Monthly Archives: February 2014

My name is Chris. . .

. . .and I’m an asshole.

No, no, don’t try to talk me out of it. It’s true. Just ask me.

To prove it I will give you irrefutable evidence. I know it may be hard to believe but I can be pretty quiet. I don’t need to be the center of attention. Truly, I believe I get more attention than my piddling talents deserve. So, unless provoked, I’m satisfied to sit off to the side away from the hubbub. I’ve actually found it a benefit to society. Because of that, there are times when someone who doesn’t know me sees me sitting off by myself so figure I’m missing out.

And they are right, I’m missing out on being bothered. You see, when people approach someone off on their own they’re almost inevitably aggressive know-it-alls. They like to find the one person who’s wandered from the herd. It gives them an opportunity to show one more person just how much is stuffed in their head. You see, people like this feel someone being quiet can’t be as intelligent as them. Or they’d be talking.

And don’t think you can ignore them. That only fires them up and they’ll follow you to the ends of the earth just to let you know what you’re missing out on. So I sit there and listen. The entire time I’m just biding my time. And trust me, it’s a trap set by someone who is a professional asshole.

Turns out one of his many fields of expertise was music so it was just my luck music happened to be playing. He asks me if I knew the band whose song is playing. Not wanting to escalate the musical war (if you know stuff they’ll go into the topping game) I say no. He can’t believe it and explains a load of crap to me. The next song comes on and the same thing happens.

You may be thinking he’s being a good guy. Broadening my musical knowledge. But it’s not that. He doesn’t think I can comprehend the vastness of his knowledge. This is all for him. And if you believe I’m going to let him get away with it I suggest you stick around and read a little more on how things end for people like this.

I knew who was playing the song that was on. The guitarist is a friend. I just want him to get to a place where he feels so confident in my stupidity when I pull out the asshole card he’ll feel it for days. Good for me it gets to that point with the very next song. The song is ‘Don’t Let Me Down’. I can tell by his expression he knows I know this.

“You have to know who does this.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” I confidently answer. “I saw them a few months ago.” His brow furrows. “It’s the Fab Faux. They put on an awesome show.”

Have you ever had a person give you an answer so perplexing you wish you were there the moment before conception just so you could punch their father in the balls to stop it? Well I’ve seen that look.

“No,” he disgustedly says. “It’s The Beatles.”

“Never heard of them. Are they any good?”

“You’ve never heard of The Beatles?”

“No. Are they new? The Fab Faux have been around for about a decade maybe these Beatles cover some of the Fab Faux’s songs.”

The guy can’t believe what he’s hearing. He looks at me as if I am a damaged vessel which should be sunk at sea. He looks around and sees a guy I know. He calls him over and explains the situation. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for my friend to make sense of the situation.

Then start laughing.

“He’s fucking with you.” The guy’s contempt for my stupidity turns to disgust once he digest this information.

“You’re an asshole.”

I rest my case.

In case you’re unaware, The Fab Faux is the world’s premier Beatles cover band. I’ve seen them with full horns and strings and just the boys and a better time would be hard to come by. Go see them when they pass by your town.

Makes no sense.

You hear you should seek medical assistance for erections lasting longer than four hours?

What guy’s up four hours after sex to notice that?


I walked into a local establishment and asked the bartender what she did the night before. She tells me she went out to another local place with friends. I ask her what she did the night before. Without really thinking she tells me she went to the Red Sox game. I ask what she did the evening before and, a little hesitantly, she answers again. She really has an action packed life!

I ask what she did the night before but this time she balks.

“Why do you keep asking me what I did night after night?”

“I’m stalking you but I’m lazy.”


Growing up my cousin lived with us. One day I’m a kid with a terrible sister then plop there’s a terrible cousin sitting on the kitchen floor. We were fairly close in age but never close. We’d fight like you do with people who live in your house. And it was a pretty battling family just like everyone else in the old neighborhood. It was a rough and tumble place and fights were a common occurrence all up and down the streets in and out of the houses. Remember the old Bill Cosby joke about all the kids in the neighborhood finding out someone was getting a beat so they’d all run to the window to watch? We didn’t find it funny, we thought he was just telling our life story.

We’d bicker but never really fight fight. We only had one fist fight. It was boxing (me) vs. karate (he). I’ve been in a lot of fights in and out of the ring. I’ve always hated street fights when the other guy was talking. If I wanted to talk to you my fists wouldn’t be balled up. I’m in my fighting pose. so that day he was chatting a bit. Finally I said let’s get this over (I’m a busy guy, I’ve got shit to do). I blocked a few of his karate moves then when thought it was my turn so I hit him.


I knocked out four teeth and punctured his ear drum.

It was funny to hear him sputter like Yosemite Sam while trying to explain what was very obvious to me what I’d done. I mean, he couldn’t even see it all. All he could really see was blood and teeth in his hand. I knew he wasn’t going to be too happy looking in the mirror for a while.

But we never fought again.

I’m not sure whose choice that was. But I think I could hazard a well-informed guess.

Most of the fights we had growing up were the normal things boys living on top of each other had. Shoving, punching in the back, wrestling, etc. He had a habit of throwing things at me long after the fight was over. It makes one unhappy to get hit in the head with a metal dump truck. Yeah, back then toys were metal and the edges were far from ‘kid safe’. They were more like ginsu sharp.

One day after getting a special dump truck delivery while I was at my desk reading I got up and if I got my hands on him I would have thrown him down the stairs. Dragged him back up and thrown him down again.

I like to make my point explicitly known.

I struggled to my feet and started out after him. It was a narrow hallway and he was too far ahead for me to catch because I knew he was heading for the safety of the only door that locked inside the house: the bathroom. But I took off after him. If I could get there just as he was closing the door I might be able to get inside.

But, just in case, as I’m running down the hall I’m looking for something to throw. Nothing like a metal toy truck. I pitched in baseball. I’d put the truck through his head. So I reached into the dresser of the desk I was running by. It happened to be my sisters room. It was filled with brushes and make-up and gawd knows what else was on that dresser. But I cleanly snapped one item off the dresser: a nail file.

I could see I wasn’t going to catch him so I did the next best thing. I stopped, aimed and let the file fly. It was traveling straight toward his head. It was like watching something from The Matrix. The file rotating over and over until it was time for impact.

It hit with a thud and stuck. It actually pierced the bathroom door. After a beat he opens the door, see the file at eye level then looks at me.

“You could have killed me.”

I just smiled.

“Chris is trying to kill me.” He said running downstairs to tattle. I calmly walked to the bathroom door checked it out and damned if I didn’t get it through. I jiggled it until it was out of the door turned around to put it back before calmly going back to what I was doing.

Funny, I don’t think he ever threw anything at me after that.

I guess I should have punched him the next day. That way I would have had a very calm, fight free childhood. Well, at least one part of it.

They found 97 bags. . .

. . .of heroin in Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s apartment.

He wasn’t a junkie, he was a hoarder.