My Good Deed

Sort of.

A guy I know recently managed (in a very hysterical, embarrassing manner which he requested I not divulge) to pop off his finger (did I mention he did it in a very funny yet idiotic way?). Now, in hindsight, he’s pretty embarrassed for being such a jackass (have I mentioned I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes and he, ineffectually due to some wind shear issues, tried to slap me back to some manner of not pissing my pants). The problem is, since his visit to the emergency room, everyone has wanted to know how he dinged his digit.

And that makes him sad.

I think my reaction may have something to do with it (but, come on! I’m only human and this is some funny shit). So he wants me to come up with a plausible, potentially heroic, manner in which he flopped his finger.

I think for a second and say, because his family had a hard time keeping food on the table and a roof over their heads, he’s worked every day since childhood. Oh sure, you would have liked to have swept floors or mined varicose veins for old ladies but who’d hire a six year old other than shady companies that run clandestine medical experiments!

I Was An Elementary School Medical Guinea Pig!

“I don’t know.”

“No! It’s perfect.” I say knowing it’s no such thing.

I tell him that, although some of his ‘testing’ was quite invasive, it was the last test that finally made him run screaming from the cold, filthy laboratory.

“Here’s where you really have to sell it.” I tell him. “You have to say is, ‘I had to rub this solution on my finger. It was supposed to remove warts but it removed my entire finger!’ Then hold you hand up, displaying the space for a moment before making a fist and scream, ‘Damn you, Compound V!'”

We sit there in silence (even though in my head I’m still laughing. But now I’m not sure if it’s the vision of him projecting his protuberance or because I can see my vision unfolding). I can tell he’s not sure he can pull that off so offer a gentle persuasion.

“What else ya got, Garcia?”

(for those who don’t get the last reference, Jerry Garcia, a noted dead guy, lost a finger although I doubt he did it in such an amusing manner as this guy)

Epilogue: turns out he called me all kinds of unkind names and left the area I was inhabiting perturbed.

He was unkind to me, can you believe that shit? We all know how sensitive I am to hurtful words. And I really didn’t swear on anything that I wouldn’t disclose the manner in which he so ridiculously redesigned his finger pointing. Oh, my, my, my! What to do? Oh, what to do?

Ha. You know me, I’m giving it up. Fuck him and his not seeing a (not actually) perfect story (but Compound V is pretty funny)!

He was roughhousing with some friends and it got a little out of hand, as those things are wont to do. When his friends are leaving he decided to make his displeasure with one particular participant duly noted. So, instead of sticking his hand through the open car window, he decided to give the guy the finger via the open, yet soon to be closed door.

When the finger popped off, as you’d expect, there was confusion followed by much trashing and screaming. In the confusion, when they began to load No Finger in the car, the unattached adornment fell out.

They drove to the emergency room and, once there, were asked if anyone had the finger. Whoops! They ran back to the blood soaked vehicle but couldn’t find it. So drove back to the scene of the fucking funn. . .oh, sorry, bad incident. But nothing could be found. I figure a dog ate it or a small child was using it to pick his nose but only because I like happy endings.

It turns out, even if they’d found it, it probably couldn’t have been reattached do to the damage done to the bones and all the other things you keep inside your hand.

The moral of the story? If you come to me looking for a story, even if you don’t like it, it’s better to appease me and walk away swiftly then to make crinkly expressions right to my face! Because, in my distraught state, I may blurt out what you’ve requested quiet due to my severe depression at being horribly misunderstood.

“Wanna grab a beer?”

A simple question. But, as a public service to those who may be new to asking people if they’d like to get an adult beverage, well, anything really, and they get this answer,

“Oh, yeah, well, sure, I guess, yeah, why not?”

That person is lying.

What they really mean is,

“Gee, I’d really like to, and I don’t want you to think I’m a (fill in level of pussification), but my (fill in relationship status) wants me home so I can (fill in inane activity) but, damnit, if I leave here without grabbing a beer you’ll think I’m a (fill in level of pussification squared).”

But they never come out and say that. Hell, I’d have respect if they did. What they end up doing is having this internal battle balancing the act (grabbing a beer) versus the result (level of shit they’ll get).

“Yeah, well,” he starts to talk himself in or out of it. “Maybe a quick one. Yeah, that should be fine. I mean, it’s not like we’ll be out long, will we?”

Don’t put your pussy whipped neurosis on me. Nut up, sackless.

“Well, I, it, we, me, ah, what the hell!”

It always ends with a ‘what the hell!’

“As long as it’s a quick one.”

Followed quickly by the escape route.

“Slow down, cowboy! I wouldn’t want you to strain your labia.”

I don’t HAVE to be insulting at this crossroad of a mans life. It just seems like such a moral imperative, doesn’t it?

I then offer that, if he thinks there will be a problem, he should call and check. I have no problem with that. I do it. I never know what’s been planned in my absence. But, there’s that voice in his head again, the loud one that tells the rational one he doesn’t have to ask permission.

Guys, that loud voice in your head?

Belongs to a moron.

“Fuck that!” The moron exclaims! “Let’s get a beer!” There’s a pause as the moron drools it’s victory spit all over the place while the rational one ducks for cover. “Maybe a couple!”

“Slow down, little buddy! It sounds like you’re busting loose and partying like a middle aged account representative with tinnitus and a growing case of the gout!”

I put my hand on his shoulder and say,

“You throw down, boy, and party ’til it’s 7:45!”

We went across the street and here I will describe the event as precisely as possible:

We sit. We order. Order arrives. Phone rings. He hesitates. He answers. He listens. He drinks. He pays. He leaves.

I laugh.

Monday Music

What is that you are saying? I’m stealing someone’s idea? Huh. Interesting you’d think that because of course I’m stealing someone’s idea! How do you think I’ve got this far in life? By thinking up my own stuff?

Silly people.

Yes, yes, I’m stealing the Monday Music idea from the great and non-litigious Taoist Biker. But, as you’d expect, I’m changing it around, giving it a little B&G spin, if you will.

Whereas TB carefully chooses his songs and has interesting tales about the tune, an idea popped into my head and I’m plopping a brain dropping on ya. Whereas TB scours the intertubularweb to find just the perfect rendition of the song, I took the first link I saw so don’t even know if it’s in English. Whereas TB let’s the music do the talking, I had to fuck it up with my own words.

A song came on the radio Friday and, although I’ve probably heard this trifle sixty-four billion times, it was the first time I thought, “Hey! What if I wrote the lyrics like this?” So, that’s what I did.

I took The Cure’s ‘It’s Friday, I’m In Love’

and made it ‘It’s Monday, I’m In Hell.’

I thought I could have made it funnier but it took a dark turn late. But what do you expect? I’m working from a blueprint set up by the king of mope?

In two days my rent is due
I’m not sure I can come through
My landlord’s such a fucking shrew
It’s Monday, I’m in hell

My transmission fell apart
Now my car will never start
Why’d I buy this dumb Dodge Dart?
It’s Monday, I’m in hell

Should I pray? Wait
It’s so hard to trust in fate
That way hasn’t been too great

I just got the fucking sack
Wife freaked out she said to pack
Slammed the doors screamed don’t come back
It’s Monday, I’m in hell

My life’s full of blackened dread
I should have just stayed in bed
Oh what day will I drop dead?
It’s Monday, I’m in hell

Should I pray? Wait
It’s so hard to trust in fate
That way hasn’t been too great

Kiss my ass good bye
I can’t wait for my demise
There’s nothing that I don’t despise
Hate that I’m around
That I am still above ground
It’s a bleak losing streak
Hard to be around
Where is deaths stinging bite?
When will it take my sight?
I smell defeat in the middle of the night
It can’t take me quick enough
Enough of this stuff
It’s Monday, I’m in hell

In two days my rent is due
I’m not sure I can come through
My landlord’s such a fucking shrew
It’s Monday, I’m in hell

My transmission fell apart
Now my car will never start
Why’d I buy this dumb Dodge Dart?
It’s Monday, I’m in hell

Now here’s a cause. . .

. . .I can stand in front of!

http://www.gotopless.org/

Appearances To The Contrary. . .

. . .I don’t LIKE tearing people a new asshole. I’m also not that big a fan of drawing attention to myself. When I’m not working or having to be part of the action I’d rather sit there quietly. I don’t like to be on on my off times.

I also know the chance there is going to be someone who has to try to draw me in is large. It’s usually someone I know slightly but knows of my comedy persona. Trust me, Comedy Chris is much more fun or alarming to be around than Stupid, Old Regular Chris.

I’m sitting at a twenty seat bar that’s about half filled. There are six booths behind the bar that hold about four people. That establishes that it is not a large nor busy place. It’s a dive I stop once a week, once every other week. If that. Sometimes it’s a place where there’s too many people who know me so the odds I’ll be engaged rise.

But, so far, it’s been good. A couple of small, meaningless chats. Nothing taxing. Nothing deep. Then the door opens. It’s a guy, a loud, obnoxious guy if the truth be told. A back-slapping, bar-pounding, attention demanding twat, if a larger truth be told.

He usually doesn’t engage me because, one time he did, and I made him the butt of the joke. He likes attention, but not that kind of attention. But, in my experience, most of the time when I’ve verbally handed someone their jock, they don’t forget it and gnaw at the bit to garner revenge.

I guess this was his day.

He makes his grabbing, shoving, bellowing way down the bar. He’s about two people away when he looks at me and says,

“Well, if it isn’t the worst cocksucker I’ve ever known.”

I don’t look over but, peripherally in the mirror, I see everyone looking in my general direction. I don’t waste a moment. I just say,

“That’s only because your cock is so small it couldn’t even pass my lips.”

He stops dead in his tracks. My expression hasn’t changed from the moment he walked in. He blinks some of the shock off of his face. He puts his hand on a chair and begins to sit. He looks at me through the mirror for a few moments before saying,

“You’re the coldest motherfucker I’ve ever met. You didn’t even flinch.” He shakes his head. “There’s something really fucking wrong with you.” He picks up his beer and turns away from me.

Yes, he’s correct, there is indeed something really fucking wrong with me.

I like my personal time just the way I like my victims: quiet.

Not Going To Fit

I was not involved in this situation when it began. I was having a nice little conversation about nothing with a friend. While talking we were both watching this tiny woman fight with this twelve foot pole.

She was attempting to fit it into a vehicle that, to my estimation, was less than twelve feet long. But what really caught my attention was the trouble she was having balancing the pole. It was swinging and swaying like a stop sign in a hurricane. The problem there was she was working the pole from the end when the middle balance point would have been much easier.

After watching this impending doom for awhile we walk over.

“That’s not going to fit the way you want it,” I give her my years of packing experience. After saying that there are only two things you do not want to hear. One is bad,

“It’ll fit.”

And that usually causes me to disengage right then. They must know more than me. But, if, after that sentence, I haven’t already hightailed it to higher grounds, you can bet I do if I hear the follow-up sentence that is worse,

“I’ll make it fit.”

Hearing that, I pull the pin on my grinade and back away smiling because all hope is lost. As I backed away I felt bad because she was really struggling and, her arms not much larger in diameter than the pole, it was swinging wildly not only around her car but the cars of others and innocent passerby’s. I had visions of someone getting skewered. So I gave it one last shot before I beat feet and locked myself in my office.

“Would you like help with that?”

I figured if I took it out of her hands I could save a life.

And who says I don’t care? Oh, yeah, that’s right. Mainly I do.

Perspiration gathering on her face it seems she had no choice but to accept my offer. I take the pole from her, from the middle, and she tells me how she WANTS it to go into the vehicle.

If I didn’t think it was going in before I was dead certain there was no possibility now. She wanted it straight down the middle of the vehicle, making sure it didn’t touch the seats, only the towels, and the hatch much close.

I explained that, and it’s just a possibility, the only way to get it into the vehicle was to angle it (“No!” She cried.) or have it stick out the window (“No!” She wailed).

I tell her, to accomplish that, she will, in fact, need a larger vehicle. I tell her as she yanks the pole back because it is that obvious that I cannot be party to this. I pull the pin, toss, slather on a grin and slink away.

She, frustration bursting, lifts the pole, pulls it back, and thrusts the twelve foot pole straight down the middle of her ten foot vehicle.

“Now what are you going to do?” She says.

Me?

Yes, me.

The man well over twelve feet away and still gathering ground eyes locked on the eighteen inches of pole sticking dead straight through the windshield.

I remind her that, from the start, I doubted her concept and she pulled the pole from me after that pronouncement. I didn’t bother mentioning that I wished I’d been walking away with a video camera. I think that would have just been mean.

She ranted for a while trying to implicate me in the impaling but saw that, mainly due to my now being fifty feet away, her words were falling on deaf ears.

I used my considerable skills at rage management to get her breathing down from it’s hummingbird wing speed. When she’s resigned herself to the fact that there is not much any of us standing there (some, I’ll admit, stiffing – some not very successfully – chuckles) could do.

“On the bright side,” I say not being able to leave well enough alone. “You’ll now be able to close the hatch.”

Quick!

How do you say fucking asshole in Assamese?

Have that question no more!

http://www.youswear.com/

By the way, the answer is gar mora.

Hey! Hipster dude. . .

in the ironic band t-shirt (he was wearing a Primus shirt. A local, just making conversation, mentioned that Primus was coming to town soon. The hipster looked at him as if he were daft, down at the shirt then said, “I didn’t even know they were a band.”) please do not talk sports. I know you don’t know me, but trust me here, you sound stupider talking sports than you do when you talk about the new band you’ve discovered that hasn’t even formed yet! Yeah! That’s hip. It’d be hipper if one of the members hasn’t been born yet but I’m sure you already know that.

I know, harsh. Sports is covered under free speech. But, I’m really trying to help. Really! I’m not kidding this time. The reason is you draw unwanted attention to yourself. I know you WANT attention, but, trust me on this, you don’t want certain kinds of attention.

You’re welcome.

For the rest of you, because you weren’t there, I’ll relate the tale.

I was at a dive bar last night. I know, for hipsters that’s like clits to Lindsay Lohan’s tongue. They’re just drawn to them. The problem is, although being the first hipster to mark this bar with your half-skinny half-1 percent extra hot split quad shot latte with whip scent is a badge of honor, some of the actual regulars, people who’ve dropped blood on this very floor before your hair band loving parents met, don’t appreciate strangers. Much less strangers they think look strange who start talking sports.

Statements like (and this is an actual quote not gussied up by me), “He’s throwing like shit. His arm must be tired from fucking his supermodel wife.” only cause the regulars to stop mid sip. And you gotta know they don’t like nothing that gets in the way of their sipping.

That statement also caused me a moments pause because the only time your arm would most get tired off field is if you didn’t have a supermodel wife. But it may explain that pinched and pained expressions of the hipsterettes. Things is going horribly awry in the pie.

Regulars may even let it slide, they understand there are different levels of sports fans and game knowledge. But then the hipster, sitting there with his flava sava and Seth Rogan glasses, spoils it all by saying something stupid like,

“His hair is stupid.”

A sports fan in a place like this doesn’t even see a players hair much less comment upon it. The last time these people spoke of a players hair it was Y. A. Tittle’s. To their barber. They wanted to make sure he knew how to cut it to that five o’clock shadow length.

But it was the final thing, after noticing being part of the regulars wasn’t quite working out, he did that may be the most offensive: parroting.

I was talking to a guy who played division one college ball. He was talking about the merits of the opposing quarterback.

“You’ve got to give it to him, he gets in the pocket and gets a good look. He’s finding the open man for some big yard plays.”

“He’s sure finding the openings for some big yardage. It’s because he’s getting into the pocket for a good look.” We hear from behind.

After three or four times of hearing his lines repeated, the guy was incredulous (and yes, hipster dude, he not only knows what it means he can spell it) so leaned over (his leaning from bar stool to their table should have been evidence enough for them to take this gentleman VERY seriously) and asked, nicely I will attest, if he had a thought about the evenings action that germinated inside his very own head or if he was just going to leech off his experiences all evening?

“I know this game! I grew up on this game! Go fu. . .”

This next part of that word was conjecture both on my and the gentleman who stood blotting out the vapor tubed light from their table but I think we all know where he was going. The thing is in his world telling someone to go fuck themselves is akin to having a friend with benefits. No matter how many times he tells one of his ilk to fuck off they’ll always let him use their top secret torrent site to download tunes that are in pre-pre-pre-production.

But, in the neighborhood they’ve recently decided to call home, due to the cheap rents and weather-worn character (that’s hipster speak for shit hole), if you’re not ‘from there’ that tends to become fighting words. Which is where we had ourselves. Now the hipster dude may have thought himself some kind of cosmic warrior but, the truth is, a table leg will still open up a skull.

His only advantage was not the six or eight friends who were backing away nor the three or four hipster chicks cackling in his face, it’s that he was a guest in this gentleman’s home. All it took was a real regular to explain that to him.

So, as a coda to this and all the hipsters out there, if you find yourself someplace new, to keep the local animals sedated and your television absorbed world weariness still the experiences of others, be nice and maybe not so grandiose. Especially in a place where you feel the need to pretend the bartender knows your name.

Oh, you didn’t know I saw when you approached the bar all cocky braying to your friends about how tight you and the bartender are.

“Oh yeah, we go way back. Take my friends orders first and I’ll have my regular.” She looked at you and, to your credit, you saw she had no clue what your regular was and barely had any recollection of any of your frequent appearances. “Yeah,” you began to even your keel. “My regular Bud. Yep. That’s what I’ll be having. My regular.”

So, hipster dude, you’re more than welcome to the neighborhood, things are changing, everyone is aware of that. But the ties in this gritty, blue collar neighborhood run deep. And you’re still in the shallow end. So dip in a toe, wade in a bit, but don’t get in too deep too fast because the undertow around here is a bitch.

After all, I don’t come into your coffee house and bleat about The Delano Orchestra or Mouth’s Cradle, do I? A little respect and a ton of common sense. Is that too much to ask in these frantic and fractured times?

Thanks, hipster dude! Maybe next time the grizzled bastards at the end of this scared and pock-marked start grumbling about you the gentleman from earlier may stand to your defense,

“Hey, leave him alone. He’s a good guy.”

You’ll be hard pressed to do much better than that.

Changing The Baby

I was at a friends house who had a kid a few months (or years. How can you tell with those things?) ago. He’s changing the boy but is very ham-fisted about it. Put that together with him not wanting to be associated with this task and, as you’d expect, all hell could break loose.

And does.

The kid pisses in his father’s face, over his own head, and spent some time tagging the wall. Although I was laughing I have also experienced this phenomenon so grabbed a towel and tossed it over the flailing hose.

The father is spitting, wiping, and bitching, the kid is chilling (although I swear I saw a smirk), and I’m just laughing.

“Relax!” I tell the guy. “He’s just giving you a little Pisses Kisses.”

I doubt I’ll be invited back even after the kid moves out. But I don’t know why he was so upset. It’s not like the kid was offering him Hersey Squirts.

I hate Writers.

I like writers. I have many writer friends. But I have no Writer friends. That capital letter is very meaningful.

But, doing what I do, from time to time, I must be around Writers. I try to make this as swift and painless (for everyone) as I can. As much as you’d think I would, I don’t tear into them. It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll be outplayed. It’s that it’s too damn easy. Writers get hurt easily. They’re a soft-skinned bunch. Writers keep every rejection letter ever sent to them. Writers whine that their talents are being overlooked or, if the situation is dramatic enough, ignored. I swear Writers spend more time talking about Writing than actually writing.

I used to give a speech on freelancing to a professor friends writing class. I’d walk in, walk up to the biggest guy in the class, lean over and scream,

“You suck!” Into his face.

Then I’d go to the front of the class. The red-faced kid glaring at me as I smiled and said, “If you’re going to be a freelancer, get used to that because you’re going to hear it every day of your life.”

Then I’d just answer questions because, truthfully, that’s all you need to know about freelancing.

But Writers don’t see it like that. There’s always someone blocking their climb. Someone jealous of their obvious genius. Cowardly forces who will never rear their ugly heads to do battle with these gigantic talents.

When the reality is, most times, you’re perfectly acceptable yet not for them. Or not for that project. Or you’re not the type their looking for. And, trust me, they know exactly what type they’re looking for. It doesn’t mean stop trying, it means keeping your eye out for a good fit. It’s why every place tells you to read them before submitting. What they don’t tell you is be a good judge of yourself at the same time. Writes can’t do that.

I edited a country lifestyle magazine (I know! But, it was in English and I know all the words) and this guy submitted a science fiction (albeit country tinged) piece. I sent him back a nice note telling him, although it was good (the writing was good so I had a scifi friend read it and he said it was good), it wasn’t for our very specific market. I got back a letter from this Writer ripping me up and down.

Now I’m in a room filled with Writers just waiting to exit. I was there to see one person who I was trying to work for. As soon as I dropped off the things requested, I was out of there.

But it didn’t happen quickly enough and a Writer I’ve had the misfortune of speaking with before came over. He starts in with how frustrated he’s been. That tidbit was nestled along the hello so I wasn’t allowed a chance to speak. Or flee.

Over his shoulder I see the person I’m there for. I wave and he starts over. Thankfully. While watching the approach I hear something that catches my attention.

“What?” I ask shocking myself that I’m engaging.

“I said, I don’t know why I’m not better known, I’m only here to use my writing as an inspiration.”

I stop a beat. The person arrives, I hand him the package, turn to the Writer and say,

“That’s what I thought you said.”

I then proceeded to laugh myself into tears and pain. People stopped to watch. The guy I was there for put his hand on me for stability. I’m laughing and crying and pointing.

And I wasn’t faking. That could possibly have been the funniest thing I have ever heard. I gather some composure (good thing I never have much of it to begin with, huh?), stand, look the Writer in the eyes and say,

“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhha.”

I just couldn’t find a way to top laughing and pointing.