The greatest humiliation is to go back to square one. The place where you loathed growing up, as being far too small for your ‘hipsterosity’…to the point where you have a mental microchip that would switch off even at the slightest eventuality of being forced back….But no matter how much you twist and turn in a hapless, hopeless desperation, somehow the death throe of the alligator spin brought you down to the last gurgle at the end of a toilet flush……. To make matters worse and to rub hydrochloric acid in the wound, is to suffer the social functions of close proximity…. The futility of which is to seek a force in the universe so powerful, that you would gladly push schoolgirls into a volcano in order to beg out.
Spending your sleeping hours awake in a semi-panic that you’ll make a the kind of scene at this event that’ll get back to your Mom…. precipitating an earlier than expected intervention time than later on next month. How long can I steadfastly refuse group therapy and claiming I’m a latent nail biter?
So I go to this amalgamation of social functions: a funeral and bat-mitzvah both on the same day as fate would have it, as Luck was no where to be found…probably rolled in some alleyway when trying to be a good Samaritan, because that’s the way Luck rolls…
So goes the parade of people I’d sooner get a twice baked abortion before kissing them on the cheek, and start making excuses for my current lifestyle…to their condescendingly sniffs of disdain…FUCK OFFF …Time for target practice out by the hearses…that’s such a cool vehicle …if it were painted in chartreuse and some pimpin’chrome rims
My Aunt Stink Thighs pops up from nowhere…and what I’ve learned from years of living in a small town and despising everybody is, if you try to run and hide you’re burnt toast…so hide in plain sight…a goofy smile is the best camouflage…leg twitches and murmuring helps too…so I’m doing my best Sammy Davis Jr. humming the ‘Candy Man’ and the cloak of invisibility starts…I feel brazen enough to unzip my fly and let the windmilling begin but it was cold today and she might get frostbite poor dear….
My sphincter is twitchy but basically unscathed, so I wait at the bus stop resplendently dressed in a bespoke Neapolitan suit I had made years ago when flush with cash- looking a bit out of place with a foreign greasy type next to me, whose nicotined fingers and yellowish smile that looked like he ate lots of vitamins and stored his urine in his teeth
Greasy Foreigner: ‘What time did you say it is?” Me ‘I didn’t’
Try to get the better of me will you!!!! ??? Uneducated upstart!! At a bus stop no less!!! …There something about that suit…it possesses me. I’m the arrogant wiseass asshole beloved by my friends and serfs alike… I miss him, he was fun- I gotta get back to being him…the legend
So I get to the bat-mitzvah and not a moment too soon…it was many moments too soon…I scan the place with my faux cyborg scanning device embedded into my imaginary brain and realize this place is just rife with undesirables and people that make me squirm a if the meth bugs had crawled up my arms and made me itchy
As I was waiting to get inside the fuselage of the plane, I was fixated on these electric blue stretchies, Fat cow pants for cos that shouldn’t wear pants…these were no ordinary stretches, the texture was that of corrugated eggshell…a polyester pique of puke-inducing landscape of an imaginary sky painted by a meth head…Of course she sat next to me, with her soft-boiled eggs and buttermilk toast in a chinet bowl…Her carry-on steamer truck had no chance of fitting in a lavatory, let alone the overhead compartment…and her tubercular cough had me at at a perpetual ‘semi’
Today was as good as any to become a germophobe…she was coughing up bloody mary mix…I was dry heaving….she just never heard of hands covering a mouth and sexual favors were not out of the question if her husband would strangle her and dispose of the body
My dog is defective…..
I get home only to find that somehow Vincent has picked the bathroom lock, and made it a post-apocalyptic wasteland, a landscape strewn of shredded toilet paper and chewed up ivory snow soap packaging, and then moved on to the gorgonzola-esque insoles of my favorite suede longwing brogues…
So to cool off, I go out with him for our semi-annual walk, and he does his signature move….a dance step where he lifts his back leg to poop and starts hopping around counterclockwise while trying to bite the leash….but no such luck…he’d be in jail if his pooping was the equivalent of pulling false fire alarms….
Vincent just tires me out…completely pooped… So we come home, and I fix him a sundae (no nuts for him…allergies). I start taking a few spoonfuls, which always pisses him off, but I keep on because this time I got lucky with the perfect mix of proportions…time to savor the moment, as he punctures my shirt with those ineffectual taupey fur poodle dog teeth
I get up to wash the day’s sins off in the shower,( and make a few more while balancing with one hand on the wall)….I actually start to feel the redemption of ‘no place like home’… I’ve finally started to uncoil.
Why is Vincent laid sprawling on the bed?…he is so remedial and defective…
So in his honor, I do that old spectacular magic trick where you pull the tablecloth and leave the place settings unmoved… except it’s my plaid duvet and Vincent goes flying…but his claim to fame is always landing on his feet after ricocheting off the walls a few times………Just kidding
I just shoo him off to a neutral corner of the plaid duvet, and lie down to read my phone’s myriad emails…I’m knee deep in emails when I absent-mindedly search for the remote without looking up. I always leave it on the same spot on the bed where I spilled lasagna 6 months ago…and so it still feels a bit pasta-y
Did I say my dog Vincent is defective? ….So I rummage around on the bed and I feel the remote, I grab it’s hard, smooth surface and suddenly remember that tonight Archer is on FX…cartoon’s high octane superspy…So I start hitting the remote’s buttons…..but no buttons…that’s weird….
What Did Vincent do, chew them all off? That damn defective dog…I doubt he’s still on warranty after 5 years of abnormal wear and tear…so I take a closer look and see the remote on the other side of the bed…damn Vincent…Stop Messing With My Stuff Dammit!!!!
A horrible thought comes to mind….so horrible that I need to hear some Kenny G to deflect the awfulness with more awfulness. How could Vincent be so criminally insane- just for that, I’m putting nuts on his sundae…. walnuts no less….
Why me? I’m just two mishaps short of paradise…..
I slowly, oh.. so …slowly, look down at my hand; wincing, cringing and generally in a defensive body position. ‘Hope for the best, expect a broomstick’ is what i always say…. So I begrudgingly admire the sleek cigar-like remote cradled between my index finger and thumb in the dull ambient light of my bedroom….it’s remarkably light weight in its ergonomic perfection….something JD Power and Associates should have given an award for…but red-eyed rage consumes me and I despise my dog right now…it’s a very strong loathing….I feel the ultimate betrayal, as only I can shit the bed…it’s so unfair…but being teutonically germophobic Purell is always near
Archer was great
Sorry to just see this now. Thanks, glad you got a kick out of it ;D Best to you
Ben Affleck said: ‘it doesn’t matter that you get knocked down in life, what matters is that you get up”
I say: ‘It doesn’t matter that you get knocked up in life, what matters is that you go down”
If all men are brothers, then we’re no strangers to atomic wedgies. In a few days I have to go to remember the third Anniversary of my Dad’s passing which should be an intensely sad affair, if not for the numbing effect of it’s surreal infusion of total meaningless ludicrousness-I believe that no problem is so large or so difficult that you can’t hand in your letter of resignation
- That’s like a thousand days of him not being here…and not much has been produced in his absence…I haven’t written another book or nailed a high school infatuation, or even scaled the top of the Roca Jack in the Andes to ski a ‘No-Fall’ zone….Nope with the exception of a few killer tweets out of tens of thousands and a few good turns in the washroom; there’s been nothing of note
I guess this year out of commission’s highlight has principally been enjoying the bearable lightness of not fucking up… I was born fully equipped with 5 senses, why would I need a sense of accomplishment?
So what I’m trying to say is : Always take time to stop and smell the Roses…there’s always a few in the assisted living home…and they don’t mind being smelled…most of them are too senile to notice…yeah ‘wrong hole is the look I was aiming for’ ….Just remember: It takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown… and fewer still to pull the trigger”
Yeah it may seem that It’s always darkest before the dawn, and always stubbiest too…and you can’t find the phone to dial 911 and ask to bring the jaws of life and a nail clipper and if they could possibly send over a firing squad to shoot the side of the bed that you stubbed into..if it’s not too much to ask for and maybe a better table one not so close to the restrooms
Montreal is Lululemon central- so their mid-calf legging is pretty much a ‘de facto’ uniform…everyday the propriety of when and where they are appropriate is being chipped away much the way they think the Ugg shearling boot became a fashion must have…spotted at Paperman and Sons for a a funeral of a distant great Aunt, then off to Vic Park gym for the sacred yoga class…Moishes then …
How I’ve grown to loathe the sight of legions of Chick in their mid-calves, Moncler or Canada Goose down puffy jackets, and the ubiquitous yoga mat quiver slung over a shoulder..like she was raised in Sherwood Forest and replace her arrows with a bacteria laden, squishy rubber welcome mat…Uppity, holier than thou, in need of a shower more than thou
moron this later….This is gonna be the new title of my new book- as being the new title of my old book, while a shrewd marketing ploy for a fast cash out; will invariably cause me to see my immediate family tied to chairs and blown away before my very eyes..which usually makes me horny..and having the parking brake on
So yes, this will indeed be a new low point in my writing but it’s a catchy title so I should get extra credit of about 5 pages before anyone seriously thinks to themselves ‘The guy is certifiable and what street corner did I buy this book at …the beauty of a folding bridge table at a Chelsea Street Fair
I love walking the streets of Montreal on a snowy day, in the distance, a row of rowhouses. Their fireplaces ablaze with the charred human remains of last night’s late pizza delivery boys that now waft through the chimneys smelling faintly like this morning’s cinnamon toast.
As I yearn for a Bailey’s/sloe gin and hot chocolate… and possibly a few hits from my meth pipe that is lost in the myriad of pockets this lame parka advertised as it’s strongest selling point…, It is causing madness and frustration…..the familiar itch of the large crawling bugs under the skin of my forearms reminds me this must be Crash Wednesday because it was a long weekend for President’s day so I had more crack rock than usual. one thing about Crack babies, you know they’re going to put out on some level of unconsciousness … Portrait of a crackwhore as a young slut…fuck you James Joyce and your eyepatch glasses that gave me sexually confused nightmares
I fucking hate depressed chicken…it just wrecks my mood at the end of the day when I try to uncoil from the day’s jagged enema….y’know like a hypodermic to the neck from some creepy chicken dude who’s more concerned with Shwarma jihad or a second parking garage level for the spare body parts not picked up in the last Mumbai organ exchange….It just wrecks the whole pickup experience and makes me feel like a victim of automatic gunfire violence who can’t vote. The chicken is delicious but the pallor of creepiness is a special sauce that dares not speak it’s name
Chicken should be happy..made by happy gang bang
ers with no vendettas against Mark Wahlberg… But that creepy Mr Rotisserie never sleeps, never poops, never writes hailkus…he just fixates on the rotating chicken like the rest of us fixate on a laundromat’s dryer full of some lepers unmentionables
It’s like when a Chick asks me “Does this make me look fat?”
……I always answer ‘I think it’s pretty much a voluntary thing” But why do I have to be put in such a bed of ails position where any answer will be held against me in a food court
Meth Mondays always leads to Crash Wednesdays- and I’m burning …the trick is to find an up and coming chicken joint…there must be an app for that….something better, would be a local app for non-creepy chicken joint owners…maybe a profile or a bio…what his likes are… his hobbies…lepidopterist? lycanthropist? Sure it’ll get weird, but at least it’s out there for all to read and process. I want to know if the Chicken Hitler drinks puddle water, or watches Downton Abbey in a saddle shoes
Chicken is an art form, not a performing art…reading the disgruntled manifesto of a rosemary and thyme-addled Social Disobedient affords the end consumer an opportunity to decide if you really want fries with that or rice pilaf…
I love it when a guest on Maury, who in a surprise twist to the paternity test of a guy she was sure was the Father ….now doesn’t know who the baby’s daddy is…and so runs to the backstage and doesn’t make it to the sofa and hits the floor sobbing…while the presumed daddy calls her all sorts of mean (but true) names…
it sort of makes me wistful about not being raised white trash and seriously upset at my Parents for being upstanding pillars of the community who lived in a Pink Bubble….
I started drinking out of a jar only last month…and a ‘still’ was just another name for an old fashioned picture…
The 60s gave us grey ponytailed old farts in saggy ass jeans and skirts, whose flawed revisionist history has given them an unqualified relevance in a world that scoffs at the very look at them…How I loathe and scorn these fossilized head shop relics, whose memories have waned to the point of erosion and so, valiantly blame everything on the ;it was the 60’s man’ sybaritic lifestyle that few actually lived through…. and mercifully much less survived…
When you look back at archival footage of these badly dressed clowns, it’s more a spectacle of how pointless and wrong you were and how much fun it is to laugh at you now and then…the only mitigating fluke is music and movies as poetry sucks and Sushi was more of an 80’s thing
To think that by now, Grace Slick having successfully gone through menopause, should seriously consider a name change…something befitting her stage in life…something like Grace Vaginal Dryness or just Grace Chafe
I see things as they aren’t…so this testicle that ate Europe is irritating, I’m going back to see my buds at the hospital on Monday and I fully expect to have it ‘aspirated’ i.e. get a needle…
I’ve also discovered the angle of the ‘Nutri-bullet’ a stupid TV thing that is going to make me positively Darfurian in a few months.
Yesterday I was finishing off the sundae swirl of a gym workout with a little elevated treadmill action…. when out of the blue, a slamming hot Chick in boy shorts that were two sizes too right, went on the machine next to me. This putting a slight crimp in my shorts, so I couldn’t lecherously leer at her with any proper perversion…This was quite disconcerting to have a level of hotness that is so completely stupid next to me, and not being able to make a lewd inappropriate remark and make a clean get away…. let alone the prospect of picking up where we left off tomorrow
So imagine my joy at the realization of the revenge of the psyllium warning label…sure I can man up with the bloating, but the flatulence was singularly stunning- it was pure standing ‘O’ …into another room…which in my studio apartment meant the bathroom or hallway…I mean it was toxshockingly bad…so it was evasive action time..
At first, I figured the years of not looking at ‘buns of steel’ videos would probably not have any bearing on this situation … but something was knocking at heavens door and I seriously didn’t know what the environmental impact assessment would be and you only have one chance to make an impression that you have irritable Bowel Syndrome or some reasonable facsimile….
So not having the patience or nerves of steel to beg it off…I looked at her with my eyes bugged and jaw jutted out, and then suddenly hopped off the treadmill as it was smoking and spitting from red line overheating on the highest setting…and then I fled the scene without changing… out into the minus 3 fahrenheit balmy weather
But who cares, as she has a dorky boyfriend
The sight of your own blood is a pretty cool thing…I take it to the optometrist for a vision test just to make sure…. Not so with the sight of your own pus….just saying…mainly because it is the ‘women’s problems” equivalent of what ails you…..no one is exactly sure…it’s kinda like 7Up in that way…you just hope it’ll dry up and promise never to do it again…
I freely admit to suffering from premature mojo…but if I ever took Viagra, I’d probably explode….
It’s incredibly demeaning to have to be cognizant of your surroundings, when you have spent your entire life in a defiant disregard….. It’s like relearning to walk without the physio, pain or land mines … just delaminating the arching camber of a once proud independence… the sifting of manhood through aging’s lapse of time (although this current hydrocele nonsense is also prevalent among newborns, proving that humiliations start on a subatomic particle level)
It’s Official! My ball sac is molting like a snake that never got the memo…I hope there’s a real Crackerjack surprise inside, like it’s now made of red python and cotton candy, just polished to a high gloss, with flashes of lucite for that retro feel…I promise you, I would run out and buy a matching pair of Lucchese cowboy boots and chaps on a layaway plan… as this process might take a while
Seriously, it’s a new sensation to think you might have contracted leprosy in the fruits and vegetables section of your local supermarket…I’m trying to pare down it’s origins as these days, I couldn’t have gotten it at the gym because I’ve been peeing standing up (and forgetting to shake).. next to the leg machines, which is pissing the trainers off to no end…
I don’t know what to expect on this detoured section of roadmap to the river Styx…..I hope the ferry has room for cars, because if I have to be a pedestrian for the rest of eternity, that would be total hell…
So I’m sitting on a fence, figuratively speaking, as to my next event in the scrotal special olympics…. as in my present distendedly swollen state, sitting on it or running the high hurdles could be fraught with pain and splinters…
Help! I’m a small testicle trapped in the body of a freakishly flapping ball sac…As the humiliations of maturation mount, first it was the ‘politics of sex’: actually feeling the stupid consequences of random hook ups. The breaking up of engagements and marriages, and little girls hearts, all because they actually cared for you…does carry a penalty clause - who knew? But now it’s yielding to the whims of a non-benevolent scrotal tyranny… What a karmic bitchslap, after having successfully dodged the whole STD County Fair; only to get sunk in the mud of a tractor pull…There is a certain Gordon Lightfoot bleak bitterness to this whole whiny singsong
I have always held those guys who are constantly fidgeting with their junk in the highest ridicule…but now I find myself in the necessity of doing the Lipton ‘cup a soup nuts’ every time I go from weight machine to weight machine or bench or um.. blinking…
I’ve always been a ‘no hassle, no tune-up, just jump into my equipment and hit it’ type of guy…which I now see is an exclusive bonus of youth..now, like the aforesaid politics of sex, I have to pick my battles…and most are core courses not electives……..
The landscape changed but the cartography remains the same…Something mindblowing to me is when did my checking out Chicks, transition into ‘leering’…. as apparently, now I’m just too lecherously old to be thinking of such deviant stuff with such youthful exuberance…Can the final humiliation of granny sex be far off? …..I’ll be running a continuous Viagra IV drip, if I don’t explode from it first….. and then being thrown the final bone of a quick ‘respiteful’ death?
To maintain the delicate balance of a completely immature outlook, after lo’, all these many decades: no wife, no girlfriend, no semblance of benefits anywhere…not even the escorts of the yellow pages or back of New York Magazine personals is far from childsplay - A life dedicated to the precepts of worry-free/ responsibility free/ mortgage free and STD free ( or reasonable facsimile, anything not requiring the services of a rubber-gloved Doctor and a rather cartoonishly long hypodermic…. ). Having my body fail me with this hydrocele, while my head is still ramping up for another ‘No Skin/No Win”, is ‘lunchbag letdown’… on an epic scale
So as I pick at the last scabs of idle youth and beauty, only to have the ‘portion control’ and routine check-ups of middle age flung in my face; I can no longer take solace in any last vestiges of immortal aces up my sleeve, or dealing from the bottom of the deck….. There’s no solace to be found, only a shrill kick in the nuts, as someone goosed my life’s stopwatch into overdrive.
I now see my fading reflection in the next generation of cocksmen, just smugly thumbing their noses at any potential maladies and winging it by feel. I refuse to compare their exploits with mine, as they burn stronger, and faster on my generation’s trials and errors that we furthered, and they have run with- by seeming divine right and no thank you cards involved just a slight ridiculing of the past
I too feel…but it’s the twangs of envy, jealousy and voodoo dolls….. gladly to step into their shoes for one last bang!