck in the engine block, and I beat him to death with a socket wrench.  But you know somethin'? It weren't no socket wrench.  It was ma's arm."
    The shade tree was nice, though.  I suspect the old man died when a reticulated python popped out of the shade tree and squoze him to death.  Nice tree.
    Perhaps it's my fucked-up eye, but it seems all the other cars on the road are driving on the center line.  I follow my basic driving rule and survive: don't hit anything.  Simple.
    At a red light, a teen-aged girl stands selling flowers from a box.  The girl is proud of her breasts, which are wrapped in what appears to be a large sweatband.  The girl has shorts on -really short ones, too -and obviously doesn't object to her legs, but she's extremely proud of her breasts.  An old man stops and leers at the girl's breasts as she counts out his change.  The flowers would be for his wife, but he wouldn't have bought them if I'd been selling them.  He loves his wife enough to buy her flowers, but only from a nymphet.  The girl could be selling pollinating ragweed, and the old man would've stopped.  Perhaps he remembers a girl from 50 or 60 years ago who had breasts she was proud of.  Perhaps he just hasn't gotten laid in a couple years. 
    Someone behind me honks, and I accelerate, leaving the girl, her breasts and the old man behind.  I wish my truck blew smoke rings out the tailpipe like on The Jetsons.  That would be cool, although I like my truck's sound better.
    I wonder if maybe the old man was married to grouper woman.  They'd be a pair.  Shit, maybe the old man was some sort of changeling as well: bear man, or hedgehog man or python man. 
    Honey? I'm home!  How was your day? Well, I went out to breakfast with Marge, and she told her damn drunk nun story again.  Then I ate a little girl from the booth behind me.  Well, that's nice! Nice, hell! Some guy cast a piece of sausage into my water glass and hooked me! I fought as hard as I could, but he kept reeling.  Then his waitress brought more tea, and he cut the line.  That was lucky! Unfortunately, I'd disgorged the girl before I ate the sausage.  I was still hungry, so I went to the mini golf course on the way home and ate a four year-old who wandered too close to the pond.  How was your day? Well, I went to the hardware store, then the drugstore.  And on the way home, I picked up some flowers for you.  This cute teen-aged girl was selling them, and she was REALLY proud of her breasts.  So I gave her my money, then coiled myself around her, crushing all her bones.  Then I ate her.  Oh, I fed the dog, by the way…
    I turn the truck toward the bay.  The road is sun-bleached almost white.  Along the causeway, the beach is packed.  This is the scumbag beach, the beach I'd go to.  Amy wouldn't.  Amy wouldn't be caught dead in a t-back, even though she had the butt for it.  That seems to be de rigueur for this beach: lots of tattoos and t-back thong-type swimsuits, sort of brightly colored dental floss for your ass.  Oh, Amy would disapprove.  These people are SCUM, she'd say.  She'd talk about how much prettier the gulf beaches were, and how much nicer the people there are.  She'd roll her eyes at the t-backed women.  God, I wonder how young they start wearing suits like that! Oh, Amy'd freak.  You don't REALLY think that's SEXY, do you? Oh, no, Amy: I'd MUCH rather see these sleek bronzed goddesses dressed in, say, nun habits.  The fact that a small ribbon is all that's keeping them from nakedness doesn't stimulate me at all.
    The hypocrite.  She had t-back underwear.  I should know: there's some on my doorknob.
    I wonder if I'll have to give those back.  I don't know what I'd do with them if I kept them, and I doubt she knows how to go about asking for their return.  Those poor panties are doomed to hang on my doorknob indefinitely.  The road along the bay is packed with roller-bladers and walkers and joggers.  I imagine Amy among them, power-walking, pumping her elbows like a chicken.  I imagine God signing off on my curse form and Amy dropping, sweaty and panting, her hands grabbing the back of her leg, tears pooling on the sidewalk.  The urge would be great to pop up onto the sidewalk and run her over, but that wouldn't be kind.  Shit.  I hope she doesn't get it too bad.  Two women are walking toward me.  One has large breasts, the other doesn't.  The buxom one is wearing a spandex halter top.  The less-endowed one is wearing a baggy t-shirt.  I'm convinced the buxom one wore the spandex top KNOWING the other girl would be secretly jealous.  They wouldn't mention breasts the entire walk, but then the skinny girl would pull out a straight-razor and cut off the other girls breasts.  Ouch.  That's gotta hurt. 
    A roadblock.  The Florida Highway Patrol has blocked off the road.  One by one, cars pull up to the officers.  I'm filled with dread.  Can you step out of the car sir? Perhaps you don't remember, but I believe you were rude to my mother.  I look at his nametag.  Officer Grouperboy.  I look down, accepting my doom.
    I pull up and the officer comes to my window. 
    "I see you're wearing your seatbelt."
    "Yes, sir."
    "Do you ALWAYS wear your seatbelt?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Good man, 'cause it's the law.  We're stopping people just to inform them that it IS the law to wear seatbelts at all times.  If you hadn't had one on, I would've written you a warning.  The ticket for not wearing a seatbelt is $25."
    I really want to make some smartass remark about how I have seatbelts on my toilet and my chair at work and my couch (well, couchbelts), and how seatbelts are pretty convenient for tying women up when you're feeling kinky in the woods, but I decide against it.  Or, I could tell him that I always wear my seatbelt, even though I'm currently hungover to b'jeezus and can't focus my right eye.  Hey, I'm strapped in, though. 
    Smith.  Officer J. Smith.  NOT Officer Grouperboy.
    I really WILL have a nice day. 
    I stop at a convenience store to buy fresh cigarettes.  As I stand at the counter, my phone rings.  I check the number, and it's a friend-girl of mine, a girl I work with at the radio station.  She had a beer with me last night, and I told her about Amy dumping me.  Her boyfriend is in Atlanta this weekend, so she asked me out to dinner tonight.  I take my cigarettes and go outside.  She asks how I am.  Fine.  Do I still want to go out? Sure.  Okay, sevenish? Fine.  She tells me of a Key West type restaurant we should go to.  I was thinking more of a drive-thru, but fine; I don't have the strength to argue.  Restaurants out of my comfort zone: Amy's specialty. 
    I imagine Amy's ultimate restaurant: I'm seated, impaled on a kabob-skewer.  Amy and the waiter laugh, sinister.  A salad is brought to me with some bizarre dressing and hunks of organic matter I never would have chosen at a salad bar.  The waiter comes over, wielding a huge pepper mill.  Would I like some fresh ground pepper on my salad? Well…WHACK, he smashes my skull with the pepper mill.  YOU'RE USING THE WRONG FORK, CRETIN! Amy laughs as I bleed on my lettuce.  I'm shaking, and pull out a cigarette.  HOW ABOUT A LITTLE FIRE, SCARECROW?? And instantly, I'm made of straw, and a green faced, hideous waitress conjures up a fireball.  Terrified, I reach for my water and throw it, but I grabbed a triple martini instead, and the fireball explodes onto the people behind the waitress, one of whom is the little girl from the Diner this morning.  She falls to the ground, rolling, and I see that she already HAS a tattoo.  Despondent, I leave, and Amy follows.  I punch her fucking lights out, and drive away. 
  

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My True Color: Brown

Posted in Uncategorized on February 27, 2008 by tom

Tom, your true color is Brown!

You're brown, a credible, stable, boring color that's reminiscent of fire wood, coffee stains, and dried-up leathery crones with coral fiberglass whore-talons and ill-fitting dentures. Most likely, you're brown because of all the whiskey you've consumed in your life, combined with being absolutely full of crap.  Not only are you full of steamy brown ickiness yourself, you frequently step in, wallow in, and live in a world of shit.  Brown, let's face it, is a fairly…sorry, but brown is so unexciting that we fell asleep briefly trying to describe you.  Brown is the color of polyester suits lonely fashion-challenged widowers wear to church Sunday mornings.  It's the color of dead leaves in winter, of skid-marks on society's underplungers.  Look, brown.  You are ruled more by your head than your heart, simply because nobody can stand to be around you long enough to fall in love with you.  You've developed an inquisitive mind and insatiable curiosity because nobody ever tells you what's going on.  You always gather all of the facts before coming to a timely, informed decision–God knows, you have plenty of free time.  You're constantly finding new ways to challenge your mind, whether it's by reading the newspaper, playing a trivia game, daydreaming yourself into Harry Potter novels, or composing a piece of musical masturbation nobody will ever hear. You make Eleanor Rigby look like Paris Hilton.  Brown is an impartial, neutral color, which means you don't have enough balls to stand for anything.  You tend to see the difference between fact and opinion, except for a giant blind-spot where your own pathetic life is concerned.  You're open to many points of view, just because you're desperate for somebody to agree with you. Consistently uninspiring, you really are a brown at heart.  At least you make the other colors look good.  That's about all you have, so run with it.

Take the test yourself at Tickle.com

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Oops! Diebold Accidentally Releases 2008 Presidential Results

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on February 26, 2008 by tom
Might be true

I don't want you to think I spend all my free time at theonion.com but with all the election crap in the news, this story reminds me of a more innocent time, back when we all believed every vote counted.  I know…they still do (unless you're a Democrat in Florida or Michigan), but this is funny.

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“Don’t Pee on my paw and tell me it’s raining!”

Posted in Uncategorized on February 26, 2008 by tom

To hell with "Mad About You" reruns.  Ana-Sofia, aka "Kitten," rules that we will watch Judge Judy, NOW, thank you very much.

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