5.19.2003

I think I am going to dedicate my life to a new goal.

I am going to petition to get the US Government to allow me - and only me - to have permission to carry a flamethrower for the sole purpose of making an example out of people who don't deserve to live.

Example - the guy who goes the wrong way down the buffet line and then looks at you as if you just peed on his leg when you try to progress - the correct way - down the row. This guy, in my opinion, deserves to die. He does not need to continue his existance on this Earth, propigating his ilk, spreading the disease that has infected him. There is a natural order to things at the buffet - you start at the plates, work through the salads to the starches, and end at the meats. You simply don't cut in front of someone in order to get your roast beef BEFORE you get your mashed potatoes, no matter how much you like it that way or how you grew up eating it. If you want your 'mashed taters' on top of your meat, simply get them seperately and, once you return to your table, place the potatoes on top of the cut of beef.
This way, you avoid colliding with the very hungry guy who has no tolerance for wrong-wayers, smashing your previously smashed potatoes into his brand new shirt and causing a little to spill on his brand new sneakers.

It's really not that hard.

5.17.2003

About "Fascination Street":

Yeah, this one wasn't funny. Hopefully, you guys dig it anyway.

I am always apprehensive about posting stories that aren't hilarious or funny because I never quite know how people will take it. I figure, however, that if you don't dig it, you just won't vote for it, right?

It was really strange writing this story. Both Matt the hitchhiker and Michele are members of this site (Sorry... no hints or giveaways. If they want to reveal who they are, that's up to them), so I was under pressure to tell it exactly right - not because I worry about pissing them off or whatever, but because the last thing I want is to mistell an aspect of what happened and have them bug me about it.

5.13.2003

Today marks the 4th funeral I have been to in a week.

Now, I know that no one especially likes funerals - death isn't really a coctails-and-weenies event. But I especially hate funerals, because at each and every one I attend I end up looking like an ass.

Ever since I was little, I have dealt with discomfort by laughing. I try to find a way to get myself out of a dismal situation by finding something to lift my spirits. The problem is, the more dire a situation becomes, the more I can't help but grin or laugh. I don't find funerals funny - quite the opposite, actually - I just can't HELP IT. It's literally a nervous response - bad shit happens, I start laughing. When you have grieving loved-ones all around you and the mood is somber, no one really likes looking up and seeing this big doofus cracking a smile and laughing with anyone who will entertain him a moment's attention.
Obviously, God has no problem with it because s/he hasn't smited me out of existance yet.

5.08.2003

About "I'm My Father's Son... How Unfortunate For Him":

Already, some folks have asked if this really happened.

Yes, indeed, it did. My father slew a grizzly bear with a Bowie knife, and I shot the engine of our truck on an ill-fated hunting trip.

The thing about my dad, though, is that nothing ever throws him for a loop. He gets angry, he curses everything in sight, but he always knows exactly what to do in response.
He was the master of a commercial fishing vessel for almost 20 years. If you are unclear on the heirarchy of marine chains of command - The captain runs the ship, issuing orders and such. The Master outranks the captain. The Master is the guy who makes EVERYTHING go. He is the glue that holds everything together. Before a ship sets sail, the Master is completely in charge. By some weird maritime law, the Master can actually evict the OWNER of a ship from deck. Naturally, the Master will be looking for a new ship to command once he comes back into port, but that's beside the point - when a Master of a vessel speaks, commands are followed or people die.
And that's what life with him was like. He was rarely wrong, so questioning him simply meant wasted time, and if there is one thing my father cannot abide, it's wasted time. He is up at 5:00 AM every single day. He has routines that minimize the time between fetching the newspaper and drinking his first cup of coffee. He simply does not play around.
So, spending the better part of the morning in the woods wondering why no deer were making themselves available to be shot, only to find out that I was listening to an electronic CD player while scratching pencil against paper all day really infuriated him.
Once I shot our car, it was exactly like it was a scene in a movie that he had no choice but to accept and move past. He didn't ask why, he didn't assign blame, he didn't moan say "WHAT WILL WE DO NOW?!?" He simply asked God to damn the truck a few times and started emptying the back out so we wouldn't have to sleep in the dirt. It was like he fully expected it to happen and already had a plan in mind.

I love my father.

As for how I blew a hole in the middle of the desk:
I was working with my dad's black powder, trying to make a bomb out of a tennis ball. I had worked for hours scraping the heads off of matches so i could just throw it and it would ignite. I poured a very volitile glue solution made of superglue and gasoline into the small slit I cut on tennis ball, swirled it around, poured the match heads into it, swirled THAT around, poured in the black powder, accidentally dropped it -

BOOM!

A gigantic crater in my drawing desk.

5.04.2003

I just read a few days ago that the song "Possession" by Sarah McLachlan was actually based on a letter written to her by a very obsessive fan.

It kinda changes the song's perspective... but it's still fucking cool.

I usually get scared when I find out that I am about to hear or read the motivation or inspiration for a song. So often, I attribute my own back story to a song, making so much cooler than what I eventually hear the actual meaning was.
Not in this case, however. That history is actually much much cooler than the failed highschool or college crush I'd imagine she wrote about.

5.02.2003

I'm thinking of doing a small "About" thing with each story here on the days I post them. What do you guys think of that?

About "Just Hangin' Around":

This story is probably one of the 2 most painful for me to recall. Being entangled in that barbed wire was absolutely dreadful. I will NEVER EVER attempt to climb over barbed wire ever again.

As far as Mandy goes, I could probably fill an entire book with just stories about her. This girl was nuts. I dated her for a little over a year, mostly while she was at college. At that time in my life, I didn't want to date ANYONE, and the best excuse in the world for not dating someone is that you already have a signifigant other.

She was immensely jealous of just about every female on the planet. She actually wrote Gabrielle Reece a scathing letter because I had a gigantic crush on her. She would call me 3 or 4 times a day from Columbia, SC wanting to just sit on the phone and breathe at each other. If this didn't take place, she accused me of hating her or cheating on her or just about anything negative she could put into words. It wasn't too difficult to deal with while she was away at school, I could write programs or play video games while mindlessly 'herm'ing and 'uh-huh'ing into the phone while she waxed annoying about the most mundane shit that happened in her daily life.
Then, one day, she up and decided that she missed me too much and quit school, losing her scholarship and causing her parents to threaten to kick her out of their house. She spent just about every second of 2 weeks at my house, crying her eyes out about how unfair life was since she quit school for me. My skin crawled the entire time. Hanging out with her every 2 or 3 weeks was no problem, but after about the 3rd day of this way-too-close-a-thon, I decided I had to get out.
She sensed this, and decided the best way to prevent my departure was to schedule for us a week-long getaway in fabulous Gatlinberg, TN.
It was nothing short of horrid.
I was sick as HELL at the time. I couldn't breathe and was on serious medication, thus rendering any attempt at conciousness futile. She wanted to see the sights of this once proud mountain town that had been religated to showcasing poorly made woodcrafts and Dollywood, which made me want to wretch. Add to that the fact that we had not... umm... consumated the relationship by any meaningful measure and she decided that this was the week to try that, and you end up with a situation that would force any normal man into joining the French military just to get the hell out of it.
What follows is a bit racy, but has to be told. If you don't have much of a penchant for sexually-related reading, you still probably want to read this because it is just plain funny. Even if I say so myself.

The one thing I remember clearly - Mandy was a complete newbie when it came to anything remotely sexual. The night she decided to "Give her full love to me" as she so eloquently put it, she thought she would start off with an act that she had heard about but never actually tried. I speak, of course, about oral sex - or more colloquially, a blowjob. She was pretty clumbsy in her attempts to look sexy, but I let it pass, accepting that the effort involved was the real point. She pouted her lips a bit, unzipped my pants and removed the hardware. Slowly lowering her head, she then pursed her lips and began blowing as if it was a lit match. It felt SO uncomfortable, I forced her to stop and explain what the hell she thought she was doing.

"Doesn't it feel good when I blow in the hole?"

"Good lord, NO! Why would you think it would?"

"Well, isn't that why it's called a blowjob?"

The entire contents of my very congested sinuses exploded out of my nose as I erupted in the longest sustained bout of laughter I have ever had in my entire life.

Needless to say, not much else happened that night.

I broke up with her 2 days after we got home from Gatlinberg, a day before my birthday. She spent the next week coming over to my house and talking to my mother (since I was hiding out at Mike's place), trying to get her to convince me to get back together with her.
Once it became utterly apparent that this was just not going to happen, she unleased a torrent upon my poor mom, telling her what an evil bastard I was and how I led her on and etc. and so forth. She then began to argue the case that Mike and I were actually engaged in a secret homosexual relationship. So convincing was this argument that my mother actually believed it and told me that "If you and Mikey are, you know, gay together, I will still love you."

Gay together? What the fuck is that? Is that where you hold hands skipping merrily in a feild of dandilions, thanking the sun for shining and singing little campfire songs?

"You think Mike and I are involved in a homosexual relationship?"

"Well, Mandy told me..."

That's all I really needed to hear.

She actually rear-ended me a while back. She claims it was an accident, but... actually, this would make a great story as well. I'll have to write it out and post it as a "Members Only" exclusive :)

Hmm, this ended up being a story in and of itself. Sorry it got a little long-winded. I am also sorry that it isn't edited worth a shit, I'm at work and really only meant to post about 2 paragraphs.
Oh well, you get what you pay for, I guess.