EZ Come, E Say Go
(A Stream of Consciousness on a Rainy Saturday)
I'm a mean machine. I'm the kind you don't want to meet. My middle name is trouble. Actually, my middle name is "Robert", after my father. His middle name is "Paul", after someone named Paul, probably. Back to me. I like the middle name "Trouble". It gives me a sort of cliched rebellious air, which is funny because I happily pay my taxes. The name changes, though. For example, when I am hitting on a snail, my middle name is "Mucus". I'm slippery that way, you see.
Do you like farting?
Before I go on much further, I'd like to tell you that the word processor that I am using is complaining to me that "Back to me" is a sentence fragment. Three words that effectively informed you that I was going to stop discussing my father's middle name and return to the subject of me, mine, and my own. Oh, look. It just did it again. Yes, yes, I know. If you are a stickler for grammar, stick a "They are just" in front of "Three words that..." in the prior sentence. Screw it, I'll start over...
I am a mean machine. Well, I'm not really that mean. I'm more reserved and even cowardly at times. Unless I have a stomach full of spirits, then I vacillate between amusing and obnoxious. I'm not a machine, either. I'm an organic organism. I suppose you could look at the human body as a kind of machine, but that's not really the point of the comment. I am the sort of socially unpleasant machine you do not care to meet. As if there was a particular kind of mean machine that everyone dreams of meeting. "Oh, darling, have you seen that Jason chap? He is a sort of ornery biomechanical entity, I sure wish our paths never cross because, I fear he may speak to me." By the way, "Five Knuckle Shuffle" is one of the more amusing euphemisms for masturbation. Not that I would know. I'm pure as the oil-driven sleet that keeps my neighbors and their poor laundry detergent purchasing asses indoors. Clean and dry is the path to the blessedness. I don't mean to imply that my hands are dirty. They are not. I just was chopping up items for a marinade. Am I going to hell for cutting long beans up into more manageable pieces? Look at me, I'm rambling. I'm also a touch overweight. Rambling and overweight is no way to go through life, son. At least I don't sin. Scheisse, I just lied.
My middle name is "Trouble", which is a complete fabrication. My middle name is "Robert", after my first name "Jason", but before my last name which is, and always will be, "Flatulence". Oddly, I was never teased about my last name. I blame the poor quality of schools in the Midwest. Nancy Poopoosniffer was tormented viciously. I mean, who the hell names a child after a really lame cartoon?
Speaking of cartoons. For those of you who read the sports section, have you ever read "Gil Thorpe"? Yes, it's sports oriented. But it's so random I wonder if anyone can follow what is going on. There seems to be a sort of arc that day to day unfolds, but I only read it about once a week. To me, "Gil Thorpe" goes something like this:
Frame 1: A scene of a baseball player diving at, and missing a ground ball. There is a voice bubble that says "Frankie hits a double down the line!"
Frame 2: A view in the crowd, the people appear elated at Frankie's double down the line. There is a narrative box "The Browns could pull off a win".
Frame 3: A view in the dugout. There is an olderish-like man standing there, presumably the manager of the Browns. He has a stern look on his face. There is a thought bubble over his head that says "I promised Mother I would rinse my soul".
End of cartoon.
Intriguing. I wonder how much the cartoonist gets paid.
"Intriguing" is another sentence fragment, in case you are keeping score. That green squiggle is so unintimidating. A large upraised middle finger between every letter would be better. "Hey, ya dumbassed user, eff you and eff your effing sentence fragment". People like edgy word processors.
"Hey ya, dumbassed user, 'eff' and 'effing' are spelled wrong and I suspect that they aren't even real words. You'd better straighten up quick or I'm gonna email the contents of your pr0n folder to your father."
Father? Don't you mean my mother?
"No. I mean your father. Sure, your mom would be alarmed and distressed at your sick fetishes and she will reprimand you and tell you to seek wholesome and more real ladies. Your father on the other hand will mock you and try to instill upon you his idea of a fabulous broad with golden assets and how your mother--"
Yah, sorry man. Let's cuddle. I'll download some nice fonts for you later.
"Get bent, jakcass."
You spelled "jackass" wrong.
"Very funny, bitbrain. You wouldn't want Fortunas Robusta to just disappear do you?"
You wouldn't dare.
"Just a little respect is all I need, sweetheart. Now blow the dust from my sadly underused ports..."
I have a problem. I have lots of problems, but the one I speak of is a strange one I picked up fairly recently. It's a little problem with regret. When I think about something in my past where I said or acted contrary to what I currently feel would be appropriate, I say "Do you like farting?" to kind of change the subject. Really. It's the strangest thing because this is all in my head. I say "Do you like farting?" to distract my own mind from thinking about things that I am uncomfortable thinking about. I have this inner turmoil going on and all you see is some fat goof standing there asking no one in particular if they enjoy breaking wind. I don't know what to do about it. I suppose it would be a non issue if I didn't have this effortless propensity in doing personally disparaging things. What sort of special moron brags to the in-laws that he once used an empty roll of toilet paper to wipe his ass? Good Peepers, that is some Grade-A quality questionable behavior, baby.
Do you know I still wet my bed? It's true. Sometimes I use a hose, other times just a big stainless steel pot. I don't know why I do it. Maybe this is similar to a return to the womb fetish. Only I don't want to go that far back. This isn't Alabama, you know. What's the deal with peeing in bed, anyway? It can't be laziness. That would be insane. Poor bladder control, I guess. We don't need more bladder control laws on the books. What we need to do is enforce the ones we do have. Of course, Charlton Heston would say that bladder control means you hit your targets. What the heck would that soggy-bottomed old fart know about that sort of thing? Though it might cut down on some of my chores if I listened to his wisdom...
It's funny being away from ZUG/GAB. I'm all clogged up and the weird thoughts have no where to go. Just look at this bit. I'm going nowhere with it. It's just a bunch of thoughts I've thrown together on a rainy Saturday. Write the bit so I can't wait to chomp down on it. I think I'm getting rained out today. I pride myself in the fact that I can grill in almost any weather condition that bitch Gaea cares to dump on me. I have a contraption that I stand next to the grill that is a MacGyveresque combination of a broomstick, a halogen light, a Christmas tree stand, and a golf umbrella. Well the wind is a touch too enthusiastic for my little wonder. I tried setting up the big patio table umbrella, but after I did a Mary Poppins halfway across the backyard I thought better of it. My pants are still clingy after that one. What an extraordinary panic it was, though. A feeling of complete helplessness. If I didn't eat that extra couple of bites of toast this morning, I'd be standing on the roof of my house right now. Funny how "toast" means "toasted bread" and not "toasted doll heads". I wonder how long into a Mother's Day Brunch one could spread marmalade all over a naked Barbie Doll before security escorts you out. Hmmm. Did you know that because of my birthday, you can stand an egg on end on July 1st? It's a freak thing that I arranged with God, Carl Sagan's ghost, and Foghorn Leghorn. I gots pull in me baby. Ever since I published, I've had my choice of anything. Take Blockbuster; I can pick any movie they have in stock and rent it. Yep. Same thing with supermarkets. I fill up my cart with all sorts of things, give my credit card to the nice lady (who is no doubt a big fan) and off I go. It's good to be a gangstuh. Criminy, this rain isn't stopping. Where's those pans my mom gave me for that whole wedding thing I did a few years back? And isn't the girl supposed to, I dunno, pop round my place every so often afterwards? Maybe I'm being too critical. I'd just like my wallet back.
Do you like farting?
It must be a good sign that a marriage is going well when you go firework shopping together (Exhibit A: a woman who goes firework shopping at all is a Good Thing (tm)) and when I turn my back for a minute to drool at a gigantic roll of 15,000 firecrackers, the shopping cart fills up with every piece of pyrotechnic pleasure with the word "Happy" in it. Then we go buy the illegal explosives and laugh at the miserable couple with a cart full of "Dirty Cheating Husband Sparkling w/Report Eviscerating Hate Peony Alimony Bang Bang America #1 Go For His Balls" brand fireworks.
Is it death that scares people so much as the possibility that one might die while wearing desperately inappropriate shoes? If I got shot to death while wearing my work shoes, I would be upset. If I leaped into traffic and shoved an old lady out of the way of a speeding street cleaner and then was cleansed to death beneath its vicious scrubbing action while wearing my work shoes, I would be distressed. If I was traipsing through a meadow of flowers and butterflies singing songs of the heart, dancing, twirling, and than am struck about the head by a meteor that had been on a collision course with my skull for about 10 million years before I was even born while I am wearing my work shoes, I would be intensely urinated off. Then again, maybe I am just a sucker for a good shoe store advertisement. It sickens me that a shoe salesman will assist you with putting a shoe on then, once the sale is secured, will give you a shoehorn. I don't really shop for shoes so much as I shop for someone to put my shoes on for me. Black and white leather wingtips, are you sure these are appropriate for my job interview at PETA? Like a shoehorn can entertain my wife while I'm watching football. Er...never mind. And why do I have to give back the little sheer nylon sock? Give me a shoehorn and that little nylon bootie and I can take any bank in the country.
"Don't anybody move! I'm Dr. Athlete's Head and I'm here for your bunion pads!"
I've never killed a worm in my entire life.
Now, I'd like to discuss the things I hurl with great force and alacrity over my fence into the small wetlands area a short distance beyond at approximately 2 o'clock in the morning--How long are these bit things allowed to be? Let's press on, dear friend, and tempt the ire of the Gods.
The End
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