Sunday, October 16, 2011

Drunk Tanks, Squirrels, and Politics

I haven't been to the drunk tank but once, when I was seventeen years old. I don't have too much authority on the subject, kind of like having sex only once and generalizing from there; you can say you've done it but it sure as fuck doesn't make you some expert.

I was slumped in the lobby of Marcell's building, bitter, alone and drunk. His dad split for the weekend and we did the only logical thing in our pimple brains: Throw a party. We invited these two girls from our high school that we had crushes on and the situation was seemingly perfect...Marcell liked the one I didn't like and I liked the one he didn't. There was no way we could get caught in each others crosshairs, no chance of any cock-blocking friendly fire. The night arrived and there we were drinking and smoking pot, Korn having a tantrum in the stereo speakers.   

Nadia and myself were talking, just filling up time the way two people do when tolerating the friend of the person you're interested in. Have to tolerate them though, make a good impression so inroads can be paved towards the real goal. We got to wondering where Marcell and MY girl, Julia were. I decided to investigate. I sauntered over to Marcell's closed bedroom as Nadia watched from across the room, and opened it. Sometimes when you open a door the sight behind it just sucks the air right of you.  At this particular sight my heart felt like a chisel was being pounded into it. Of course, there was Marcell and Julia, laying underneath the covers, post coital. Marcell looked at me with the expression of a guilty dog who just ate Mom's birthday cake. One of the parties may have uttered a terse 'sorry', I don't really know. I flew off the handle in a drunken rage. Those damn rages! And booze compliments them so very well. There may have been a bottle smashed in the hallway, there may have been yelling AND screaming on my part, the cops may have been called. I was not Taylor Nezbit, Esquire, I was an out of control ape, like the ones in Congo, or like that narco-addled chimp who ripped apart that ladies face. Luckily for Julia, I didn't rip apart her face. See, I don't believe in violence against women. If you look around, however, it appears to be real. 

I stormed out into the hall of the 16th floor. A scrawny, pimple faced monster. 

Party's over!

You're fucking my girl! You're fucking my girl! I screamed to no one in particular, just the closed doors and unimaginably unmemorable walls. Even though I hadn't so much as accidentally brushed up against Julia's shoulder, she was my girl. The closest I ever got to her skin was during lunch one day at my house. We laid down beside each other in my bed, both stiff as a board, our bodies, as they lie planking together, two individual's who seemingly deciding to plank right beside each other in the middle of the day, in the same spot. Skin was not caressed, tongues were not flicked, and my boner, rising like a mushroom in fast forward to the heavens, well his prayers went unasnwered.

Someone popped their head into the staircase and said the cops were coming, that I should split...and fast. Well, eff that, I'm on the verge of cutting my wrists with the protractor set in my backpack, I'm ready to break on through to the other side, man. I may as well greet the new recruits in the lobby. NOTHING MATTERS. I went down the stairs to the 15th floor, one below the party and caught the elevator. In the lobby, I sat my slouchy ass and crooked spine into a seat and waited for the impending showdown with the law.  

Just on time--Cops are never early when you need them and always late when you do. "You Taylor?" Cop #1 said. Surely, the two boys in blue had a little chuckle upon entering the building and eyeing the spaghetti frame before them. Tonight, on this call at least, there is no fear of never seeing the family again, no chance of being felled by some hip gangsta wannabe's bullet. No, tonight is safely tucked in the bed of the routine Harmless Saturday Night Drunks. Now I've joined that exclusive club.

"Who the fuck wants to know?" 

Wrong answer.

Cop #1 picked me up and pasted me against the wall--felt like a dirty hit by Phaenuef, except these boards had no give. He swung my left arm up behind my back like a crank and kept applying pressure until it felt like my twig was about to snap. The only muscles in my arm were those borne of aggressive masturbating and consequently were no match for this beastly man-cop. I yelled out in pain and he relinquished a bit, secure in the knowledge of my breaking point. This is what humans do to each other all the time, whether it's in the bedroom or the lobby: apply pain to the breaking point.

They place me in the back seat of the squad car. My hands were cuffed and angled to the right while my back was angled left. It was actually quite comfy. 

We peeled out onto Steeles and I knew exactly where we were headed--north one kilometre to the big police station in Brampton adjacent to all the courthouses--the main station. I've driven by there hundreds of times, and always a parking lot full of empty cop cars, waiting patiently for some chump without sideburns to dole out street justice.  

On the way to the cop shop I mentioned that I might have some drugs in my A-hole. What a dopey fucking brat, huh? Cop #1 looked me in the eyes through the rearview and poured me a burning shot of comeuppance: "Okay, kid, when we get to the station we're gonna check you out real good."    What have I done! I basically told this hairy armed vet to finger fuck me.

So there we are in the station. I'm being processed: My shoelaces are removed and temporarily confiscated. Will some cop lace them up for me when I leave, or am I going to have to do it, I wondered. I am shamed yet undaunted, this is simply how the night turned out I tell myself. There's no other prisoners around, I seem to be alone as I'm guided towards a wall and told to "Spread 'em." My hands are splayed against the cold concrete. "Take down your pants," the faceless voice said. I unhooked my belt and exposed my tight little ass and pale scrawny legs. I resumed assuming the position. "Umm...You're not gonna, like, rape me or anything are you?"

"No, I'm checking you for contraband," Cop #1 said as the rubber glove snapped against his left wrist.

I was too drunk to be terrified, but I certainly was alarmed. "Be gentle...I'm a virgin."

He took a few steps toward me, hesitated a second, then leaned in close so I could feel his breathing against my neck, and whispered in my ear: "Pull your pants up, kid." It was like a bad episode of Scared Straight. 

Cop #1 took me to the cell where I languished alone and depressed as I sobered up and the reality of my situation unfurled itself before me. Julia, my crush, not only likes Marcell, but had sex with him too. Plus I acted like a total douchebag, throwing a tantrum like a five year old. If only they didn't take out my laces...

Apparently squirrels enjoy chasing each other through graveyards. When I'm standing at my bedroom window watching the world go by, as I often am, I find myself transfixed by two squirrels chasing each other. The leader weaves through the tombstones like the hockey drills I did as a kid, except the coach used pylons, not tombstones. Up a tree, across a branch, jump to another tree and scale that sturdy oak down, and run through the tombstones again. At some points the chaser was close enough to get its nose tickled by the fluffy tail of its tormentor. When I first observed this behaviour, I thought the squirrel being chased was running for his life until I finally realized that, oh in fact, they're just playing. Come on Nezbit! Squirrels aren't cannibals! You dope! Get a grip!
Unless...
They were stranded in the Andes after a plane crash. Then maybe they would be cannibals.

Maybe the MLSE could create a league where squirrels are pinned against each other. A duel to the death! They get jerseys and they move into penthouse suites and mansions in every major city. It's a new sport for the people, like lingerie football. The home town squirrel would get pimped out, matching colours, bobbleheads for your car, billboards around town with the said hometown squirrel shoving Booster Juice in your face. To separate these squirrels from the ordinary, they're claws and teeth would be replaced tiny surgically implanted daggers, and upon finishing his work, the team dentist leans back, cocks his head, a smile crossing his face, and says..." I'd rather get bit by a great white." The team doctor continue over the years to load him up with steroids and later, when he retires after an illustrious career, after many kills (home runs?), when the hall of fame comes a-knockin, there will be an asterik by his name in the books. But who cares what the books say, why they're just words, words, words! Glory is for the living punk. Better to snort coke off the stilleto heel of your favourite stripper and shoot juice, and smoke crack, and crack homers while you're living than when you're dead. Don't think they're are any ball parks in the heaven sports fans.

I noticed recently, like some barely perceptible ache, that I have a bromance crush on the actor Ryan Gosling. I mean, can this guy do anything wrong? I'm praying he doesn't loose his hair. He's from London, ON, if you don't know, and he's a great actor. Blue Valentine? Half Nelson? Have you seen those movies? Did I mention RG dresses absolutely fabulously, and he's smart and funny (mutually exclusive?), and he breaks up street fights between random strangers, and he can make your heart melt without a microwave. Got a permanent twinkle in his eye, that kid. He'll go places--if he hasn't gone to them already. The kind of man that brings his mother to the red carpet instead of his hard body girlfriend. Hubba-fucking-hubba. I only like him for his acting...no really (please believe me). It's not like I'd let Mr. G slap on a rubber glove and probe my nether regions for contraband. No way, Jose.

And now to international politics: Rick Perry and Mitt Romney? America--really? Is this the best you can do? Really? These GOP pricks are so manufactured and souless and unoriginal and banal and uncharasmatic--should I continue? Square jawed automatons who are inexorably intolerant, xenophobic to their vapid cores, hailing from the country of meth-addled-mega-church-preachers--"when I'm out in the bush I hunt queers, I mean deers, *cough*cough*, and I support the troops, even got me a bumper sticker that says so. Can I get a Hell Yeah?"

American culture has always fascinated me. Being Canadian, I am physically close to it's volcanic core and thus, I'm gently warmed by it's magma glow, yet I'm so far away--I could never be American. I don't fill up at a Texaco and I don't have any greenbacks to fritter away. America: It's the best and the worst of both worlds all at the same time. Take a look at all those movies and t.v. shows you like, all those bands, all those books you read. Let's face it: Most of them are goddamn yankees. You ever watch Cops? Great show. Each half hour episode of Cops consists of three ten minute slice of life vignettes, as if ten minutes is a sufficient amount of time to distill the gist. These are the engines of America, the proletariat, the salt of the earth. The kind of people who belong in a Raymond Carver story. These are the people who should be the reality t.v. celebrities of America. My favourite city has got to be Amarillo, Texas. Ama-fucking-Rillo: The Apocalypse is coming any minute. This is God's country, with short fat cops named Caleb Finsterwald who's gone to six and half barbeques in the past month alone. Just look at the shape of America--a rectangle drawn in a blackout drunk.

And now to national politics. It's Oct 6th. Apparently there is some kind of vote today of which I was only recently aware of. Yeah, yeah, I hear the snickers of the intellectuals out there, the upper crust, the uber-hipsters, the elite, the straight shooters, the righteous. This fucking idiot Nezbit doesn't even know there's an election? To that I say, who are these jerkoffs that I should go out of my way and vote for instead of going directly to the LCBO? I put an X or a checkmark by their name and all the voices in my head are supposed to stop? I'd just as soon turn Horwath, Hudak, and McGuinty into the Human Centipede than vote for 'em.  There ya go--all stitched up, now eat each others shit. Oh Taylor! How uncouth.

You there, wagging that finger...eat shit and die. Democracy? Is that what you call it? You're born into a prison, dumbfuck. Albeit a nice prison, with pretty women shopfronts but they got you so young there's no unfucking the program. They got you when you learned the abc's and do re me's. The more you flail around and bang on the cage, the more they laugh at your feeble attempts to break free. Just shut up and keep buying shoes, and eating potatoes, and voting. Oh, oh, who'd you vote for? Ah, fuck buddy, I voted for the Taliban. If you go out to any bars on a Saturday night, you'd ban dancing too.  

My enthusiasm for democratic parcipitation has waned over the years. As soon as I hit eighteen I voted like clockwork: municipal, provincial, federal, I trodded my way down to the local school or church smug with my new found power; I couldn't wait to flex my democratic muscle. My parents usually told me to vote Liberal and I happily abliged. In the later years of my voting career, however, I starting becoming disillusioned and threw my vote away to the Green Party. Ever since I started I was always in a downward spiral, about to commit participatory suicide. It just took a while to get there. Now I would expand my Human Centipede and sew Mike Schreiner right in.

Perhaps if I ever have a child, many years from now, I'll become more involved in the process, when my progeny's at stake. When I'm not just looking out for number one. A real man puts his family first, and you're reading that man's blog. I can see it now: My girl bouncing on my lap..."Daddy, are you gonna vote tomorrow?" 

"Yes, sweetheart, I am." 

"Who are you voting for?"

"Well, I'll be voting for the Scientologists," I say, knowing they always had me, but now they have her too.

One more thing: I did have a suggestion for the Tim Hudak campaign. Sadly, too little too late, I know. But maybe in the future, when he's out at a speaking engagement, he can enter the stage dancing to that Noreaga song--"HudakHudakHudakHudakHudakHudakHudak...."
   

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

What I Look for in a Woman

Cindy from Dubuque, Iowa wrote me the other day...

"Taylor, I'm a big fan of your writing. Funny guys really turn me on! I was wondering...what do you look for in a woman besides a cock?"

Haha, Cindy, very funny. That's a great question and the answers are seemingly endless. I look for many different qualities in a woman. Since I don't have to quantify my brilliance--it just radiates all around us. I thought I'd let you in on some of the qualities I look for in a woman. As I grow older and my perspectives are refined, I have a deeper appreciation for the little things a woman says and does. How they flip their hair, or smile, or how their haunhes bounce when they walk. I remember when I was little, my daddy propped me up on his knee and said, "Son, in this world you got to be a tit man or an ass man." I'm a self-admitted ass man to the end. A leg and ass man, man. I hate to see you go, baby, but I love to watch you leave.

The barista who made my iced coffee today, Olga, (she had a name tag) was a beautiful young lady with an Eastern European accent. I could listen to her talk all day. Suppose I unzipped my pants right here in Timothy's Coffee of the World and jerked it while I had her say different words, like 'Phantasmagoria' or 'Babylon'? Instead, Olga smiled and handed me the change, her mouth revealing a dental graveyard--jagged pearls going in all directions. Looked like an IED went off in there. Like some jagged wind swept cliffs in Newfoundland. Now, I'm exaggerating slightly here, she wasn't Shane McGowan, but it was bad. And you can talk Women's Lib all day but a guy can get away with it. But here's the thing: This is no criticism--I think it's hot. Maybe she wants to fix her teeth but can't afford it. Poor girls are attractive, it's that I can give you a better life angle. Her eyes would light up with love when I buy her new teeth on our first anniversary. But maybe she has the money to fix them and accepts her genetic fate, values money, spends it wisely...education, health, little brother. It makes her real and I want to flick her damaged teeth with my tongue, locked in an embrace. 

Vomiting is so fucking hot. Nothing better than a girl that drinks too much, or is in opiate withdrawal. I remember some washed up model on Celebrity Rehab a couple years ago who was splayed out in the hallway with a barf bucket in the grips of withdrawal. I didn't even know I liked a vomiting woman until then. I never thought about it before. I do now (but not really).  Come on, I'm not one of those sickos who likes to get vomited ON (definitely not Ontario), I just like to observe a woman who's vomiting. I'm attracted to the reason behind her vomiting, not the vomit itself per se. It was her utter and total powerlessness that grabbed me. She was a woman struggling to make it through. I like the capacity in a woman to be so far gone off the grid; her essence is screaming it's a crazy assbackwards world out there, we're chained down to it, and we all have to pull in our own little direction, so what can you do? Speaking of women caught up in the struggle, I do like single mothers. When we're fucking, late at night, after little Timmy has gone to bed, we have to be so careful not to make a sound, so I give it to you extra hard, trying to make you moan louder and louder. Also, I must clarify that I don't like to see a woman in pain; vomiting is a sign of imperfection and I like damaged women. Beautiful and damaged. Not physically damaged.

Although... 

I went to high school with this girl, Tahnee, and she had no arms or legs. Aside from that she was rather attractive. Nice complexion, perky breasts. I pictured us on a date at the Exhibition and we'd go on all the rides, Tahlee resting safely, hugged tight to my body in a baby carrier, her little nubs barely poking through the leg holes. Then later,  after a successful night at the fair, we're driving home and she has a giant stuffed alligator on her lap. Looked like it was going to eat her right up. Boy, she wouldn't stand a chance if she fell into the Amazon. But she's got a shot at my place, I'm not quite as ugly as an alligator and the way she's looking at me, I'd say she's the maneater. So I bring her back to my place (as if she had a choice!) and we share a bottle of red wine. I was out of breath from lugging her motorized scooter up the two flights of stairs to my apartment. This dame was making me work for it. I sensed a break in the conversation and made a move. I hesitated for a second or two and then just dove in the way one does when presented with jumping into a pool full of beetle dung. No point dipping in the toes. Just go for it. There's no half going for it. She can't get half pregnant.

She acquiesced to my advances and things rapidly became pretty hot. In the heat of our-one-and-a- half-person heap of passion I picked Tahlee up--quite easily, I might add--and made my way to the bedroom. She only weighed about forty five lbs, after all. I dropped her onto my bed and she bounced like a watermelon a couple of times and settled. Even though she was armless and legless she had a winning Crest smile. Great kisser, too. I eased down on top of her, she unbuttoned my shirt and I grinded my knee into her crotch. Her little leg nubs were going up and down like a fallen down wind up toy. I replaced my knee with fingers and Tahlee went over the moon. First my index and then both my index and middle fingers probed her insides in a come hither motion while my tongue flicked her clit. She had a huge bush, but that was reasonable considering her situation, therefore it did not bother me in the least. I imagined that if we actually dated and got into an argument, you know, the kind couples get into, I could always rip her right out of that motorized scooter, throw her down on the bed and tickle her senseless and there wouldn't be a goddamn thing she could do about it. Would that constitute domestic violence I wonder?

She unzipped me and gave my cock a few slow loving strokes. There's nothing like the feel of a new set of hands on your cock and balls. I had enough hose to put out a forest fire. I looked her in the eyes and slid it right in au natural. She was screaming like my shooter was the butcher's favourite knife. After we got as much as we could of each other in the missionary position, we agreed on a change of position. On the spot I invented this new move where I picked Tahlee up, held her in a horizontal position, flush with my cock, and thrusted once into her pussy, withdrew, and spun her quickly around and thrusted once into her mouth, withdrew, and spun back to her pussy, withdrew, etc. She was whirling around and around in a circle of lust, going so fast her features blurring together. She'd never been fucked like this before! That much I was sure. I was so good at this technique Tahlee became dizzy and yelled for me to stop! Stop! Stop! At my fastest speed she was just like the ride at the Ex we were on earlier where we're strapped into a saucer, laying flat on your back, clutching handle bars, and then it spins around really fast and you can barely move due to the centrifugal force.

"What's the matter? I told you we'd go on all the rides," I said, as in I-told-you-so.

"Stop it right now or I'm gonna PUKE!" she screamed.

"Well..."

There's nothing more annoying than a Reese Witherspoon type of girl, all prim and proper and serious, on the fast track to winning in life. Perfect teeth and vacations in the Turks and Caicos. I'd just as soon fart in a box and overnight it than give her the time of day. Give me a woman with track marks and too many horrors hidden behind her eyes. There's so much beauty in her it's deafening; it floods my soul. I'm talking about Olga, the barista. So much sad, sad beauty the world will never know. Her blue eye shadow...blue as the ocean. I picture her in the morning, running that marker across her eyes like she's done a hundred times before. And for what? For me to write about it? Fucked if I know.

Reading. I love walking by a woman with her legs crossed and a book in her lap. With her leisure time she prefers to indulge in ripping life away from reality, trying to escape some how, some way. She has the disposition to accept life and let it just go by. A life just hoardes days until there's nothing left except garbage day. If you think anyone can stop the madness well you're bat shit crazy, it just can't happen. The words are entering her brain, whipping synapses into a frenzy, mind and body temporarily mutually exclusive; her body doesn't even exist at this moment. Unaware of the trappings of her supple flesh, of how a man wants to bite into it, grab and shake it as if guessing at a wrapped Christmas present.

Blonde hair and blue eyes. But more so the blonde hair. If she has brown hair and blue eyes that's not as good as blonde hair and brown eyes. The first thing I notice on a woman is her hair; those billowing strands of heaven. Tickle my cheek with your hair, baby, then I'll run my fingers through and let it slip away. Oh! and the smell! What succulent sun dried peach zuccini infused universe is this? I may be wearing eau de Caucasian Deadbeat Drunk, but baby, I'm your man.

I may be contradicting myself here a little (thumbs down to Reese Witherspoon? Thumbs up to blonde hair and blue eyes?), but I'm a complex man with complex desires, as you can see. Some good/bad combinations are imminently more tolerable than others. For instance, I wouldn't care for a woman sans arms and legs even if she was reading, even if she could read. Ah well, one day, you too, could end up on this list, and wouldn't you be so lucky. Here I come, baby...

Comin ta getcha!

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

A Day (Or Two) In The Life

Not unsurprisingly, this day started like most others--the hot sweltering July sun creeping up over the horizon, my R2D2esque air conditioner complete with eight foot tube blowing the evil heat outside into the atmosphere. Surely there is no God, or more accurately, surely there was no sense in the gang of explorers, settlers, whoever, who founded this ugly ol' hog shit town. In the winter it's too cold, in the summer it's too hot, and all the people complain that it's too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. Gotta settle somewhere I suppose. I'm sure those settlers I was just talking about were more concerned with primitive matters--hunting, preventing/instigating war, procreating, infrastructure, crops, cuckoldry. Well shit! We figured out a new way of living so only a few select suckers do all that! The rest of us sit back and get fat, try to bed women, learn Al Green songs on guitar, and generally deal with all sorts of urban matters, like dented bumpers and leaky ceilings. 

On most Sundays I make a quick jaunt to the grocery store. I drive the two kilometres through a wealthy suburb that borders the Humber River. Know how you can tell a nice neighbourhood? You can't afford to live there. There's even this one house that has a spiral staircase and I always make sure to look for it. Pi and all that shit; you know how it is--infinity. Whoever owns this house just had to put a spiral staircase in the middle of his house, AND have floor to ceiling glass so everyone can see this oversized piece of Rotini. How I long to climb that staircase! Going up and around and then down and around. I think I'll go around again. I think I found a new hobby: Spiral staircases. The only other one that I can recall was the next door neighbour to the house I was staying at during  I park underground at the Lowblaws and it's a generally uneventful trip. 

I walked out the automatic door to the car with my lemons,  potatoes, chips, steak, etc. I was parked perfectly inside my three-sided rectangle, like a damn glove, and here was this guy nailed right onto my bumper. Not barely touching, I mean it looked like I caught his car raping mine, my bumper was noticably crumpled. How could he not notice his egregious error? Or at the very least, reverse a foot and pretend it wasn't him? Isn't that the move? I would at least drive down a few spaces and park there. Two weeks later and what's really bothering me is this persons thought process. How? How could they not notice? For Chrissakes they should have whiplash. 

An anger, ney--a smoldering rage, boiled up inside me. My first reaction was to write a quick little note, with a big marker, lift up his wiper and snap it to the dash. Something like, "Hi, I'm a jerkoff and I hit people's bumpers in parking lots, and I'm so fucking stupid that I don't even flee the scene and park somewhere else. I just leave my car pushed RIGHT up against the other car. Tonight, when I get home, I'm going to stuff a dildo in my dog's ass, then lick the dildo clean.
Signed,
Driver Of This Car."

Instead, mainly because I didn't have a marker or paper, the tools for the job, I gave his stupid license plate a good kick and got into my car to accelerate a foot and a half to check the damage. Once I separated contact, my bumper must have popped back into place for all that remained was a small nick, a barely perceptible break in the smoothness of the bumper. I was unsatisfied at the lack of damage because the more damge there is the more justified my reaction will be. I was past the point of talking myself out of it and just driving home. Something had to be done. His old white Chrysler sat there mocking me, out of place amongst the nicely cropped rows of cars all flush with each other. Here's one car awkwardly jutting one and a half feet into MY space and one and a half feet is a pretty big number whether you're in porn or parking.

It looked like an old man car, this Chrysler. I gave the license plate another good stomp. Not like a soccer kick--that would be stupid, and painful--a good hard marching stomp. That didn't really do anything and now my foot hurt. Fuck this! I did a quick scan of the parking lot and there didn't seem to be anyone in my immediate vicinity, only a few cartboys huddled together popping pimples, so I reached down and gave the license plate a good yank. Impossibly, the plate acqueisced to my strength. I stumbled back in triumph, like when you're playing tug-of-war and the other team lets go of the rope, the ID of this metal beast clutched in my hands.  

Well, that wasn't very hard. I had the plastic casing around the plate and everything. That's why it came off so easily I suppose. See, I didn't grab the plate directly, I went for the plastic casing and that was the ticket. 

I felt like the Hulk. A goddamn animal. A fucking hurricane and Mike Tyson's just that plastic bag in American Beauty.

Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.

Should I go for the back plate too? Naw, don't do it Nezbit, you're a nice guy; remember the scale of justice--keep it level. If there was more damage, well then, yes, but as it stands we're now even. Plus, you got enough problems, don't need some psycho in a Chysler coming after you.

I got in my Vibe and got the fuck outta there. I made a right out of the the Loblaws and proceeded south on Jane St. I rolled down the window and like a frisbee tossed the license plate onto the sidewalk, and that was that.

                                                                             ***
                                                                                 
Later that night, around 10:30, I was deeply engrossed in the season premiere of Breaking Bad. Man, I'd like to get a hold of that blue meth Walt and Jesse cooked; it looked like the crystallized formations found in deep caves. A dripping of some sort penetrated  the barrier of my aural sense. At first, I thought it was the window AC unit of the lady above me dripping onto the pavement below. Even though it was humid as hell, I got up and closed the window some more, not all the way. Damn, can still hear that dripping. Is it just in my head or am I really experiencing this? Is Walt going to notice a dripping sound any minute too?

It had been happening for some time now and I could predict the drops with pinpoint accuracy. Walt didn't notice a thing, had more important matters on his mind: Like how to take Gus out of the picture, and purchase a car wash to clean his dirty money, and cars too, I suppose. No, it wasn't part of the show. Merely a gentle dripping, this must be my problem.

A commercial break.

I inadvertently looked up to the ceiling and to my surprise and dismay there were two distinct droplets steadily coming down. Already a sizeable puddle was gathering on my 1950's parquete floor. Ceiling was bubbling out like it was going to give birth. Hmmm....well, first things first. Grab two pans and set them down. Problem solved. I'm a regular fucking Mike Holmes. I sat back down, tried to drown out the Chinese Water Torture my pans were enduring. My attention kept returning to the ceiling and the leaking was getting progressively worse. I could see new drops forming, threatening to jump. I had to move the pan and put my mop bucket down so I could catch two drops for the price of one. I moved that pan to another leak. What the fuck is going on here? This is serious I think. Do I make the phone call to the landlord at 10:45pm on a Sunday night?

The answer came swiftly: Yes. I was goddamn annoyed at this point. Thoughts of self-pity--oh, this just had to happen to me--fought for control and I struggled to put them aside. I waited a fucking year for this new season of Breaking Bad and my anticipation was as high as it gets for a TV show; then it was further enhanced by the sudden realization that I didn't have to wait until Monday to download it--I have the AMC channel. I can watch it Sunday night! I'm saying Yes! to life.

I found the name for the landlord in my phone and begrudgingly pushed the 'talk' button. As it rang, I debated if I was justified for the late night call. I mean, if it was 2pm there would be no question. But I'm stoned and it's late, and I could probably deal with it in the morning. Mmmm...maybe not, though. What if the ceiling collapses? 

"Hallo?" An Eastern European lady's voice said on the other end. Romania, Bulgaria, Poland, Ukraine, take your pick, but it wasn't my landlord; thought I had the wrong number. "Hi, this is Taylor from apartment number three, is Angela around?"

"Oh, hi Taylure. My name's Tuuta. I am landlord while Anna's away."

I explained the gist of the problem. Tuuta made me go upstairs to see what number apartment was above me because she didn't know. I went upstairs. It was number seven. I should have deduced that much considering there's four apartments per floor; I could have simply added four to my apartment. I called her back. "It's number seven, Tuuta."

On the screen, Gus, the druglord that Hank cooks for, is slicing the throat of an underling to prove a point. I don't quite get it though because I'm busy talking on the phone with a lady named Tuuta. The only time I want to be talking to a 'Tuuta' is when I call an escort.

"Okay, I call her now."

Momentarily relieved that the ball was rolling, I sat back and honed in on my ten year old Zenith. I just couldn't get into it though--the show, not the TV, that is. I was hot and bothered, a goddamn leak almost directly above me that keeps getting worse by the minute.

The show ended and just sick of it all, cursing my rotten luck, I decided to get ready for bed. Tuned the radio to CBC 1--the show was This American Life. Picked up whatever book I was reading and knocked off a few pages. Instinctively, I checked the leaks a few more times and then turned out the lights.

As you can guess, it wasn't the greatest sleep. Somehow, even in my dream state I woke up every couple hours and wearily checked the leaks, and more importantly dumped the overflowing bucket and pans. I get out to my living room area and flick the light switch to assess the situation. No dice. I flicked the light switch up and down a few more times to confirm the problem just like you would do. I had to settle for the kitchen light. It was enough to illuminate the horror before me. My mop bucket was overflowing and now there was a steady piss stream flowing down from the bulbous grapefruit sized lamp fixture (chandelier?). The floor was absolutely soaked! This had officially been upgraded from a leak to a downpour. 

At 7:30 am the next morning I called Tuuta and let her know, that yes, it was still leaking. Funny, I told her, that the sun was shining outside and it was raining in my apartment. A meterological anomaly of some kind, don't you think?  Her husband would be there in 30 minutes. I sat on my kitchen table and waited for him to show up.

At 8 O'clock my phone rang. It was Tuuta. "Hi Taylure, can you let my husband, Walter, in? He doesn't have a key." I just laughed and said, "Sure." I was kind of pissed off, but really I welcomed the minor catastrophe. A man has to switch up his routines or he goes madder quicker. But it doesn't matter how madder a man gets if it's quicr or not, glacial or hot, the end result is still the same--madness takes over and Klaus Kinski is suddenly in your dreams stalking you through a tropical forest with a macehte.

Walter was a very short man, about five feet tall. Absurdly short, really. We shook hands and he followed me up the stairs. I said, "I hope you brought your bathing suit," but he just smiled sheepishly and followed me inside. Upon entering, he muttered "Oh, fuck," in perfect English. "This is not good," he added, looking at me, or rather, up at me.  "Yeah, I know it's not good," I said, obviously irritated. I felt somewhat unworthy to have this older man look up at me. He's seen more, probably lived under some horrible Communist regime in Poland, waiting for hours in a bread queue; he shouldn't be looking up to a thirty year old part time loser caker like me.  

Walter said he had to shut off the water to the apartment and get Tuuta to call the plumber. She showed up five minutes later and gave me an exasperated look. "I'm sooo sorry, Taylure, this is horrible." I could barely hear her over fucking Niagara Falls. "Yeah, yeah, it's okay, shit happens, ya know?" I don't think she was entirely familiar with that phrase, maybe she hasn't seen Forest Gump, but she must have sensed the solemnity in my voice, no matter the language. I'm sure some of the other tenants would have been roaring mad. There's a facade of bravado and righteousness tenants must uphold in front of the other tenants, like they're tough guys who know their rights. And I use guys loosely, these women who are my neighbours were flipping out when I invited them in to see the damage. Lady number one: "Oh my god! You should move out! Lady number two: "You have to call the health inspector. There's a knock at the door and looky here, it's Lady number three: "Oh you poor thing! I'm soo sorry." Why is she sorry?

The problem turned out to be a radiator leak from the upstairs apartment. She didn't even know it was leaking. I'm now the proud owner of two ten x ten holes in my ceiling. I walked over to the one in the corner of my living room for an inspection. There I stood directly below this hole, my neck cocked back, my eyes beaming to the stars. At first I didn't believe my blinkers. I could see all the way up to the ceiling ABOVE me. Not MY ceiling, but my neighbours. WHA? Anyone out there got a periscope?

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Doug Stanhope at the Underground Cinema

I rode back home in a speechless cab that picked me up on a faceless street. Quick Lubes and Moonlight Restaurants scrolled by my eyeballs’ windshield.

I hailed ten cabs before one stopped and picked me up. Shit, I thought, I could just walk home, just about halfway there. Now I know how those hitchhikers felt when I was roller-coasting up and down Airport Road the other day, just wizzing by, laughing at their fate with a Peter Jackson wedged in my lips, air con fanning my face and Tom Waits blasting some hot shit jazz through my speakers . . . "Romeo is bleeding . . ." I had my axe and laundry in the backseat and my dealers number in my phone. All they got is a thumb and a dream. I'm laughing. Ha! Look at his thumbing arm go limp after I roar by and glimpse the stinging pain of rejection on his face in the rearview window. I now know how those hitchhikers feel, neglected by motor transportation and the people who control them.  

I'm off my tits and have been walking for an hour or so. Great walk, however; beautiful vistas of the 2 AM club crowd on Queen St. West. The jackhammers had the streets were dug up, but I wasn't considering the construction in progress, what it might look like when complete. Everywhere I looked there was another gaggle of sevens, eights, and the occasional nine and ten with their painted faces and tube dresses, drunk and ready to go deeper into the night. The whole lot of them would be tens if this was Dundalk on a Saturday night.

They say Toronto has two seasons: Winter and Construction (eat it, Chicago). That's just like my brain I think, taking the steps down to a friend's basement digs, somewhere near Trinity Bellwoods. A steady excitement has built up over the last week anticipating this show. I’m a big comedy fan, yet I’ve never even been to a stand-up comedy show proper. Sure, just like every hipster wannabe I've been to 'loft parties' and 'basement shows' . . . (Hey dude, you should check out our band...The Blah Blah Swank Art Fags--Blah Blah, we're playing tomorrow night at the blah blah--frag-frick-gorph-gorph--club, you should really come see us--gorph). But this, now this was a fucking theatre show with seats and payments and tickets and the whole deal.

I was excited and not thinking straight when I took my three drink tickets and cashed them all out at once. I rationalized that there would be no getting out of my seat until the end of the show so I wanted to have a few beers to last for the duration. I'm not entirely familiar with theatre etiquette.

Doug had his heavily medicated girlfriend, Bingo, running the merch table. She was sitting cross-legged on top of the table in a red bridesmaid dress. CDs and other Doug Stanhope related material encircled her. Bingo seems like a very genuine, unguarded woman, albeit a woman with a child-like personality playing dress up. I’d buy a CD but I’ve heard them all, and I don’t really know what to do with CDs anymore. Maybe CDs will see a renaissance in thirty years similar to the current resurgence of vinyl, so I covet the meagre collection that has survived the years. They sit there year after year collecting dust in boxes. Perhaps the strategic skip on the CD will be the new needle static.

I asked Bingo about the recent Howard Stern interview with her and Doug. I told her she did all the talking; not in a bad way, it was interesting and funny, but Doug had a bug up his ass and was unusually quiet; barely said a word. She said there definitely was something wrong with him but couldn't tell me. Well as a crazed fan that's about as many degrees as I've come to the Stern Show: talking to the blitzed out girlfriend of a semi-regular guest and legendary comedian. How I long to yell 'Baba Booey!' inappropriately while a beat reporter from CityTV is doing some story about racoons breaching bio-hazard waste bins and eating late-term abortions.

By the way, whatever happened to Harold Hussein? He was my favourite weather guy. He had the perfect Caribbean accent. Not too thick as to be parodic, not too light as to be nearly imperceptible. I always wondered . . . any relation? Nah, he's too warm and friendly! And that weather guy in the chopper, Darryl Dahmer? Couldn't possibly be related, right? Nah.  

I wasn't expecting the time of my life. I wasn't expecting a fucking Celine Dion song, but I was excited. We got to the line-up and Mickey and me had to piss like nobody’s business. Anytime I've been drinking and thrust into a socially confined situation, a line-up or a car, I just know I'll have to pee my brains out. There's no seal to break with me. That's an urban myth. I will pee and then in two minutes pee some more. I'm a goddamn pee machine. I came here to do two things: piss endlessly and kick some ass. We sauntered into a nearby alley and whipped our shooters out. Pisssing like rain dogs and sweating like pigs, we stood there and for whatever unknown evolutionary reason I started doing what friends will oft do when peeing together: cross swords.

"Dude, stop!" Mickey exclaimed, like crossing swords was a felony; we're already pissing illegally in an alleyway twenty feet from Spadina Ave, who cares if we're crossing swords? I laughed uproariously at this, like a mad child, and kept disrupting Mickey's even flow, and there was already some rent-a-cop punk in a silly uniform two sizes too big peeking his head out from around the corner. In unison we zipped up, our jean-teeth cutting through the sticky late summer heat like the frantic mating call of a long extinct bird.

Mickey put the vodka (disguised in a Naya watter bottle, naturally) into some exposed pipe jutting out of the theatre. It appeared to be a perfect fit. Save that for later . . .

Now we're waiting in line and it's just about what I suspected a Doug Stanhope line-up would be: two sets and three sets of balding, apathetic thirty-somethings with shirts futilely covering bulging guts and man boobs. The odd dame dragged out of the woodwork, forced to cancel a Friday night out with the girls to see some jerkoff named Doug Stanhope. Doug WHO? All her girlfriends say in a chorus. That was my initial impression, but as time wore on the pattern became more complex and there was a healthy mix of all types of people. A lawyer can laugh at the hypocrisy and madness of the world just like a tattoo artist—especially if a top shelf comic like Stanhope is delivering the product.

I just came into join a crowd, 'cause I had some time to kill. After all we're just the same—Humans! Humans! Humans! They're everywhere nowadays. But to see humans of the feminine variety at a Doug Stanhope show was definitely an aphrodisiac. I like me a woman with a sense of humour and an ass full of jelly and dumplings. Like a woman reading a book, a woman at a Doug Stanhope show signals long term mate potential.

The whole lot of us moved quite swiftly into the seven hundred seat capacity theatre. It was most definitely the Underground Cinema for I had no reception on my cell. That's probably why I never heard any moronic, idiosyncratic cellphone rings at any point in the proceedings. Genius! Put the theatre underground where it belongs. I mean it is supposed to be subversive, no? Unfortunately, the silence of reception-less phones was offset by the endless clanging of bottles barrelling their way down the aisles. It's great that the Underground Cinema provides booze because it puts you in the mood, but when people have nowhere to put their empties—and there're lots of empties at a Doug Stanhope show—they end up rolling around and constantly disrupting the show.

Now that's not to say one has to be slanted to enjoy this man. His flow is sharp and clear, reels you in with his drunken observations about life, laying the absurdity of it out for you in ways that seem so obvious after the fact. He doesn't set up one liners like Mitch Hedberg or Stephen Wright, he tells stories to the audience like a Woody Allen or Richard Pryor, the set punctuated with anecdotal stories of his life in Bisbee, AZ, a small town near the Mexican border. That chunk was particularly good but I was too drunk to remember the particulars. Doug ranted about the hypocrisy of Dr. Drew and the whole celebrity addict genre. The material was engaging and smart, laugh-out-loud funny at times. Doug has this cynical, myopic outlook on popular culture, but it’s never a whiny type of cynicism. It’s more of a let’s-mock-and-humiliate-these-cretins-because-they-deserve-it attitude. No matter how dark the material is, there’s always this undercurrent amongst the fans that we all share a common ground, a loose community of like minds, and that’s a beautiful thing to be a part of.

One of the benefits of drinking too much is that you can enjoy things twice for the first time. I'd love to see footage of the show. It would seem like a long forgotten dream. Gosh darn, I was so damn wasted. Generally I'm a fairly well behaved Joe Citizen. I'll sit there politely and act accordingly. But on this night I was far gone, driven over the line by slamming vodka before the show and keeping the engine going with a total of four beers during it. I think the adrenalin kept the alcohol at bay and I didn’t quite realize how drunk I was getting.

This was the most drunk I've been in some time and I always quietly say to myself not do anything too embarrassing. I'm always getting into trouble with those damn words when I get into the hard stuff. I was yelling out jibberish to Doug and I couldn't give a squirt of piss what anyone had to say about it. Some of my hilarious lines included: "Doug, you can skin my baby!" (a call back to an earlier joke) and, "Doug, when are you going to do Howard again?" (totally random and out of the blue). There was probably more. I shudder at the thought. I'm so cruel to myself. That damn booze. I'll wait until the crowd is oh so quiet and then blurt out my nonsense. Throughout the following week there were surging waves of douche chills crashing through my body. Sometimes an attack just creeps out of nowhere and it hits you. Time . . . only time heals douche chills, my friends, for now, some two weeks after the event I don't really care all that much. Well, beer helps too, my friends, so stay thirsty. 

Doug ended the show to a roaring standing ovation. The show was timed so well—didn’t go on for too long, but it wasn't too short, either. It left you wanting just one more taste.

I was lit up pretty good and headed out for a cigarette. I found myself standing outside amongst my fellow Stanhope fans. Ah . . . a man amongst his peers. The other day I read an interview with DS in LA Weekly and the interviewer put forth the assumption it was common knowledge that Doug Stanhope fans are comprised of 50% educated liberals and 50% complete fucking morons. I straddled the border precariously. One more beer and I could have easily slipped over to one side or the other.

You could feel it in the air—the night was a success with both crowds. It was plain as day that he killed, but you never know, I could have walked outside to a gaggle of indifferent hipsters and haters. I eased myself into a conversation with a few guys and we laughed about some of the jokes. "All new material...." "...Yeah, fucking killed it." After a few minutes I remembered that guys don't look so good when my belly's full of beer, but we enjoyed the built-in camaraderie that naturally exists with a niche performer like Stanhope and his brand of comedy.

I scanned the scene for my future ex-wife. I was having a difficult time standing still, kept wavering to and fro as if there was a roiling sea beneath my feet. I scolded myself for getting so drunk. My mind is sharp but my body is not so my credibility is shot to the moon. Mmmm . . . but what was this before me? A lovely young woman standing alone smoking a cigarette, just like me; we have so much in common already.

I walk up to her and say, "Greaaadd show, huh?" Goddamn stupid brain! Should’ve said something better than that! Even in my addled state I knew that she knew I was off my pisser, that she pegged me as a drunken creep immediately; I was slurring my words and swaying in the breeze. It’s damn near impossible to reverse a first impression when you're trying to reel in a nice catch. Ah well, doesn't matter all that much because in Toronto there's as many women as there are specks of sand on Cherry Beach. 

"Oh, hey there sweet cheeks, boy do I have ants in my pants for you! I'll buy that wine you like and cook that dinner you like, we can watch your show, not mine, and then for dessert I'll marinate my dip stick in your baby factory. Did you know that's what the Mormons do? They found a loophole in their favourite book—a sly way to cheat the system . . . they call it marinating. You just stick your penis in and let it sit there in the pussy juice. No loco motion. We can do that if you want."


She casually walked away, and when I eventually glanced in her direction she seemed to have disappeared. Another mermaid lost to the ebbing tide, and I, invariably, as noted in the beginning, rode home in a speechless cab.  

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Cruelty To Stuffed Animals

When I was fourteen I became obsessed with masturbating just like millions of other healthy teenaged boys. Although the first time I masturbated I was merely twelve, by the time I hit fourteen it was integral to my everyday life. At any possible moment I’d sneak away and abuse myself. I even made this horrific semen stain on the basement carpet after years of  droppingroppingloads in the same spot. I didn’t even bother to use a tissue! What was wrong with me? Dozens of hot sobbing loads dribbled out of my penis and formed this crusty yellowish stain. When I was approaching that glorious divine moment I simply stood up and bombs over Baghdad!

After a while it became like a science experiment--how much semen can one teenagr dump onto one spot until something strange happens? At some point does it become radioactive? What if I create some kind of semen superhero.

Aside from just doing it wherever and whenever, I started getting curious about bringing other objects into the relationship with my hand and penis. When I was fourteen I would stick my dick in just about anything except another human being. Put it in between two pillows? I think I’ll try that. Ohh look at that cream, I’ll definitely whack off with that.

I only masturbated with Rub A535 once and I’m sure you can figure out why. It was like jerking off with jalapeno peppers. That day, I learned my lesson: A cream is not just a cream.
One day alone in my room I noticed that I had a few old stuffed animals on the top shelf of my closet and I got to thinking. Hmmm . . .  

Every male teenager goes through a phase where they want to stick their cock into various things to simulate sex. Some fuck an empty roll of toilet paper, some put two pillows together and go to town, some buy rubber vaginas, Me? I took to fucking my old stuffed animals.

One evening it began. I grabbed a cute little cuddly wuddly teddy bear. I was full of nervous excitement. I was about to lose my virginity…well sort of. I grabbed a pair of scissors and made a nice tight little fuck hole in just the right place. I stuffed my shooter in and violated that teddy bear. In the wild, bears attack humans but it's the other way around in my bedroom.

And my parents thought I was doing homework! After 7.8 seconds of going back and forth stabbing that helpless bear the inevitable happened. At least I pulled out and finished in some toilet paper; I didn’t want any baby bears running around.

The dye had been cast. For the next year or so I had many torrid affairs with my old stuffed animals. First, I chose the white teddy bear the folks got me from Sears when I was about ten because it had the softest fur, but I soon found out that the cotton in and around the pseudo-vaginal area became, after a few uses, how can I say…tarnished. I had a real dilemma. What could I do? I was really enjoying some new sensations here and the cotton is getting all packed in and hard. It just doesn't feel good anymore. But this is a teddy bear, so I got to thinking... I don't have to screw it in the vaginal area. Look at that big bulbous fluffy head. I bet there's a ton of pristine cotton in that dome of hers. I grabbed the scissors and jabbed one of the blades into the top of the bears skull, then cut a tight slit. It's showtime. My first stuffed love, I wish you had known her, we were quite a pair. 

I went hunting for more victims. The next one I grabbed was a brown dog, something like a sheepdog. I don't know, who cares, I cut the old bitch open anyways. This cotton wasn't as soft as the white teddy bears, and for that she only stuck around a few nights.

Like Nero of the Stuffed Animal World I took what I wanted and moved on. Yeh, that's right honey, I just used you for your sweet honey cotton, then I'm onto the next one! Tossed right back into the closet like a memory long forgotten.

On one of my birthdays, about seventeen, some friends bought a blow-up sheep for me as a gag. Complete with a functional vagina and everything. Well, not totally functional, I don't think it could have my baby, actually I'm quite sure, but the kind of function that a man needs.

I've been a bah-h-h-d, bah-h-h-d boy," I said, rubbing some bargain store lube on my unit. The sheep did not protest as I slid it into it's orifice. What sex was this sheep? It simply had one hole--the Vasshole. A genderless sheep, right up my alley, yes sir. Oh, the sights God would see perched in heaven! Me and my skinny white legs in my socks pumping furiously into a little white sheep. Satan is waiting for me with outstreched hands.

This sheep was great sex for a week or two. The perfect affair. She didn't nag me, I didn't have to visit her parents, didn't have to listen to her problems at work, didn't have to send her any Blue Valentines, etc., etc. Only had to listen to her soft little squeaks as I thrust into her.

A year or so prior, I actually had broken down and went to San Diego. It was a store at Shopper's World that sold novelty items: Sex gags, funny shirts, funny shot glasses, bongs with multiple tubes to suck on, aprons complete with furry pubic hair and floppy penis. You know the store. The sex gag shop. The shop you always wanted to go in when you were younger but were too afraid. I found a blow up doll in a back corner and carried it to the check out counter. I couldn't stand my own hand any longer! Variety is the spice of life, I told myself. So here she was, my new girlfriend tucked comfortably under my arm; what a splendid couple we made. I carefully layed her out on the counter. My only purchase. I could feel my cheeks burning up and turning scarlett, but not johansson.

The cashier--a teenage girl about the same age as me--launched into a pre-scripted routine about how the inflatable sex doll is just a PG joke, it doesn't have an actual hole.

What kind of fucking joke is this? I thought as she yammered on. Another genderless toy! Why on earth would you sell such a thing? Horny teenage boys want to ravage their synthetic girlfriends and you give them THIS? A tramp! She can't cook or clean or vacuum AND she can't fuck? And we package her up and sell her for $30 a pop! Maybe it really is the end times.

Now I was stuck in the awkward position of pretending to know that it was fake all along, like I meant to buy a blow up doll without a vagina. I was too nervous to reject the product because then this girl would know that I was buying the doll just to sexually abuse it. She didn't deserve that trauma.

"Oh, it doesn't have a hoooole?" I said in obvious mock disappointment. Of course it doesn't have a hole, I knew that! She giggled and that made my day. I thus continued, "It's just a birthday present for a friend and he's having a pool party. I thought it would make for a good floatation device." Quick thinking Nezbit, I told myself.

"It sure will," she said, and we briefly locked gazes after the transaction was complete. I turned around to leave and once she couldn't see me my face, it tightened in anger and my brows furrowed. "Fucking bullshit," I muttered to myself. "Goddamn fucking doll, can't even fuck it."

I got home and begrudgingly blew her up anyways; she took my breath away. I tried to kiss her and though she accepted my loving pecks, she wouldn't accept the flick of my tongue in her mouth.

Another low in my continuing saga of sexual frustration.

She became the only woman I've ever knifed. I couldn't exactly leave her propped up in the recycling bin now could I? I cut a slit down the top of her head and she deflated along with any remaining vestiges of desire.

And that was that with the stuffed toys. So--ahh--anyways . . . I moved on to real women with real heartbeats only to catch the pieces of my broken heart in my hands. Shit, look at me already getting nostalgic for the good ol' stuffed days. No tight ropes to walk, no delicate balance to uphold, no emotional justice to stand in judegement of. Freedom, baby! But that hook of love keeps digging in, reeling my bloody gutted old weary carcass back, a body limp and lifeless.

Sometimes what we call love is really something else. Where are the words! There aren't enough of them to go around for all the mouths. A scream looking for a mouth, ahh...how right you are Selby.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Team Six On A Kill Mission

If you're going to believe all the bull shit they're telling you about these SEALS than you're crazy as bat shit.

What I'm talking about is, I keep reading the phrase, "Bin Laden lunged for his weapon," and it doesn't seem plausible. I mean he must have had at the very least...minutes, if not a great many seconds considering his life is on the line to lunge/grab/pickup/brandish a weapon while the SEALS were clearing out the 1st and 2nd floors. Did he not hear the commotion? Did he not hear the Blackhawks? The gun fire? He must of had time to sit there cradling his AK like a despondent puppy, waiting for daddy to come take it away.


I'm no expert, obviously, because last time I checked there weren't any SEALS injured in the raid so OBL must not have been packing heat (a couple weeks later as more details emerge, it appears he was armed with two women). His gun was probably in the room somewhere but that's beside the point. This was a kill mission, pure and simple. Look at all the other occupants in the house: Left cuffed for the Pakistani cops to clean up the SEALS' mess. I can picture them showing up and seeing all these dead bodies and people cuffed and Osama's mastermind all over the floor and it was like the devil swept through the house and disappeared into the night.

How in the hell could America detain this megalomaniac and give him a trial, and a fair one at that? Shit, he got his trial alright and the judge was a red snapper. Don't some people just deserve to die anymore? I can think of ten people off the top of my head. Give me some time and eventually you'll end up on that list too. Don't you long for the good ol' days, not even that long ago, when folks were holding placards outside the prison where Ted Bundy was being executed that advertised Bundy Burgers?


I want a Bin Laden Burger and I want it now.

Personally, If I was Obam--I mean, cough cough, Osama, I would have popped out of the shower, toweling my hair and pretended like nothing was wrong, like one casual dude. "Bin Laden? Never heard of 'em," I'd say in a thick Texan twang. "I'm just another ex-pat in Abbottabad, pardner. A simple computer programmer, that's all I am. U-S-A---U-S-A--" BAP! BAP!---a bullet hits his chest and then a bullet hits his head just above his left eye and blows bits of his skull and brains out. Skrains maybe? Maybe not. Take it however you like. You could touch the brain matter and it would still be hot from the electricity of life, from being where it should be--in a head.

Does the brain think for a few seconds even though it's not in the head? I would think the brain would think, "Ohhh, I'm a brain, I'm so smaaart, I can solve problems and tell the body what to do, I control the body like a slave, but how am I going to get off the ground and back into my cozy head?"

I am just too fascinated with this story. I can't get over it. It's great reality TV. I watched an animated clip posted online by NBC, I believe. Goddamn thing was only a minute long. I want the whole raid animated. Is it that hard? It wasn't like the animation was top notch.

Now, there's even a video game where you can play any character. Can I play the courier? Please? Please? Or maybe a goat? Ah well, at least the courier fired a few rounds before the SEALS shuffled off his mortal coil. That must have been nice.

Unlike that jerkoff lead singer in Fallout Boy, Patrick Stump, who doesn't think that it's morally proper, or some such righteous catchphrase, to celebrate the death of OBL, I have a feeling in my gut which tells me to disagree. I only know about this Stump guy from reading a little blurb in the Entertainment section, and also his pseudo-mediocre music if I'm to be totally honest. It's certainly alarming that Patrick Stump from Fallout Boy is the go to guy for a quote about the death of the most wanted terrorist in the world. Perhaps more than the actual death of Bin Laden. I want to know what Gary the Retard thinks a hell of a lot more than Patrick Stump, don't you? Stick to churning out dried turds in hot dog buns for people to put shove in their ears, kid.

Stump and OB. Sounds like a hard hitting Fox News Show. Fridays at 9pm.

How about the SEAL who grabbed the woman and pulled her away from the other SEALS when they entered the room containing OBL so that he could absorb the blast if she was wearing a vest. He will gladly accept total annihilation for his brothers. A lot of people talk the talk but it's a hell of a lonely walk. I can only grasp at the mental fortitude required of a SEAL.

On second thought, maybe I am a hero. I squash a centipede in my bedroom and I think, how dare he mess with the king of Nezbitland? I rule with an iron fist. My giant swatter doles out justice! I stamp out any revolution against the Nezbit government before it begins! Damn the rebels! There will be no change! The streets will run with blood if the infidels attempt to overrun me! Dictator Nezbit will not tolerate insubordination in his homeland!

Some of the centipedes' many legs were stuck to the wall, writhing like a fiver in the greasy fingers of an old timer down on pervert row.

The gall!

Spiders, too beware. There was once a huge monster of a beast right outside my bathroom window. He was always there waiting for me every night when I took a shower. Always flinched when I turned on the taps, too. He was a sensitive one, that spider. I couldn't get at him though; he was just outside the gates of Nezbitland. It appeared as those he hovered in mid air, this leader of the rebels. Big Daddy I called him. Come rain, wind, hell or high water there he was. I had fantasies of my own reconnaisance kill mission...

I consulted with my top officials and we resolved to purchase insect repellant that shot a massive concentrated spray. You see, my screens are permanently in place, I cannot open them and use my giant swatter. Unlike the Bin Laden raid where the intelligence had a high percentage of probability that he was inside that compound, I knew 100% damn well this sonofabitch was right outside and there was fuck all I could do. I pressed my mouth to the screen and gave a good long blow but that only made Big Daddy mad. I didn't want to piss him off. I wanted him to give him the illusion of safety until I attempted an ambush.

I never did get the repellant that shot the fire hose of death (general apathy maybe?) and Big Daddy just kept living the dream, taunting me with his very existence outside of my gates. This Cold War lasted six months. I mean I only saw or was near him for ten minutes every night as I showered and then I forgot about him, so that can explain the lack of initiative. The plans got lost in the bureaucracy of the Nezbitland government and I as ruler, unlike Obama, never pulled the trigger on the operation.

Then one day Big Daddy just disappeared and I never saw him again. I had long ago incorporated him into my routine and was now neurotic that he wasn't there. Now....I didn't know where he was. Big Daddy has escaped! Sound the alarms! I put Nezbitland under a nine o'clock curfew and checked all the nooks and crannies in my bathroom. Has the hunter become the hunted?

One of the funnier headlines in recent days, was "Disney wants to trademark Bin Laden killers."

When they go after Al Qaeda's number two man, Ayman Al Zawahiri, the SEALS will have Mickey Mouse ears on their helmets.

I wait for the day.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

The Man Who Clapped Too Loud

(The following events took place in Apr of '09)


It has been exactly one week since I marched into the doctors office knowing the worst was yet to come. It has been exactly two weeks since Rene broke up with me.

She was a beautiful blonde haired girl of twenty one that I was dating. Had all the right measurements. Smart, artistic, rich parents, lived in a suburban palatial estate in Georgetown, complete with her own basement apartment and separate entrance. She out drank me and we fucked like rabbits. Life was too good.

The first time we had sex I came over to her place for dinner. I only knew her a few days at this point. On the night we first met there was an intense makeout session on my friend's porch and I masterbated in front of her (at her request, of course). This was at 4am, but a nosy neighbour decided to take his dog out for a walk and that put a stop to that before I could finish. Even though I was in a drunken stupor there was still an ounce or two of shame as I bent down to pick up my pants which were around my knees. Then there was the additional shame of having a raging hard on as I did this. I really had to pull my pants UP and OUT to zip up! I was standing there with a goofy look on my face and this cock monster pressing against my jeans, sticking out like a broken bone. It was getting late and she had art class or something in the morning so I drove her home and we made a date for the next night.

I brought condoms and a bottle of wine to our first dinner. I didn't show her the condoms though, I'm a gentleman. After we ate her carefully prepared veggie samosas and garden salad we started going at it and oh boy! It was hot.

We moved to her bedroom and proceeded to tear our clothes off--and it wasn't to play doctor. My heart was racing, my head was spinning. I hadn't had sex for a year, and when you wait that long you fear that the shooter won't work or you'll pump once and explode--something's bound to going to go wrong. What if I couldn't perform up to this lovely young woman's standards? There was only one way to find out. Somehow I stopped kissing her long enough to suggest that I had a pack of condoms. Real suave.

I thought I was being sexually responsible but she was some care free hippie girl. "I don't want to use a condom, it feels better without one, no? I'm clean, I just got tested like six months ago," she said.

"Yeah, I'm definitely clean too," I said. "I was tested recently." I just met this girl a few days ago and already my first lie. I guess there was one good thing about not getting laid in a year: 100% disease free!

Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought, gee, a lot can happen in six months but my judgement was clouded with passion and I was all in.

I sliced into Rene (stayharddon'tcumstayharddon'tcumstayhard) and we quickly found our rhythm. The greatest feeling is when you allay the sexual fears within; then one can sit back and enjoy the natural pleasure of a woman's flesh. Instantly Rene and myself had great sexual chemistry and our love making turned into a Dionysian frenzy. I Put one of her legs up and hit that hip bone like it owed me money. "Shuuush..." Rene whispered, "We have to be quiet, my Mom's upstairs."

Be quiet at a time like this? It was near impossible. I slowed down a little but I was building up to climax so to hell with her Mom and all her rules about being quiet. I can't help that your daughter is a beautiful nymph with an ass that could stop traffic. You know, one day subnormal worms and gophers and other underground creatures will be feasting on my skull and then where did those rules get you? And besides, this was a huge dream house like the ones given away on that t.v. show with that guy who has the amazingly techni-coloured pretty boy hair. Anytime you see a guy with a $75 haircut with all the bells and whistles you can guarantee he's a douche with a soul like barndung. I hope he goes bald. I need him in my life like a barricuda needs a bike. But anyways, back to the story...

I was so proud of myself. I finished on Rene's stomach like a good little boy and we bathed in post coital sunshine.

"I bet you want to sleep over, huh?" She said, sensing my desire. Read my mind.

"Su--" I was about to answer, "But you can't, my Mom won't let guys sleep over."

I slipped out her screen door and took a cab back to my friend's place where I was staying that night. The perfect date. I laid in bed and kept replaying the night over and over, her moans of pleasure reverberating through my head. "Still got it, kid," I thought to myself. This is what living's all about, baby!

For some reason, after a month of dating, she didn't want to see me any more. She was always over at my place, neglecting her friends, her school, getting drunk and having sex with ME. She came to her senses. She cut me off so suddenly, with no warning, I was ill prepared. My heart fell into my feet and my head into my hands. She said I was a bad influence; that I brought out the destructive side in her after she just got cleaned up. Baby, I was thinking the same thing, but give me some honesty to chew on.


I quietly took my seat in the waiting room, leafed through an old fashion magazine, looking for women that resembled Rene. I was called in after just a few minutes; an unusually slow day.

“Taylor!” The nurse exclaimed to the mostly empty room, and to this day I still feel slightly awkward hearing the sound of my name. Taylor Nezbit. It’s kind of a pussy name isn’t it? Not something luxurious and suave that rolls of the tongue like Rock Hudson now is it? Even though the man is gay as the day is long, hell of a masculine name isn‘t it? I go into the doctor's office and sit and wait some more. My eyes are fixed on the bland d├ęcor consisting of ‘sunset landscapes’ and ‘wild animals staring into the distance’. Nice touch.

Dr. Grant comes in and we make some small talk--turns out he used to live with his immaculately perfect family (pictures on his desk tell me so) in the same neighbourhood as I now reside in--The Kingsway. He I'm sure occupied one of the stately homes directly to my north, not one of the low rise apartment buildings right on Bloor St in my own personal hell.

After the small talk we got down to business. Now the questions that I’ve been waiting to pop for about a week are going to be answered (that’s how long it took to get a goddamn appointment). Now that I had my moment it didn't feel right, the whole situation felt funny. “So, I...uhh have had to pry my penis hole open every day for the last week when I want pee. I grab the head of my penis with my index finger and thumb and pull it open with a pincer grip; and once, the other day, there was the littlest speck of blood right in the tip. BUT, just a little down there means a lot, right? I have no discharge but there is a slight pain and uncomfortable feeling. It just looks a little bit swollen inside there,” I said--'there'--being the INSIDE OF MY FUCKING COCK!

It’s not Halloween but that’s scary stuff. Getting a disease in your brain or your cock has got to be the worst. So the doc gets up and says, “This is going to be torture. Drop ‘em!” I knew exactly where this situation was going.

I had to drop my drawers and lay down on my back. He was putting on the gloves. Nothing good comes when the doctor puts on the gloves. I shudder to think. I’m laying on my back and nervously laughing and panting as he gripped my flaccid member (with a pincer grip), “ha..ah..ha.ah..ha...Just give me a second to mentally prepare doc!”

He didn't wait. This is our health system at work. It's a whole fucking sack full of swift medical justice let me tell ya. He stuck some kind of swab about an inch down into my penis and I let out the yelp of a lifetime. “AHHH!!!” The scream only lasted but a second and it was done, but let me tell you, everyone in that waiting room heard this beastly wail of mine. The nurses too. "Just another clap test," they’d say as they passed each other in the halls.

Boy it was painful. Like getting pierced or like a bee stinging the inside of your pipe. I hope my worst enemy doesn’t have to go through that. I hope they go through much worse but that is neither here nor there.

I was worried there would be a week delay before I got the results of the swab and this disease, whatever it was, would be left to fester inside me. I was actually getting worked up the night before, "I know I have a goddamn STD, I don't want to wait for your goddman tests to tell me!" I pictured myself yelling at Dr. Grant. But that was not the case.

“Taylor, you have Chlamydia. It's common, don't worry. I’m going to prescribe these pills; take them all at once. There’s four small ones and one big one. The big one stays in your system for ten days.”

How easy is that? Medicine takes care of our problems so we don’t have to. Sounds good to me, doc! I mean seriously, kids look at what happens when you get Chlamydia: You go home and take these four small pills and one large pill. All at once, not one this day, two tomorrow. There’s no routine involved--just gulp ‘em down. I gulped mine down with red wine. That Chlamydia will be gone in a week!

It really is quite a benign disease in the grand scheme of things. Not like genital warts which lasts forever or, obviously the HIV, so I think I lucked out. Chlamydia is the most common says my doctor. See, I’m educating myself too. I look at it like this: In the family of STD’s the Clap is the favourite uncle who always gives you the coolest birthday presents compared to HIV who is your absent father who sodomizes you and says he’ll never do it again but after a few months does it again anyways and now you‘re caught in a vicious cycle. Kind of like that. If you’re forced to choose...I mean come on it’s a no-brainer.

The real drama began when I left the doctors office. I swear I was almost happy getting the Clap so I had an excuse to call Rene. Yes, getting the Clap was just a simple worthwhile excuse to call and hear her voice. If I didn't know what love was, it was definitely something like that.

She seemed mildly surprised when I called and told her. Well to be fair, she called me (because I texted her first when she wouldn’t answer her phone). I texted that I had to tell her something ‘important about our health’. What the fuck could that be she must have been thinking when she called five minutes later.

“Hey, how’s it going?” She said in a slightly friendly, slightly detached voice. I couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable or just didn’t give a fuck about talking to me anymore. Maybe she didn’t think twice, but it’s alright.

“Well, it’s going okay I suppose. I only want to rip my fucking eyeballs out, chew them up and spit them out at passerbys. I’ve been falling down drunk and high on blow, smoking like a chimney the last two weeks. Everything reminds me of you. I just want to obliterate any memory of you. I think that if only I didn’t go to the bar that night I would never have met you. If only my friends and I left and I never approached you and commented on your jacket. Sometimes I can’t even eat. You believe that? I haven’t felt like this since I was a teenager. I would still fuck you even though you have the Clap. Hey I have it now too so who fucking cares? Heck, I’d still fuck you even if I was clean and I knew you were poisoned. I just can’t get enough of you. I just can’t get you out of my head and no I will not make a Kylie Minogue reference here. How did it come to this? From a soaring peak to a cold hard rock (Hudson?) bottom. How’s that generic tramp stamp on your back going to look in thirty years when you got a cigarette hanging from your mouth, a bottle of Jack in your hand, and a dick up your ass? You're only twenty one and you've already sat on a mile of cock. You’ve been with--and I quote--twenty-five to thirty guys. Twenty five TO thirty? You actually gave me a five person range. It could be twenty six but it could very well be twenty nine. That’s disgusting, and you’re a disgusting vile girl. May you go blind and become infertile from the Chlamydia that you infected me with.”

“It’s going okay,” I muttered instead.

“I have something kind of important to tell you.”

“Oh, okay.” She said.

“Yeah I think you should go to a clinic and get checked out because I think I got something from you. The doctor said it was Chlamydia.”

Jackpot!

I just laid it out there--it was the loudest silence for but a second, right after I dropped the C bomb. I’ve been waiting for that screaming silence all week. She really wasn’t too phased by the whole thing. Damn, cold as ice.

Obviously, she was a little shocked: “I’m going to go to the doctor tomorrow.” Then she mentioned that she was going to have to make a few awkward calls tomorrow to the--ahem--two guys she thinks infected her. Who fucking knows if that’s true or not; I try not to even think about those little details.

It’s ovahh! We exchanged a few pleasantries about how we find this whole situation funny in our dark little way.

"You sure do have bad taste in men," I said and it was the second last time I heard her laugh. The last time I heard her laugh was when I asked her: "Does a group of people in a room together who all have the Clap constitute as applause?"

I just wish we could enjoy the laughter together instead of the tears...well, my tears. There was a change in the way she spoke to me, a terrible finality during that last call. It can never go back, the spell has been broken. She'll never look at me again with those green eyes and flash a coy smile. Everyday that seeps into the past we get farther and farther away from getting back the magic we had. That’s the lingering sadness now some month and a half since our break-up. Why, oh WHY does it have to end (screaming on my knees with outstretched hands). I don't want it to end Mommy!

Why do relationships die? Two people make an investment together on a long shot and sooner or later one of the parties wants to cash out. Is it better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all? A question of the ages. I'll let the Immortal Bard sort that one out. In this case I can, at this moment, say that I wish I never met Rene. Now I try to forget but trying to forget is impossible so I give in to the thoughts and exhaust them until they have no raw nerve endings left--they’re fried. I’m starting to feel the heal of time and it itches. What is a person to do but drink and smoke the pain away (scratching) until some other lucky lass hitches her wagon to mine and the whole process begins anew.