Plant the Life Of My Story App into Facebook to grow this seed into a weed
JERSEY WRONG
“But I don’t understand,” I tell him. “My contract is going to expire. Why am I printing out a form, mailing it in and explaining why I’m canceling?”
Wow, Isn’t it a fun a day at Work Out World?!
Welcome to Work Out World - a gym with multiple facilities throughout NJ that, in my opinion, is failing in regards to customer service. But don’t take my word for it. The following friends are potential victims of gym membership injustice.
Lisa, Mike, Michelle, Sharon, Holly & Dave - left to right, top to bottom. Friends of mine all responding to a status update requesting peoples’ Work Out World horror stories related to billing disputes and questionable sales tactics. But maybe it’s just a series of misunderstandings? I don’t believe so, and it’s certainly not negligence on behalf of my friends - I know them personally and can attest to their intelligence. Could it be a pattern of sloppy, deceptive sales practices? If so, who’s to blame? Is it the salespeople? The corporation? Let’s go to go to the website.
Upon entering, you’ll see a picture of Steve P. Roma: owner, exerciser, dad. I’ve never seen Steve P. Roma at one of his gyms and I’ve been working out there - on and off - for years. Dig deeper to the about WOW page. Here’s an excerpt I’d like to highlight.
WoW is committed to KEEPING JERSEY STRONG, and the right combination of professional support, fun structured workouts, and relationships are what WoW is all about.
Professional support? Maybe, but A WOW salesperson is incapable of canceling a membership when the contract expires. You have to fill out a form, mail it in (What the fuck age do we live in? US mail? For real? How about an online form so we can all stay in the 21st century?) and pray you don’t end up like Mike (see victim’s list above).
Fun structured workouts? I love exercising at WOW, as do many others who stomach the fist-pumpers and the naked people who parade around the locker-room as if showcasing their genitals at the Museum of Modern Art.
Relationships? It’s this claim that infuriates me. Here’s one definition of relationship as defined by a Google search I just did.
Relationship - a state of connectedness between people.
I have relationships with trainers, salespeople and front desk assistants at the Ocean WOW. Great job hiring good people but you’ve rendered them ineffective by removing their ability to handle situations that require a seemingly invisible decision maker.
Who’s running this puppet show? Is it Steve P. Roma? Is it a troll chained up at corporate headquarters? Is it the production crew from the Truman Show? WTF! I can’t see you, talk with you, interact, or figure things out, yet WOW claims to be “all about” relationships?
What about you and I, WOW - didn’t we have a relationship? I thought so and although I’m not a victim of your auto renewal clause, I’m personally disappointed with your customer service and here’s why…
During the summer of 2010, I was offered a job in Connecticut. My membership at WOW was soon to expire, but I needed to move even sooner. With no intentions of backing out of my contract, I explained my situation to a salesman and asked about possible affiliated gyms in the Stamford, CT area. The following conversation is how I remember having it (aside from saying ‚“shucks”, which was a last minute, fictitious add-in for my own amusement).
I knew I should have read the contract in its entirety. But I, like some of my friends, assumed this was a gym, not a car dealership.
He scribbled a web address on the back of a flimsy business card and handed it to me.
So I jumped through hoops. And when my request to cancel an expired membership was approved, I was sent an email template starting with ‚“We’re sorry to see you go. This is confirmation that we have received your request for cancellation.” Arrogant trickery - l shouldn’t have to request a cancellation to an expired membership!
4 months after my cancellation request was approved, I returned to NJ permanently (the job didn’t pan out in Stamford). This is January of 2011. Without a gripe or a groan, I entered the Ocean WOW to reinstate a membership, knowing full well the slapstick nature of a supposed yearly contract and potential clauses I would need to sniff out like a bloodhound. But as stated above, I love the fun structured workouts and the rate I was paying is fair. This is how I remember having the following conversation.
I’m staring at a new pricing system that looks like a menu at franchised buffet. Around 10 dollars a month for a membership that doesn’t include much - a rate so low how could it include anything? I could barely take classes, couldn’t go to other WOW locations, etc. Am I allowed to tell other people I’m a member if I sign up for the sub $10 special? Could I piss if I had to?
Yup, said it; it felt great.
She hands me a coupon as if I won a trip to the Wonka Factory. I wanted to tear up the useless coupon and ask, ‚“What about now? Do I still qualify for the $100 discount? Or did I ruin it when I tore up the arbitrary coupon? If so, hand me another off the stack of a thousand more you have behind you.” But I didn’t say any of that because she was polite and professional.
In touch didn’t happened. So I called every other day, asking for sales until finally getting back on the phone.
Enter the useful- and often times magical - nature of social media. Whenever I meet someone and have a memorable conversation, I add them to Facebook. It’s a standard practice of mine. My Facebook account is used daily to stay connected with the people rather than to spit out tired quotes, life complaints or vacation pictures. With that in mind, I created an event.
The new buffet-style pricing system had a clause in my favor: A VIP member can bring a guest anytime they want free of charge. So in my Facebook event, I invited friends with VIP memberships who’d be willing to take me. Through the event, I received the gym schedules of around 20 people willing to participate.
So after the initial cancellation difficulty and then not reinstating my old rate, the score is WOW 2, Ryan 1.
But here’s the catch: Every time I come as a guest, I have to fill out forms, bring my license and speak with sales.
WOW 3, Ryan 1.
And here’s the loophole to the catch: A copy machine. I went home, filled out the forms, attached my license and made a hundred copies. As for the eventual conversations with sales, I came up with a very simple introduction to use ad nauseam: Give me back my old rate or I’m not interested.
WOW 3, Ryan 2.
It’s wasn’t the same, though. I was a slave to peoples’ schedules, but at least I was allowed to use the toilet, which I’m unsure the basic membership includes. So as I made my way into the locker room, I saw a flier leading me to WOW’s Facebook Page.
I could win this. I spend every day as the Creative Director of my own life - couldn’t I spare 30 minutes to whip up an image? I didn’t have a bumper sticker though. I did, however, find an image of the bumper sticker online with no specifications on how to use it. So I made this
Not my most clever creation, but it would do. Now I needed a few votes and this contest was mine. Within minutes, I was in first and got cozy. That was when I saw my competition.
The baby took over. Strange - even though the image was more pertinent to the contest as well as being cuter than my contrived image, how could this contestant have more support? So I campaigned a little more, using the power of Facebook events once again.
The Jersey Shore is trending in popularity and I used this for an advantage. While in the event, those invited were led to a voting link (after I apologized for leading them to believe I was the next cast member of a show that’s making a mockery of our beautiful state, aside from the NJ Turnpike, Michael Ritacco, etc). Once again, I’m in first, the baby’s in second. And I got cozy.
But the baby turned up the heat, taking back first place with little time left in the competition.
I was furious! How was the baby doing it? I needed to know because my ego - my self worth - is on the line. I’ve spent the previous week campaigning via Facebook at StarBucks - practically unemployed / age 28 - in a competition for a free gym membership against a baby and I was losing. So I start loathing the baby and it’s cute little Yoga mat. Then I start loathing myself. And then I figured it out.
I DON’T WANT A FREE MEMBERSHIP AT WOW IN THE FIRST PLACE!
It’s tainted. They had me jumping through hoops yet again. And for what? A free membership when all I wanted was respect. Respect = honoring my old rate or at least a decent, logical explanation from a decision maker. Add to it the frustration endured when I cancelled what should have been an expired membership - now I had to win.
A Facebook contest
to work out for free.
Only two worthy
The baby and Me!
So f*cking cute
on a yoga mat.
But he’s an infant;
I’m 28 and fat.
A constant shame
to step out of a bath.
If you saw me naked,
I bet you’d laugh.
And I take blame
for the shape I’m in.
But a vote for me
is a vote for thin.
So take some time
for one more vote.
I need this so much
I wrote you this note.
In a final attempt to overthrow the baby, I wrote a poem and published it on a Facebook note, tagging my support system.
It was too much for the baby to compete with. I reached out to the baby’s mother, letting her know of my intentions to forfeit the spoils of war. But the contestant’s mother (which makes her the baby’s grandmother) was suspicious of a friendly gesture from a complete stranger and sent WOW corporate an email. And WOW corporate called me to announce my victory and inquire about my intentions.
Fuck. I was planning on mooning corporate. In retrospect, it was a good thing to have that intention fall by the wayside because I would have been arrested.
My plan - Take the second place winner with me, explain why I was forfeiting my prize to her and give WOW’s staff a message to pass on to corporate.
Her plan - Second place (for personal reasons) declined my offer and left me with a free membership that I didn’t want. So I decided to give it to a charity.
The Center in Asbury has a fundraiser coming up and could use it as a raffle prize. Why not? If it could do some good, so be it. I do, however, feel bad for whoever wins the raffle. What if his/her free membership rolls into a month-to-month and the terms of this free membership are similar to the contracts my friends and I have signed in the past?
SIGNER BEWARE: WHAT’S FREE TODAY MAY NOT BE FREE TOMORROW, SO REALLY READ THE CONTRACT!
In my final communication with Work Out World, I stopped in - dressed in my Sunday’s best - to hand sales a letter addressed to the CEO, Steve P. Roma: owner, exerciser, dad. In the letter, I stated clearly why I was refusing my prize. In addition to my letter is this story - a story of a Jersey business I believe started with the right intentions but is currently failing in regards to customer service. Mr. Roma - are you the voice of a company that so many people have come to use, love and freely advertise on the back their vehicles? If so, take your own advice - be Jersey Strong and look into potential Jersey Wrongs.
—-
The story you’ve just read is for entertainment purposes. I cannot validate whether or not the claims others have made are true; I only mention their experiences to highlight a potential trend. If this trend exists, it’s up to Work Out World to change their perfectly legal sales practices that if changed, in my opinion, would benefit their customer relationships significantly. If, however, you feel that any business is being unfair, I encourage you to take a stand and report it to the Better Business Bureau. With WOW in mind, I’d say hold off. Something tells me change is on the way.
MARK
“Do you think you need more?”
It’s a question no doctor should ask a patient, yet he reminds me of Frodo Baggins in size and disposition so it’s difficult to be angry with him.
“I just want to feel better,” I tell him as he hands me another tissue.
I’m sobbing in a office that resembles the inside of a hobbit’s dwelling. He may be my 5th or 6th, but I want him to feel special and keep out the # of psychiatrists I’ve seen in my life. Of those 5 or 6, he stands to be the least experienced. This is our 2nd appointment and I’ve forgotten more about anxiety than he may ever know.
“If it worked once, it should work again, no?”
Another question no doctor should ask a patient. Welcome to the crap-shoot of clinical psychiatry.
He hands me a script and I assure him that I’ll call to set up our next appointment. I won’t be calling him any time soon. I stuff the signed sheet of light blue paper in my pocket - the weight of a Flip Video camera holds it tightly against the inside of my shorts.
Marilyn Monroe brushes by me on my way out. In order to convince myself that I’m not hallucinating, I linger for a moment. My shrink greets her with “Come in, Julia,” and I wonder if she’s a look-alike or if she’s here for a Finkelstein special.
The wind streams through my hair as I skateboard down a famous road in Santa Monica headed towards the boardwalk. I cannot really feel the wind nor can I remember the name of this road because my focus is perpetually nonexistent.
“Do you have it?”
Rob has been waiting for me at the Pier; his skateboard pales in comparison. I rip out my refurbished video camera and hand it to him - the script for Zoloft is no longer held tightly against the inside of my shorts.
“Is it still on here?”
“I’ve taken some since,” I answer, “go back a few.”
When I began telling stories online, Rob was my first fan. According to Rob, he moved to Los Angeles to be part of Life Of My Story. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but it’s now clear that he speaks in riddles. We’re meeting up today to discuss a plan that has him salivating.
“Still can’t believe it,” he tells me as he stares into the small screen. Neither can I. It’s the viral video everyone waits for - pines for - yet usually choreographs when it doesn’t happen naturally. And it’s the inspiration behind a potential marketing campaign that is part genius, part evil-genius, and completely insensitive.
“Can we get in trouble for this?” Rob wants to know.
I bring Rob back to last month when I obtained the footage…
We were at Denny’s and I was finishing everyone’s meal.
“YOU AND ME, DUDE! BECAUSE I’M TAKING YOU WITH ME!”
Someone near the front counter is far too excited for 3:30 in the morning. We turn to see; all heads of our group are like deer in headlights.
“IT’S THE MOST VIP PARTY IN ALL OF HEAVEN, DUDE, AND IT’S ALL FOR ME - AND YOU!”
There’s a man whose skin is stained leather-red and he’s hashing out travel plans with an empty seat across from him.
“AND I’M GETTING MARRIED TO KAREN CARPENTER. I KNOW IT SOUNDS CRAZY, BUT IT’S NOT!”
A mention of Karen Carpenter said in the present tense as if she were living - check. In my ever-tightening jean pocket was my video camera…
... And the rest is history,” I tell Rob. Nowhere in my story was a mention of consent, but I was determined to exploit this situation for personal gain.
OUR PLAN - to seek out the raving lunatics of Los Angeles, film their rants and hand them goody bags full of blankets, t-shirts and apparel that would say, ‘Go to Lifeofmystory.com and hear my story’. If a small portion could give me half of what our guy from Dennys gave, I was sitting atop a marketing machine that runs under the guise of helping the homeless.
Santa Monica touches Venice Beach, and the stretch of boardwalk between the two showcases the strangest humanity has to offer.
* There’s a black man painted gold. He’s half statue, half Michael Jackson. Throw change and he comes alive.
* An old white man without teeth has a small whistle made of bone, which fits perfectly under his tongue and makes the most indescribable bird noises.
* Here’s Guillermo the Garbageman - a Mexican immigrant who wears an outfit of soaking wet Hefty bags while convulsing and kicking trash.
Rob and I are stealth like cat burglars. We’re filming, asking for consent and establishing where they haunt so we can return with goody bags. It’s been a few hours of intense filming and we’re sitting with a retired accountant who claims to be the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. My camera dies, but I have another Flip. We assure Jesus Christ, CPA that we’ll return - a promise I won’t keep. There’s something deeply unsettling about what we’re accomplishing. I finger the light blue sheet of paper in my pocket.
We’re headed back towards the Pier. The wind streams through my hair and I close my eyes, trying desperately to let go of my own struggles that have swallowed my life whole. If only I could just feel the wind and let it remind me that I’m alive.
“Ry…”
I open my eyes and look back. Rob, he’s not skating anymore - he’s staring at our guy from Dennys, who happens to be sitting alone on a bench. But he’s not the same. The man I filmed had all of his teeth, was a bit too tan and seemed happy. This man was bundled in out-of-season clothing. The skin of his face was black from sun exposure and he was missing his front teeth; last month’s enthusiasm was replaced with an eternal grimace. This is what was so unsettling - the reality of mental illness.
“Do you mind if I sit,” I ask him.
“Not at all, I was kind of lonely. Hi, I’m Mark,” he says, extending his limb for a shake.
His hands are soiled with life, death and everything in-between. I’m not squeamish as I willingly offer my paw. He squeezes hard and I focus on the possible blood, feces, urine, semen, and garbage that coat his skin.
“I filmed you last month at Dennys. And I’d like to film you again, and show people what you go through. Would it be OK?”
“As long as you agree with what I have to say. Because I’m not crazy, dude.”
Camera rolls and he lets me in as Rob watches carefully from a short distance.
Meet Mark, a middle-aged Caucasian who enjoys Coca Cola (see video below). Shortly after our encounter at Dennys, he was forcefully admitted to a hospital where Adolf Hitler was the attending physician. Luckily for Mark, there was a rift in the space/time continuum and after traveling 80 years back to the future, he made it here - to our present conversation.
“Who were you talking to at Dennys?” I inquired.
“Another traveler,” Mark explained, “but you couldn’t see him because you’re human.”
When asked how Mark was able to see the invisible traveler, he answered, “It’s because I’m a dinosaur.”
In the Cretaceous Period, Mark was your average reptile living in the moment when he first encountered Hitler-Saurus-Rex. As he recalls, Hitler the dinosaur desired Mark the Dinosaur’s love interest, Karen Carpenter the Dinosaur. In a jealous rage, dino-Hitler murdered dino-Karen but spared dino-Mark so he could suffer for all eternity.
But his original reptilian form, and the countless lives to follow, were unknown to ‘Mark the Traveler’ for many light-years.
“Not until World War II was everything clear.”
Mark was once an American solider captured by request of the Fuhrer during World War II. Once in captivity, Mark the solider was subjected to experiments at the hands of Hitler himself. It was on an operating table that Hitler revealed the truth about their eternal struggle, allowing Mark the Traveler to always know that no matter what form they occupy, Hitler would forever kill Karen Carpenter unless Mark makes it to heaven in time.
Our conversation ended but I made no promises to return with a goody bag. I thanked him for his time and confirmed the permission needed to speak about his pain.
“I’m not crazy, you know that?”
I assured him that I didn’t think he was crazy (because he’s sick) and gave him a hug, wishing him a successful trip to heaven one day soon.
As I made my way home, Rob and I said goodbye but it was the last time we spoke about using the mentally ill of Los Angeles in a ploy to draw attention to my website.
Once home, I undressed and in my usual nightly fashion, prepared for a night’s worth of reassurance. My iTunes is loaded with every possible relaxation/distraction technique to counter my own personal distortions, which range from not being real (a belief caused by the persistent depersonalization that comes with Panic Disorder) to having Early Onset Alzheimer’s (in my early 20’s, nonetheless).
There is a prescription in my shorts pocket that I’ll fill tomorrow in hopes that an increase in dose will one day alleviate my own struggles. And I’m thinking of Mark - and how little separates us aside from my ability to recognize my own mental illness more often than not.
See my first encounter with Mark @ Dennys below and visit Mental Health America if you or a loved is suffering. Other great resources are NAMI for support groups throughout the country and the Anxiety Guru for those with Anxiety Disorders.
Greetings from Asbury Park after dark
“5 dollars, regular, credit.”
I hand the gas attendant my card - he shakes his head disapprovingly. I only have a dollar in cash plus he doesn’t own the gas station and won’t personally incur the charge on a 5 dollar fill-up so he’ll get over it.
“What are you doing?” Dave asks.
I’m on the phone with Dave who I’ve left in the dark in regards to my whereabouts and what I’m ordering.
“I gotta go,” the attendant is motioning for me to get off the phone, “something about no cell phones.”
Click.
From a short distance, a young black female is on a midnight stroll with a portly Italian gentleman. I assume he’s Italian because he’s wearing a tracksuit; I assume she’s black because she’s black. So it’s not an assumption, she is black and that’s perfectly OK. It just needs special attention because the union of a short, stout, middle-aged Mafioso strolling alongside a 20-something year old black woman @ 12 in the morning is special. Plus it’s Asbury Park: the Flower City of the Garden State; birthplace of Bruce Springsteen’s musical inspiration; hooker haven.
The odd couple head directly at me. She waves and smiles. Her teeth are the wooden planks of the Asbury Park Boardwalk: textured, dirty and misshapen in places. I wave back because I’m friendly but quickly look away to fiddle with my iPod.
Knock knock on my window.
Her name is Kenisha I think. Or Venisha. It’s something that ends in ‘eee-sha’. I know this because she’s about to tell me. With full knowledge that whatever happens next would be written down, I anxiously drop the window and spin the scroll wheel, effectively lowering the volume (which on the iPod Classic gets fussy sometimes).
“Yes. Hello sir. My name is {something that ends in ‘eee-sha’} and I was living with my mother who is doing Crack. So I’m staying in that motel.” She points through the night; I only see trees.
side note: Although it sounds contrived, her mother - according to {something that ends in ‘eee-sha’} - is doing Crack.
The stubby Italian gent is making small talk with the attendant and I assume this is a set-up.
“I’m not with him, don’t worry,” as she points to Pauly Walnuts in the tracksuit. “Anywaaaays (she smiles, giving me an up-close of the boardwalk), I’m not a hooker, but I’ll give you a {rhymes with toe throb} for 5 dollars.”
Why couldn’t she have started with “Greetings from Asbury Park, my name is {something that ends in ‘eee-sha’}...”? It would have helped with the title.
I open my wallet, grab the dollar and look around to see who’s watching.
“I’m really not a prostitute,” she smiles while rubbing my fingerless-glove. Her perfume invades my space. It smells of an air freshener you’d find in a Porta-John.
“{Something that ends in ‘eee-sha’}, I have a dollar. It’s why I’m using my debit card for a small fill-up. And I’m not looking for a discount, nor am I not looking for a {rhymes with toe throb} that would cost me anything because, well, I don’t pay for these things. But I want you to have this dollar.”
I make the drop-off, imagining the Asbury police snapping photos from a surveillance van just beyond the trees where the alleged motel is supposed to be.
“Aren’t you just the sweetest thang!”
XXX hot action scene: Her head breaches the invisible - but understood - barrier between the outside world and the inside of my 2011 Hyundai Accent. Boom! Hooker kiss on the cheek; I take it like a champ.
It’s only a dollar, which may or may not be supporting drugs or alcohol. But I don’t care. It takes chutzpah to approach a stranger and offer a {rhymes with toe throb}. Plus I appreciate the offer made below market value, which I’m assuming is actually a discount because I don’t know the going rate.
Dave calls back as I make my way around the rotary just outside the gas station. I finish telling my story, assuring him that I’d write it down, and he wants to know the title.
“Greetings from Asbury Park,” I answer him, “after dark.”
PLOWED
Nature must resonate with the elderly when it comes to choosing their final independent living situation. Pine Estates; Ocean Villas; Cedar Village. I’m temporarily living in Cedar Village and feel strongly that Blizzard Penitentiary is a more accurate representation of what I’ve experienced.
I’d like to take you on a journey now… a journey of a young man living with his elderly Greek-American grandparents, all trying to break free from the shackles of mother nature while holding on to the delicate threads of sanity. The following tale is mostly true aside from unavoidable distortions in memory caused by stress. It’s told in the present tense because as I write this, I’m brought back, post traumatically, to the blizzard of 2010.
DAY 1: WARM THE CAR UP?
“Warm the car up.”
My grandfather’s Mercury is buried beneath a 6 foot snow drift.
“Papou, there’s a 6 foot snow drift covering your car.”
Papou (pronounced Pa-poo) is the Greek noun for grandfather. He sits patiently scratching his Psoriasis (itchy, flaky skin pronounced sore-eye-oh-sis). My Yaya (Greek for grandmother pronounced Yie-yah) helped him dress this morning as if he’s going places. Dressing a man of 83 years as if he’s going out is like putting a leash on a puppy with no intentions of walking him.
“You don’t have to go outside. Just use the automatic starter.”
The blizzard is over and our neighborhood is invisible. From the front window, I only see roofs and front windows. Papou shakes his head as if I’m the one not getting it.
“Greg, why is he going to warm your car up? Did you see outside: it’s a blizzard! No one is going anywhere; we’re in a state of emergency. And our governor - and the acting governor - are both on vacation. It’s just ridiculous! Now go sit at the table.”
Papou and I are in the kitchen, which is also the TV room (both rooms spill into each other without walls or partitions), eating Cream of Wheat. Both the kitchen TV and the big TV are on and I’d like to shoot Whoppi Golberg. It’s painful enough to hear one Whoppi but with a delay in the big TV, I’m hearing two Whoopis. Papou is using his spoon to investigate his breakfast for lumps & inconsistencies.
“Did you warm my car up yet?”
Yaya’s wig levitates as the heat rises from her horns below.
“Jesus Christ, Gregory! Are you losing it? He’s not warming up the goddamn car! We’re trapped in here!”
Deep in thought, he stirs for a moment longer.
“I know that, Thalia, but if he warms the car up, the snow’s gonna melt in the driveway.”
There is approximately 2,025 square feet of snow covering the driveway (I did the math). In order to melt 2,025 square feet of snow within the time-frame Papou expects, you’d need a volcanic eruption.
“Go warm the car up for your grandfather,” she responds while implying credit to his illogical hypothesis.
I grab his keys and hit the horn three times, igniting his engine from inside the house. Off to the shower.
This is me showering now. Hi.
There’s a pounding on the door and someone is screaming inaudibly.
“What? I can’t hear you,” I scream back, “just open the door!”
Enter Papou. “I said - why are you leaving my car running?”
DAY 2: DID YOU HEAR THAT?
“Did you hear that?” Plowing is happening somewhere; I’m surprised he heard it. Usually a television on maximum volume signifies a hearing impairment, yet Papou surprises everyone with his selective hearing super-abilities.
Papou gets up from his Lazy Boy and scampers to the front window.
“Goddamnit,” as he peers out the window; he scratches his Psoriasis. Back to the chair. He’s dressed again as if he’s going places.
32 minutes later
The sound of a construction vehicle is backing up in the distance.
“Did you hear that?” He’s up again and waddles to the front window.
“(He’s making noises with his tongue that used to signify one of his grand kids doing something wrong),” as he shakes his head disapprovingly and scans the roofs & front windows. Back to the chair he goes.
45 minutes later
“Oh that’s just terrible, Pearl. I’ll let everyone know… you too!” Yaya hangs up the cordless. She’s in the Lazy Boy and my Arthritic grandfather has been demoted to the stiff, rigid chair beside her.
“Pearl said that her son said that Monmouth County is in a state of emergency.”
Just yesterday she spoke with Pearl and they had the same conversation. Old people repeat themselves but it’s not dementia in Yaya’s case. I’m convinced that the psychological impact of getting old creates a difficulty in her finding new material. It’s like an antique record player reaching the last song but refusing to give up so it continues to play bits and pieces of the final track.
Someone yells in the distance; sounds kind of like, “Back it up! Back it up!”
“Did you hear that?” Papou gets up and makes his way to the front window.
DAY 3: GOING TO WORK?
“RYAN?”
One flight up & two rooms back is the attic. I keep my stuff there. I’m sifting through clothes, trying to find my favorite mint colored beanie while pretending not to hear her.
“RYYYYAAAANNNN?”
I’m an astronaut whose spaceship ran out of gas around Mars; I’m looking for that suicide pill they gave me back @ Cape Canaveral.
“I’M IN THE ATTIC, YAYA! AND I DON’T FEEL IT’S APPROPRIATE TO BE SCREAMING ACROSS THE HOUSE UNLESS IT’S AN EMERGENCY!”
My face is red with frustration and lack of oxygen.
“RYYYAN?”
What is it about old peoples’ homes in regards to traveling sound? You could hear someone whispering from a distance if you’re in the attic but scream aloud from the attic and no one hears you.
It’s rude to phone your grandparents when they need you and you’re in the same 2 room cottage but experience dictates that a pointless question looms on the horizon and my travels are unwarranted. I reach over, grab my cell and dial the home line.
“CALL FROM - VERIZON WIRELESS.”
Included in the cable package was call monitoring that appears, and speaks, through the big TV. Since the volume is permanently at capacity, I hear every call made to the home, along with the television’s robotic pronunciations of those calls.
“Thalia! Don’t pick it up, it’s an 857 number! I don’t know it!”
Papou is fucking with me unintentionally. I’ve told them hundreds of times that I kept my Boston phone number.
“CALL FROM - VERIZON WIRELESS.”
“Don’t pick it up, Thalia! It’s Chase Manhattan calling about the mortgage!”
FUCK! I’m up; I’m up and coming. And off I go to the loft that overlooks the TV room that is also the kitchen where two TVs are blasting The View at different speeds as Papou sits in his Lazy Boy, dressed as if he’s going somewhere, and Yaya holds up the cordless as she inspects the missed call from an 857 area code.
“Yes? Hi… up here. Yes; hi! What’s up Yaya?”
She looks up at me as if she hasn’t seen me in ages and smiles.
“Hi Ry!”
“Hi. What’s up? I was in the attic.”
“Ry…”
The pause is an eternity.
“...is your mother going to work today?”
Patience - I thought I had it once. Here are two people who’ve opened their home to me (and my mother - she lives here too - and our dog), who love me - who cared for me as a child as they sat through temper-tantrums and went elbows deep in soiled diapers - and I want to muzzle them like stray dogs.
“Jesus Christ, I’ve told them three times that work is closed,” my mother screams from under her pillow as she attempts to sleep in her bedroom behind the loft. Yaya cannot hear her though because the laws of traveling sound in the homes of the elderly say otherwise.
I’ve made a decision, refuse to answer and start back to the attic.
“RYYYAAAANNN?”
Stopping in my tracks, I head back to the ledge and peer down into the eyes of my tormentor.
“Yesh, Yaya?” I bite my lip and remind myself that I love her.
“Is your mother going to work today?”
“Yaya, the entire neighborhood is snowed in and Monmouth County is in a state of emergency! All roads are closed and they’re considering calling in the Coast Guard. So…” She gets it now; she has to.
“But Thalia,” my grandfather chimes in, “How’s she getting to work if all the roads are closed?”
DAY 4: THE DOG?
Max is watching squirrels in the backyard - the year is 2002 and he’s looking out the window in our old home in Tinton Falls. But in the present, we’re in Neptune City and Max is laying on the cold wooden floor on day 4 of being snowed in. He perks up every so often because of visions his mind displays on a wall near the front door. After 13 good years of life, Max is slowly slipping backwards through time and space.
Papou: I think the dog has to go out.
I look at Papou as he sits in his Lazy Boy - impeccably dressed as if he’s going out today - and wonder what visions he himself is having. I can’t blame the old man for his paranoia. Since we moved in, Max has unintentionally etched neural pathways that lead to memories of stained carpets and a furious Yaya.
Prior to the blizzard, I was sent to Wegmans for stain remover. Down the pet aisle, I had choices, but nothing seemed good enough.
Me (having a one-sided conversation with a disinterested employee): Nothing seems to really get at the urine, you know?
Employee: hmmm (as he tapped his chin)
A chubby lady with fake eyelashes and a coffin purse (her purse was a mini-coffin with leather straps) overheard and suggested using Nature’s Miracle over Resolve.
Chubby Lady: It’s especially good for stubborn urine.
I held the bag open for Yaya to reach in.
Yaya: No, no, no, no. Does anyone listen to me when I talk?
Me: (In my imagination, I answer no 4 times to her question) I assumed she knew something we’ve been missing all along.
Back in the present, Max gets up and relocates slightly to the left.
Papou: I think he’s gotta go out.
I know he doesn’t have to go out. And I count 3, 2… Max plops down on a new spot. Yaya’s wooden floor is a dog’s equivalent to a pillow: when it gets too warm, Max needs to find a cool spot.
My pup grunts and the echo travels through an episode of M.A.S.H, stinging Papou in his good eardrum.
Papou: Ryan Michael, I think Max has to go out.
Not even 15 minutes ago, Max and I went outside. My mother’s gloves, my sister’s sweatpants, a mint colored beanie and the plastic Wegmans bag that I shoved in my pocket with no intentions of using. Worse case, one of the elderly spies decides to watch Max poop and I’d have a bag ready. But I’m guessing with visibility so low, I was free-and-clear to bury whatever he pushes out in the snow.
The snow fell in such a way that it left a patch of land untouched beside our home. I watched Max spin around as if each turn introduced new and uncharted grass. He did his business like a champion and I commended his efforts with a “that’s good little poopie boy”.
Max does not have to go again. And if he did, he could hold it for a while. So as we engage in conversation outside of the dog needing to go out, I treat Papou’s urging as if it were a tick caused by Late-onset Tourette Syndrome.
Max: Woof?
Papou takes this woof as proof that Max has to go out and shoots me the ‘I told you so’ face.
Max: Woof? Woof, woof, woof!
There’s a moment between Max’s communication with the squirrels on the wall and Papou’s vision of Max shitting on the carpet.
Papou: Ry?
I get up to appease a man who used to come to my Little League games even though I rode the bench.
Me: I know, Papou.
DAY 5: THE PLOWS?
I’ve been warming up the car in five minute intervals to his heart’s content to no avail. I’m numb. No matter the request, I’ve relinquished my common sense and refuse nothing, no matter how counter productive (or asinine) the request may be.
It’s night time on the fifth day of a blizzard that ended five days ago. As the chain of command calls for, he speaks with her, they strategize and upon a compromise, she translates his demands.
“Your grandfather cannot afford to waste anymore gas…”
As always, Yaya pauses for an eternity. She’s standing beside his throne; her wig is perfect. And after 76 years of laundry, her periwinkle bath robe is as bright as the day of purchase.
“... so you’re going to shovel around his car…”
“Just have him dig out the front and I’ll run right through the goddamn snow like a tank!”
“Just do what he wants.”
My mother’s gloves, my sister’s sweatpants, a mint colored beanie and a concealed cigarette in hand as I crouch behind a snow drift just beyond his car and attempt to make sense of nonsense. I’m thinking about science and the people I’ve met who tell me about science and how all of life’s questions will be answered in time. “But,” I’ve responded, “what about the why?” Everyone is all about the how, but the why often goes unanswered.
* why do we live?
* why is their existence in the first place?
* why am I digging out a car when the road ahead is paved in endless miles of frozen water?
From a distance, a construction vehicle scrapes its appendage against the pavement. I can hear the roar of its diesel engine and the safety beeping that’s wired to sound in reverse.
“Back it up! Back it up!”
20 houses (10 on my side, 10 across the street) away is a front loader clearing snow from the road on the fifth day of a storm that’s caused me irreparable psychological damage. And below the roofs of every house are front windows. And inside each window is the silhouette of a home owner - who is at least 55 according to Cedar Village’s bylaws - watching the front loader as if it were a unicorn. Genius strikes me and I take action.
“I need 10 dollars,” I ask my master.
“Thalia, get Ryan 10 dollars!” he calls out from his throne. She counts 10 singles from her purse and without question, hands me the dough.
Back outside, my sneakers are wet but I don’t care - I’m traveling to see the unicorn - to validate its existence - and to sway it to satisfy the demands of an outrageous ruler. I’m not the only one though. There are no more front window silhouettes. In unison, garage doors open as I pass by and quicken my pace.
“Are you here to do our driveways?” Asks an old man dressed as a snow-ready G.I. Joe.
“I’ve gotta get to the pharmacy,” chimes in G.I. Joe’s 200 year old neighbor. She’s covered in dead animal fur and pointing at the front loader.
The spies are out but I have two advantages: One, I’m able to walk through the snow without risk to life-and-limb. And two, old people (not all, but a decent number that I’ve met during my stay @ Cedar Village) are gullible.
“Um, yeah, we’ll get to everyone,” I report as if I’m the foreman of the cleanup crew, “but we’ve got a situation just down the road that needs immediate attention.”
A child is driving the front loader. Compared to me, he’s a child, but he’s probably of legal age to operate heavy machinery. I assume anyone who looks younger than me must be in high school because the fact that college is over and I’m now 6+ years in the real world hasn’t sunk in. He opens the plastic door, allowing me to lean in.
“Yeah, hi, I live on 61 Redwood (I’m pointing)... second house on the right if you’re coming from the other way… and I need your help.”
I place the 10 singles within his reach.
“My grandparents are driving me fucking insane. I’ve been trapped inside with them for 5 days straight and I’m considering saying things that I can’t take back…”
He reaches down, picks up the 10 dollars, looks around and places it inside his jacket pocket.
“I need you to stop plowing the street and dig out our driveway. I know they won’t be able to go anywhere, but I can’t do this anymore by myself; I can’t; I’m starting to lose control. And I need you to help me.”
The child smiles and tells me to wait for him in my driveway. I start my trek back and turn to him: “I’ll wait for you!” I scream as a tear trickles down my frozen beard.
“Is he gonna do our driveways?” Asks a man wearing goggles and holding a snow blower that hasn’t made the slightest dent.
“Everything’s going to be just fine,” I assure him, “help is on the way!”
17 minutes later
I’m watching a front loader gracefully dig around my grandfather’s Mercury Montego. It only takes minutes to clear 2,025 square feet of snow from our driveway. The snow pile on the front lawn reaches a height upwards of 15 feet and I’m sitting on top of it smoking a victory cigar. From this view, I can see a lot of nothing - a world still buried in snow - except for 61 Redwood Drive… we’re the only paved driveway that leads to endless miles of unpaved roads.
“I did it!” I report to Yaya.
“Good boy! GREGORY?” She yells from the kitchen.
Enter Papou. He already knows; I can tell by his attire: warm jacket, cab driver cap, newspaper under his arm and keys in hand. I follow him outside to bask in the glory of what I’ve accomplished. Although useless in every way, I’m proud of the work.
This is the moment he’s been waiting 5 days for. Papou starts his car and gets inside. He puts the car in drive and books it down the driveway (a move of less than 10 feet). I watch him curiously. What happens next? Does his Montego have snow climbing abilities? Does it hover?
At the end of our driveway - facing snow that covers every road in Monmouth County - he throws the Montego in park. The window is cracked and I can hear sports radio. He reaches over, grabs his newspaper, opens it on his lap and begins with the local section. This morning, he dressed himself for going out.
Written with love to my Poops and Yaya-in-a-bun
A Christmas Story
A Partridge is a bird in the pheasant family and according to North American vernacular, people who lack intelligence are often dubbed “bird-brains”. In this story, I’m the Partridge.
Once in high school, I dated a girl because I wanted to get closer to her best friend. Eventually I started dating the best friend until she found out that I was interested in her cousin. At the time, I somehow was able to live with myself.
Now I’m working on growing up. At 28, some expect that I should already be all-grown-up but I’m not… and when I get the shit-end-of-the-stick (which I’m fairly confident is a phrase relating to a Diddle Stick - an apparatus used in a sterile environment to induce defecation), I look back and regret many times that I acted selfishly.
As we speak, I’m formulating a speech that will end with “... it’s that I’m not looking for anything at the time.” This is a lie.
We’re all looking for something. The aged-excuse that “I’m not looking for anything serious” used to be specific to men as we carelessly ran through women that were not ideal. Now women have adopted this excuse to feed the exact same impulse. I’ve used it many times before but last night, someone used it on me after I drove her home from a Christmas Party.
Every Christmas season, a friend of mine throws a party at a dive Mexican restaurant on Route 35 in Ocean Township, NJ. The Don Chucho’s Christmas Party - it’s named partly after the birth of Jesus Christ - the debatable lord and savior of life itself - yet the crowd screams Sodom & Gomorrah. The majority of us here are damaged sluts looking to forget our troubles through the acts of copulation and intoxication. We’re tainted, insecure and failing - some more than others. Because the restaurant is desperate for business, they purposefully neglect protocol for checking identification. Last night, I saw a 15 year old drinking a Margarita. As she stood in the corner - speaking to men who were able to cum when she was in diapers - my mind is focused elsewhere. On the dance floor was the one.
Definition of the one: Once in a while, I feel actual interest in a female. Because of its rarity, I’m not used to it. Meeting someone I actually find attractive and interesting is so rare, it’s basically like meeting a girl for the first time. In response to coming in contact with the one, I will (like a little boy with a secret crush) create expectations in spite of reality; an entire life that will occur once everything goes my way.
I found myself temporarily distracted by the bartender. I was ordering a diet coke and as she smiled, the gap between her two front teeth (wide enough to fit a baby’s fist between) reminded me of a gang bang my friends and I attempted in college. She reminded me of it because she was one of the two women involved. I then proceed to look around, realizing some of the other odd sexual connections that this Christmas party highlights:
1. There was a girl following me around who I’ve known since she’s been a little kid; she asked if I’d like to have a shower with her after the party at her parent’s house. I asked what her parents would think and she responded that “They’d rather I’d do it at home then somewhere else.”
2. Over there in the corner - near a DJ that two of my female family members have hooked up with - was a girl who an acquaintance of mine from high school met one night through me; within the same night, the two had unprotected sex in a greenhouse.
3. That girl dancing: my best friend fucked her in my bed. Five minutes in, he fell asleep on top of her, incapable of holding an erection after ingesting copious amounts of Knob Creek & Miller Light.
4. There was the host of the party, who has had some form of intercourse with approximately 37% of women there. His girlfriend followed him around, unaware that his massive penis (he tends to play show-and-tell; I would too if my penis belonged on an elephant) has penetrated a sizable portion of his guests.
And then there’s the one.
She’s dancing carelessly as I sneak a peek when her back is turned. Smart, creative, and stunningly beautiful. Her style of conversation is a perfect balance between self-deprecating commentary and a pseudo hip-hop flavor (which is surprisingly tolerable). The faces she makes when she gets excited could make even the manliest-man start using words like “awe” and “adorable” in his daily vocabulary. She is the one, but here lies the dilemma of the one: expectation and reality often times forget to meet up.
Fast forward to the parking lot. I was the designated driver; have been since I stopped drinking over a year ago. At some point, I decided to wait in the chariot that would eventually take the one - along with a few other friends - home while secretly writing about the life we’d have when everything goes my way. And here lies the dilemma of the one: enter the accomplice.
The accomplice is a great guy who I’ve known since childhood. On this particular night, he appeared to have been suffering from a mild case of Alcohol-Induced Downs Syndrome. And here he comes, stumbling out of Don Chucho’s, arm-in-arm with the one. Into my chariot they entered - the back seat to be precise, which then signified a livery service in place of a favor.
“Driver, take us home,” she said - without having to say anything - as she tended to her temporarily brain dead accomplice.
A bull sees red and charges with rage and confusion; I thought that bull was tamed years ago. Internal dialogue at the moment: If I can make it through this, she’ll see that I’m invulnerable.
“(The one), you can sleep over with (the accomplice) because (another passenger) has a futon you can both sleep in,” so said another female passenger who was referring to her boyfriend’s house and furniture.
And so the bull charged - but at myself and not the situation. My insides were ripping to pieces; the person I built over the past few months began to disintegrate. I could feel my heart in my anus; what could have been butterflies were hornets swarming in my stomach. What I wanted to do: pull over and refuse service. But I held on, hoping this would turn out to be an illusion.
The cab reached its intended destination. Out pops the one followed by two, three and four. As she looks at me, drunk with pleasure - all liquored up from a night spent amongst fellow sinners - she stammers, “Well goodnight, Ry!” Off she frolics, arm-in-arm with the accomplice, to a futon her and I will never share.
And here lies the dilemma of the one: you’ll find yourself on the long, lonely ride home.
As I pulled my cab into the driveway, Facebook came to mind. Since I turned off text messaging over a year ago, FB is often times the only way to communicate (seeing that people forgot they can talk). 3:00 am on a Sunday morning - I was about to write the one a Facebook message in an effort of self expression, hoping the cathartic nature of such an act would send the bull back to the barn.
What could be said without sounding like a mad man? How can I phrase my feelings without exposing too much of my own irrationality? What came out could be summed up by the following:
“You hurt my feelings and now I’m bitter. Why me?”
And after enough time passed, her response could be summed up like this:
“I’m sorry, but I wasn’t looking for anything serious; grow a set of balls.”
And after enough time passed, my response to her response went a little something like this:
“Yeah? But you’re wrong and I’m right! Nah Na Nah Na Boo Boo!”
But I’m the one who has to deal with the Boo Boo. And here’s lies the dilemma with the one: I created her; she doesn’t exist.
As I’m writing this, I think back to the girl who offered me a shower. Sure, I could cry tears throw my penis, but it never seems to fill the hole. Instead, I sit here as I’m writing this, thinking about the girl who offered me that shower, formulating a speech that ends with “... it’s that I’m not looking for anything.” This is a lie.
How riding a bicycle can turn you into a baboon
How a DUI turned my friend into a zombie
Fern Bright
Ever hear about those people who spend time and money on therapy to dig up old memories? I’m one of them. Before yesterday, I would be the first to say that it’s crock of shit. That hypnosis isn’t real and that past events can’t have a substantial hold over current circumstances. Well, I was dead fucking wrong. Because yesterday, I remembered Fern Bright.
I was 6 at the time. It was first grade and I loved it. My school was really cool and I loved my lunch pail. It was a Transformers lunch box with an Optimus Prime thermos! The little things like that made the difference between the best day ever and the worst day imaginable.
My mother worked long hours but she didn’t want me in the after school program. She felt that our Connecticut school system was full of troublemakers and being around those kids outside of a classroom was just asking for trouble. So instead, she’d send me to Fern Bright’s house.
Mrs. Bright was a stay-at-home wife & mother. She used to be a dental hygienist, but soon her full-time job was being a mommy. And not just any mommy, but a mommy for Fern. Fern was her daughter. Fern was also an only child. She and I went to the same school, but Fern took a different bus. She was in the special needs class. I’d known her forever because the Brights lived down the street. Sometimes my friends and I would play with Fern. She was very quiet and copied us, doing whatever we did. As far as I could remember, I never heard Fern speak.. or even make a noise for that matter.
My bus dropped me home at 3:45 pm. I then walked to Fern’s house. The door was always open and like every Monday, Mrs. Bright made her famous cinnamon swirl cookies - from scratch! I could smell them through the screen door. “It’s my way of making it through the mun-days!” She would say. I didn’t understand what she meant until I grew up.
I loved chocolate milk, but she only had milk. There was no chocolate syrup, powder or Ovaltine. From what I recall, there was nothing sweet in the whole kitchen save the ingredients she kept for her cinnamon swirl cookies, which were stored in a cabinet so high that any child would have to plan weeks in advance to climb it properly. So… there was my glass of whole milk, a napkin, a plate and one warm, gooey cookie.
I climbed up the stool, which was enormous by a 6 year old’s standards. Fern sat next to me. But she didn’t sit on a stool. Fern was in a high-chair. She looked like a plant that outgrew its pot. I studied her briefly, not trying to stare too long because she scared me. She was always staring at me for long periods of time without so much as blinking an eye. If you’ve seen the Exorcist, try to recall how terrifying it was to see the possessed child stare into the camera right at you. Same feeling when Fern would stare at me. But today, I got a good look at her.
Fern was huge. Not fat huge, but huge like a 12 year old boy wearing a wig huge. Her strong body was like a tree; solid as an Oak. On her upper lip, there was a distinct shadow created by a thin layer of black hair. Occasionally she had some green snot build-up in one or both nostrils. Her hair was thin, like my grandfather’s. Fern was a sight, and I say this not to poke fun, only to paint a proper picture.
Every Monday, I only got one cookie. I took a bite, Fern watched and followed suit. Fern’s plate had only a half of a cookie. By the time I was through, my stomach was rumbling. I was still hungry.
Me - Can I have a cookie?
Mrs. Bright - Only one cookie or you’ll spoil your dinner.
(disappointed, I looked over at Fern)
Me - Why does Fern only get half?
Mrs. Bright - Because Fern can’t have a lot sugar.
Me - Why?
Mrs. Bright - Well, because she’s special.
That seemed like a load of shit. If someone’s special, they get more, no? The phone rang in the other room.
Mrs. Bright - You two behave.
(off she went to answer the phone)
The pile of steaming hot cookies was sitting in front of us. I was 6 and at 6, you start testing people and things, seeing what limits you have. I reached over to grab a cookie. Fern made a face. It was the first expression I’d ever seen from Fern. Her lips curled into a circle, as if she was going to say “Uh Oh!” I was wearing overalls at the time and stuffed 3 in my pocket. Using my little arms, I swung myself down to the floor, landing on both feet and scampered to the TV room.
The TV room was stockpiled with toys, but not the nice kind. It reminded me of a toy station you’d find at a doctor’s office. Headless barbies & dirty legos. Too many toys that had no relation to each other. I hid inside the playhouse to enjoy my treasures. Each cookie was placed in front of me. Which one do I eat first? I started with the smallest so I could savor the biggest. In walks Fern.
There wasn’t much room in the playhouse to begin with. Fern sat across from me, cradling 7 cookies in her arms. She followed my lead by placing the cookies in a line and pretended to choose an order. She was copying me, but she had no idea how or why I was ordering my cookies.
I took a bite. Fern followed. Her bites were much larger, so by the time I was done, so was Fern. Fern just ate 7 cinnamon swirl cookies in less than 10 minutes! When she was rounding her 5th, I noticed a change. Fern started making noises.
The noises were strange and unprovoked. She started to giggle as if I told a joke, but I was too scared to even speak. Her laugh was deep like a lumberjack’s. I was truly terrified, frozen in fear. She started speaking to me.
FERN - KOO-KOO-DE-GOO!
I didn’t respond.
FERN - KAKI-MO, KAKI-MO FOR-PEA-SUE!
(pause)
FERN - HA!
Her massive thigh was blocking the exit. I had no choice but to remain still. So still that I was playing dead, hoping the bear would eventually walk away.
There was a small TV in the playhouse with a VHS player. Fern started to clap ecstatically as if I just gave her a good idea. Again, I did nothing to provoke her. She turned around, flipped on the TV and hit play on the VHS. It was an episode of Fraggle Rock, a hit children’s show at the time involving muppet-like creatures who were in constant fear of big, scary ogres; how fitting. Fern clapped and clapped and clapped. And then, Fern did something I wish could forget.
Fern stood up (hitting her head on the plastic ceiling), grabbed a stuffed animal, put it between her legs and started to rub herself furiously, like a carpenter trying to use sandpaper on a stubborn piece of wood.
FERN - HE-HAW… MURRRR. HE-HAW… MURRRR.
She turned to me and looked directly in my eyes, all the while keeping her stuffed animal between her legs..
FERN - HE… HAW… MURRRR!!!
And then darkness. I must have been out cold for a while. When I finally came to, I was laying on my back. Looking up, I could see up Fern’s nostrils. She was starring at the Fraggles.. my head replaced her stuffed animal. I couldn’t move, and trust me, I tried. It felt like an eternity. Trapped, imprisoned and suffocating because of something I didn’t understand. And Fern? She understood less. He. Haw. Murrrr. My head was now the stubborn piece of wood.”
Fraggle Rock had a healthy balance between story & song. When the story unfolded, things went smoothly. But once song & dance started, my face became a mechanical bull that was holding above it’s recommended capacity. Her body weight was all-encompassing; I was paralyzed under it. Her pelvic bone was thrusting continually into my mouth. It was salty and musty; it reminded me of my great nanny’s closest, which had a mothball flavored thickness one could taste by just breathing in.
By the time Mrs. Bright stepped in, I must have blacked out because… well, because I can’t recall Mrs. Bright stepping in! My intention in telling this story was not to make fun of Fern, who is still struggling more than most people. My only intention is to recount in full detail my first semi-sexual encounter. And to remind all of you out there who still don’t understand: when someone can’t have sugar, it’s usually for the best.
Peeping Toms
Your standard suburban neighborhood. I was about twelve and still had my pals living next door and across the street. We had a gang. During the summer, we’d fill the Supersoakers with piss and shoot cars from the bushes. During the winter, our moms would have hot cocoa ready for our sledding adventures in the woods behind the middle school. Every house on the street had kids around our age, but we were the oldest. It was around then that Mrs. Shields became the focus of our masturbation fantasies.
The Shield’s had too many kids. Five boys, two girls and I could imagine more were on the way. I used to think back when we learned about condoms that maybe the Shield’s didn’t know about them. Mr. Shields was a good dude. Chief of our town’s fire department, strong as an ox, liked lawn darts and he seemed to love his family. Mrs. Shields couldn’t have been any more typical as a the next-door-neighbor mom at first glance. She dressed conservative, was constantly baking and was a stay-at-home mother.
Sometimes when you’re very young, you can’t see things as they actually are. Take the female anatomy. Until you’re sexually capable, girls are strange, weird, smelly, stinky, different. Once the Johnson starts spitting the sticky stuff, women blossom right in front of our eyes. There we were, three 12 year olds finishing a spy fort that bordered the Shield’s back lawn, when all of the sudden Jason spoke up. “I think I can see the Shields’ bedroom from here.”
He was right. Even with the distance, Kevin, Jason and I could see the inside of the master bedroom. It was then that the stash of Pine Cone bombs and Nerf weapons were replaced by electronic binoculars, a telescope and one of those Mattel sound machines that claimed to pick up noises from far away (which is total bulllshit, that thing never worked). Needless to say, our idea of fortress changed quite rapidly that summer. We initially conceptualized the fort as a place to hide some toys and gather evidence on surrounding kids and their whereabouts in the case of a town-wide Manhunt competition (it was always good to keep a close eye on the tricky ones who plan their hiding places a month in advance). Now it was wall-to-wall with smut. There wasn’t a corner of that fort that didn’t pay homage to the porn industry of the time. Back then, which really wasn’t all that long ago, shaved beavers were uncommon and the typical porn star still had a perm. Anyway, back to the bedroom…
Over the course of our first week as peepers, we gathered the following evidence:
Sunday - nothing. Monday - a kiss goodnight. Tuesday - nothing. Wednesday - an argument. Thursday - reading books. Friday - nothing. Saturday - nothing. Sunday - reading books, kiss on the cheek. I remember thinking ‘when the fuck did these people do it?’ I mean, it was just a week, but come on! They’ve got 6 kids, all within a year of each other. It must be a bad week we thought, so we took a breather and started fresh the following night.
On our way up to Smutville (the name of our fort), the Shields kids were waiting at the base of the ladder. “We wanna come up.” “It’s for big kids only,” we explained, “So fuck off.” God they were so weird looking. Some were good looking, some were ugly as sin, nobody looked related. If you’ve seen the movie ‘Cheaper by the Dozen’ with Steve Martin, the Shields kids remind me (in retrospect) of those kids. The movie kids looked like a group of misfit orphans living with foster parents. This was the Shields, a group of misfit children who were constantly bothering my gang. “Whatcha doing up there?” Asked the eldest one. “Research,” was our answer, but I wanted to say, “Spying on your parents and seeing the process of creation first hand because the magazines were only 2 dimensional.”
The next week turned into two, and then two turned into a month. Eventually we got tired because we never saw the Shields doing it so we gave up. It was now about August when we started using the fort as just a hangout rather than a spy tower. We managed to get a TV and mini fridge that we ran the electrical through an outlet in the Shield’s patio. They didn’t mind, or at least they never said anything about it, so it was all good. Until one night, the power blew out.
We didn’t know if it was our fault, but our appliances were off and from the looks of their house, the lights were out as well. I used the binoculars to scope the house for a pissed off Mr. Shields fed up with our thievery but could only see Mrs. Shields in the kitchen on the phone. Before she made her way back upstairs, she either unlocked or locked the backdoor. About a half hour into our surveillance, a dumpy truck pulled into their driveway and an Asian man stepped out.
Initially he was dressed like your average, casual dude. But he decided to change his clothes in the driveway. Stripping down to his birthday suit, the Asian man put on what appeared to a workman’s attire. We put two and two together and guessed he was the electrician, but why did he wait to change at the job site and why wasn’t his truck adorned with the proper decals? Without hesitation, our Asian friend made his way to the backdoor, which was purposefully unlocked by Mrs. Shields. He disappeared into the dark house and for a while, there was nothing to be seen.
All at once, the lights were on and there he was, the strange Asian electrician in the Shield’s master bedroom, having Mrs. Shield’s fill out paperwork… in her robe. They were awkwardly close. “This can’t be happening,” was the last thing any of us said to each other before the Asian man aggressively reached under Mrs. Shield’s robe. Yes… this was truly happening. Mrs. Shield’s was going to bang her Asian electrician. All of those months of waiting for this one moment. We were mesmerized by the sight of it. None of us had ever seen two people have sex in real life; we weren’t picky. So what if it’s not Mr. Shields, the Asian was doing just fine. But where was Mr. Shields? His truck was in the driveway right next to the dumpy van. Enter Mr. Shields from the closet in the bedroom. “My god, are you seeing this?” Kevin asked. Yes, we were seeing it and in awe that shit like this really happens.
Mr. Shields was completely naked, using one hand to please himself while holding a camcorder with the other. At one point, he stopped everything and directed the Asian man to switch sides. It was then he leaned over and expelled a load on his wife. Shortly thereafter, he cleaned up and handed the Asian man a wade of cash, walked him outside and locked the backdoor.
It was questionable whether or not he was an electrician. What was a fact, however, was that he was hired help. A man purchased by a husband for both him and his wife. Mr. Shields was a voyeur and Mrs. Shields was an adulterer. The all American couple had a secret that my gang shared in. No wonder their kids were a confused, mixed breed of mongrels. They came from the loins of an electrician… at least that night. Who knows what costumed workman has tickled their fancy in the past.
Olga’s Potato
It was deer season again and I knew this from the taste of shit in my mouth. “They are Raisinettes,” he said. “Are you sure uncle Chris?” I asked. It must have been a funny sight for two 30 year olds to see a confused child eat deer shit, thinking that someone spilled movie candies in the Catskill mountains of New York.
As a kid, I was taken upstate NY when my father and uncle Chris went hunting. During those early years, I learned lessons that were not only misleading, but most likely damaging to my overall development. For instance, I was told never to travel alone in the forest because Lester, an old black man with three wienies, was waiting for little children. Luckily we were in a group when I heard out about Lester… and leading that group was good ol’ Art.
Art was the world’s oldest hick who lived near our hunting lodge. He knew the woods well and according to uncle Chris, Art had been alive since the Civil War along his wife, Olga. I had yet to meet Olga, but on our way back from hunting, we stopped by Art’s home for some homemade lemonade.
Art’s house was a time machine; something built at the turn of the 20th century… and so was Olga. Imagine an older Barbara Bush with thicker ankles. “Go give Olga a kiss,” my uncle Chris whispered. To a 6 year old, Olga was a monster. “I don’t want to,” I protested as I held onto my father’s leg. “It’s not an option,” said my dad as he shook me off.
Walking towards the First Lady, I began to smell something unique. The closer I came to Olga, the stronger the scent. As she reached down and kissed my cheek, I tried to focus on the lemonade I was about to get, but was so obsessed with this unique scent that I immediately asked what it was aloud. Luckily Olga and Art were deaf, but I was shushed nonetheless.
“What was that smell?” I asked again once we left. “That Ryan,” uncle Chris said, “Was Olga’s potato.” “Like a potato you eat?” I asked. “Well, sometimes, but this kind of potato grows between a woman’s legs.” At 6, you’ve got no clue what’s going on between a woman’s legs. Insert a mature role-model in this situation and you set a child on a straight path to a realistic, sexual discovery. In my case, insert Uncle Chris and that same child has nightmares of old women with sexual organs resembling garden vegetables.
That night, I dreamt about a woman buttering a baked potato that was growing between her legs, but it wasn’t until 19 years later that it made sense. It was Thanksgiving dinner. I cut my potato, pushed the insides up a bit and before buttering it, I turned it vertically and smiled as I realized my uncle Chris is a visual genius.
There’s Something About Kristy
It was the summer of 2001. I had just graduated from Ocean Township High School and after enjoying a solid month of laying on the beach during the day and drinking at night I found myself ready to start a new chapter of my life… college. With some help from my guidance counselor, and some light research, I decided to go to West Virginia University in Morgantown, WV. Being that it’s a southern school, the first semester started somewhat early, with classes beginning in early August. However, I first had to make the 6 ½ hour ride in the first week of June for orientation. As we all know, and as cool as we all try to be, it’s a pretty nerve-racking experience. I took the ride with my soon-to-be roommate, who was also from Ocean Township, and our mothers. We drove down on a Friday night for orientation, which was on Saturday morning. We got a hotel room for two nights and planned to come back home early Sunday morning. Little did I know that the next 24 hours would unfold to be the most incredible experience of my life.
We safely arrived in Morgantown on Friday night. We didn’t get in town until early Saturday morning so decided to grab a bite to eat at a local Sheetz (similar to a WaWa up here) and called it a night. We had to wake up early for orientation in the morning and to be honest I was totally exhausted.
In the morning we met at the coliseum (where the basketball team plays) and signed up for classes, which was a total cluster-fuck but we got through it. In total, this lasted a good portion of the morning and went into the early afternoon. The next item on the orientation itinerary took place on the other side of the campus at the student center deemed the “Mountainlair” (for those of you who don’t know, the WVU mascot is the Mountaineer). This part of the orientation consisted of a speech by the University President followed by a buffet style lunch.
Being that I didn’t know anyone at the orientation other than my roommate and our mothers, we obviously sat together at a table during the lunch session. My mother was pressuring me to introduce myself to some new people and “make friends” but I really didn’t want to have anything to do with it. On the left side of me, I found myself sitting down next to a girl in a wheelchair. At first I didn’t think anything of it, but the more I looked at her, I was astonished by her beauty. She had blonde hair down to her shoulders, striking blue eyes and a beautiful smile. I was quite surprised that I found myself so attracted to a blonde woman, because anyone that knows me knows that I am all about dark haired women. I felt bad for her, because I could tell that her wheelchair was not a temporary fix. It was old and after studying her legs (when she was not looking of course) I didn’t see any movement at all which led me to believe she was a paraplegic.
On my right side, my mother whispered in my ear “talk to her” and I knew that was the right thing to do considering I didn’t see her with any family or friends. Being the full blooded Italian I am, the first thing that came to my mind as an ice breaker was food. So I caught her eye and made a cheap comment about the lasagna that they were serving. She looked at me and smiled and we started to chat. Her name was Kristy. I found out that the reason she was not with family is because she was actually from the town of Morgantown. Born and raised. She grew up going to WVU football games as she lives only 5 short minutes from campus. Her personality was just as good if not better than her looks. She asked me a lot about myself and why I decided to go to WVU. I explained to her that I wanted to get away from home and really wanted to enjoy a big college city like Morgantown. The two of us really hit it off. I would be lying to you if I told you that I wasn’t thinking about her in that wheelchair the whole time, but I think that’s just normal; I can’t fault myself for that.
Kristy and I really hit it off. I told her that I felt like I knew her for years and she laughed and agreed with her cute little southern accent. Kristy explained to me that she has a lot of friends from the area that are also going to WVU in August. I thought this was great. She was my first friend here and at the appropriate time she could introduce me to all of her friends. I introduced her to my roommate and when she was not looking he gave me a “go for it” smirk. Quite frankly, I had absolutely no intentions of having any kind of relations with this girl other than a friendship. And even that was very premature as I had only known her for 25 minutes.
Things started to get a little out of control from this point forward. Kristy asked me if I had any plans for the night. Being that it was Saturday, I told her that my roommate and I were planning on going out but really didn’t know if anything was going on. At that moment her face turned a shade of pink and I could tell that she was embarrassed/nervous about something. She then said “I am going to ask you something, but you have to Promise me that if you don’t want to you will say no, OK?” I thought to myself, “What the fuck?” I was very curious to see what she was going to ask but at the same time I was a nervous wreck. “Of course” I said. And then she asked, “Tonight is my Morgantown High Senior Prom. My boyfriend broke up with me two weeks ago and I don’t have a date. I wasn’t going to go, but I really want to. Would you want to go with me?” At that time, a million things went through my head. Going to a Prom where I don’t know anyone with a girl in a wheelchair?! I didn’t even have a tuxedo! Absolutely not! I didn’t know what to say to her. I could tell how nervous she was and the balls it must have taken to ask me that. On top of that, my mother heard her ask me and discretely began to nudge me. The first thing that came to my mind was my outfit. She told me that we weren’t going to take pictures or anything. We were going to go right to the Prom to eat, hang out and leave and that slacks and a shirt, which I had on at the time, were more than appropriate. My mother butted into the conversation and even offered me her car to pick her up in. That was it. I had no out. I told her I would be happy to take to the Prom.
The look on her face was worth it. I figured I would be doing a good deed, and on top of that, she really was a great person to be around. I was actually excited. She gave me her address, which was conveniently located 3 miles from our hotel. She told me to pick her up at 6:30 pm as the Prom started between 6:45 and 7:00. I gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her I would see her soon. I then finished out the rest of the orientation still not really comprehending what just went down. I even started texting my friends back home to let them know what just happened. None of them believed me of course. I can’t blame them.
We got back to the hotel room at 5ish and I showered and changed. I couldn’t even back out because I didn’t even have her phone number. It was go time. I took my mom’s keys, gave her a hug, and listened to her tell me what a “good boy” I was. Luckily she had a GPS system in her car so I plugged in the address and took off. I was now alone and it hit me that I was really doing this.
I found her house with no problem. When I pulled up, I found a man outside watering the flowers, which I soon learned was her father. I parked behind a van in the driveway and he greeted me. “I am Mr. Lily, Kristy’s daddy. Kristy told me a lot about you.” I thought to myself, “A lot about me? I only talked to her for 30 minutes!” He then said something that I never in a million years expected to hear. “Kristy is inside getting dressed. In the meantime, let me show you how to operate the handicap van.” Handicap van??? Part of me wanted to get right back in my car and get the fuck out of there. It took everything in my power not to do just that. But the more I thought about it, I guess I was an idiot for not realizing that I could not put a girl in a wheelchair in the front seat of my mothers SUV. I then found myself in the drivers seat of a handicap Ford Econoline. Mr. Lily was showing me how to operate the hydraulic lift, which is the device that lifts the wheelchair from the ground up to the front seat. This was obviously the most important thing he taught me. I learned more in my 3 minute handicap van crash course than I learned all through high school. From the proper hand signals in case the blinkers don’t work to the distance you have to stop before the stop signs. Soup to nuts.
Kristy soon came out and looked absolutely gorgeous. She really was beautiful. I smiled at her and gave her a kiss and from that point forward I felt totally comfortable with her. She thanked me a million times for coming and I told her it was my pleasure. Her mom came out and introduced herself and snapped a couple of photos of the two of us. Mr. Lily shook my hand and told me to have fun and take care of her for him. They seemed like great people. For a second, I actually forgot she was in a wheelchair. But this thought was short-lived because two minutes later, I placed her in the hydraulic lift, jumped into the front seat, hoisted her up and strapped her down. As sick as it sounds, she looked very similar to Steve Buscemi in “Con Air” minus the face mask of course. My paraplegic friend Kristy and I were now on our way to the Morgantown High School Class of 2001 Senior Prom.
As I started to drive, I reached out with my right hand and grabbed hers. I wanted to make her feel as comfortable as possible. The Prom was at a local Armory (hillbilly shit) and it was only about 15 minutes from her home. When we pulled in, the place was packed as we were a little late. I then realized that I had the benefit of pulling right up front and parking in one of the handicap spaces. I parked the van, used the hydraulics to put her down, got out, unstrapped her and wheeled her into the front doors of the Armory.
From the minute I entered the building, I noticed a lot of people staring at me. Quite frankly, I couldn’t blame them. I would have been starting at me too. I wasn’t sure if Kristy was very introverted or not, but I soon noticed that she was not talking to anyone, nor introducing me to anyone. I am not sure if she was picked on a lot during her school years because of her disability, but there was definitely something odd about how her colleagues were ignoring her. I was dying for a drink, but obviously no liquor was served. I did, however, notice that everyone seemed as if they were drinking beforehand which made me very jealous. My Prom was only 3 1/2 weeks prior to this and I got the chance to get a little tuned up before just to take the edge off. I found out that she did in fact have some friends that we ended up sitting at a table with. They were all girls, which I didn’t mind, and 3 out of 4 of them were also going to WVU in August. Overall, if there was one positive thing that came out of this night (other than making Kristy happy) it was the networking.
Dinner was mediocre at best and then came the awkward part of the night…..the dancing. I obviously could not dance with Kristy and I was not about to dance without her. So the two of us stayed at the table and chatted it up. Talking about everything and anything. I was rubbing the inside of her leg (not in a sexual way) and I could tell that she was really enjoying my company as I was enjoying hers. However, she constantly apologized for asking me to come with her because she really thought I was having a bad time. I convinced her that I was having a great time and I think I threw in a cheap comment along the lines of “Anything I do with you is a good time.” She smiled and I gave her a kiss and this time it was not on the cheek.
We decided to leave the Prom a little early at around 10ish. I actually had a good time and was glad I went. Nobody should miss their senior Prom and I was happy that I could be a “filler” for the night. When we got back in the van we made out a little bit and we then took off. Halfway to her house she asked me if I wanted to go to the Morgantown City Park which was adjacent to the practice football field. I thought for a second, “hmmmmm.” The park? I was more interested than anything so I said yes. So the two of us went. I started to get a little nervous. My hands were clammy and I really didn’t know what I was in store for. I parked the car. We got out and I wheeled Kristy through the open field. As I was wheeling her she quickly said “Here is good” and instructed me to stop right next to a giant oak tree. I would soon learn why we stopped at this specific location.
Because the night was going so well, I leaned over and started to kiss Kristy. Believe it or not, we had great chemistry and everything just felt right. The only problem was that my back began to hurt a bit from leaning over for 10 minutes during our make out session. I was making out with a beautiful girl and was obviously aroused. Kristy caught a glimpse of that and began rubbing me in that area (over the pants) and I began to think that this could possibly go farther than first base. Shortly thereafter, I found myself on third base with my hands down her pants. She was definitely enjoying it, which was evident by her discreet moaning and sexual upper-body movements. I thought to myself, “This is great.” Again, my back was absolutely killing me. Just try to imagine the position I was in for a solid 20 minutes. It was NOT comfortable. At that single moment, everything changed. Kristy stopped kissing me and in a moment of passion said “I want you right now.” Anyone that has been with a girl that says this knows: you don’t ask questions, you just do what she wants and that is obviously what you want too. But this situation was very unique. She was in a wheelchair and I had absolutely no idea how to accomplish what we both wanted. So what did I do? I asked her, “How are we supposed to do this? I have never done this before.” She didn’t hesitate for 2 seconds and quickly replied, “Go back to the van. In the back seat there is some rope. Go get it and I will show you.”
I almost fainted when she said this. Did I hear her correctly? Rope? What was I supposed to say? No? So like any self-respecting man, I made my way to the van to find the rope she was talking about. I began slapping myself in the face, asking myself if this was really happening. I got to the van and there was no rope. I searched high and low. Good thing that I had a condom in my wallet, which was in the drink holder in the center console of the vehicle. So I obviously grabbed that. After almost giving up on the rope, I looked in the emergency compartment of the trunk and found jumper cables. Jumper cables can do anything that rope can do so in a last ditch effort I grabbed them. I jogged down to where she was next to the tree and told her that I was unsuccessful in my search for rope and held up the jumper cables and said “But I found these. Will these work?” She laughed in a cute way and then said something that to this day I will never forget. Something that I never thought I would hear in my lifetime and I am sure that nobody else has ever heard. “Haha… Yes, I guess. I want you to tie me to this tree (as she pointed) with the jumper cables and fuck that way.” I then thought, “I am going to hell if I do this.” But my hard penis did all of the thinking for me. If that was the way she wanted it, that is the way I am going to give it to her.
I took her pants off, lifted her out of the wheelchair and gently placed the jumper cables around her chest. I clamped them together at the back of the tree and placed her in a position where she was elevated off of the ground with her feet “dangling” in mid air. I then put the condom on and went in for the kill The first 2 minutes or so were very uncomfortable but is was very obvious that she was thoroughly enjoying it. This made the situation a lot easier for me. The whole time I thought, “I am fucking a girl that I just tied to a tree. Is this illegal?” But it wasn’t. She wanted it, so I gave it to her. After 10 minutes or so I finished. I took her down and we both smiled and kissed like what we just did was totally normal. I lifted her back in the van and took her home. Her father was waiting for us outside and thanked me for making his daughter’s night. Little did he know that I didn’t make her night… she made mine… by giving me a story that I could tell for the rest of my life. And here I am now, sharing it with all of you.
That was the last time I ever saw Kristy. In four years, I did not see her on campus. Not even once. Not even any of her friends that I met at her Prom. It was almost like it never happened. Like she wasn’t real. But it was real and nobody can ever take away what we had that one summer night… under the stars… tied to a tree.
Snow Armageddon
OK, so.. everyday at around 4 o’clock, I go to Genuardi’s to get a salad and a Starbucks Chai Tea Latte. None of that syrupy crap; real tea people! Usually no one is there. I am in and out in 10 minutes tops. Not today. Today is different. Today, the lines go for miles. Impatiently standing in the self-checkout line, I begin to notice a pattern. It seems all the Genuardi shoppers are purchasing the same items! All are carrying at least 3 of the following: canned foods, bread, milk, eggs, salt, winter gloves, snow shovels. I eavesdrop on the conversation to my left. “Gonna be some storm ehh Mitch?” Now I’m angry. What the fuck is wrong with these people? Has it NEVER snowed in your lifetime Mitch? Is the snow perhaps, different this time around? And what happened to the shovel you had last year, Mitch? Fuck, what happened to the shovel you had for December’s storm? Was the snow too much for it? Or were you sitting at home, so bored with masturbation you thought, “I think I need a new snow shovel!” Canned Goods!!?? Expecting a nuclear snow strike, Mitch? Has the Taliban figured out a way to transform snow for biochemical warfare? Mitch… you do know that winter gloves are reusable, right? They are not condoms. These questions and more fill my head as I wait, and wait, and wait. “Ohhff, I forgot to get ice and matches!” To Mitch and the rest of the Snow Armageddoners: Truly, fuck yourselves.
I think I met a Serial Killer
When I lived in Boston, I think I met a serial killer. It was around 1:30 in the afternoon. A few of us were hungry and went across the street to the grocery store. I wanted a coffee and luckily there was a Dunkin Donuts in the supermarket.
Usually the line was long because Dunkin’s staff didn’t give a shit. Today was no exception. I waited patiently in line, but started to feel restless when the smell of rotten flesh came over me. Following the stench was a hot wind that keep hitting the back of my neck and a wheezing noise. He was breathing on my neck, whoever he was. And it smelt like dead skunk.
I turned. Standing at only 5’8”, my line of sight when straight into his chest. I let my gaze go upwards until we met eyes. Visually, he was a cross between John Wayne Gacey and Ed Gein, only larger and publicly sporting his latest kill on a blood-stained undershirt.
There we were, staring into each other’s eyes. I couldn’t get the words out, but I wanted to know more about him: family, history of mental illness, aliases, signature trademark. Instead, I pretended to be on a phone call while snapping photos of the Boston Creme Butcher: a serial killer who eats roadkill and follows it up with a coffee & donut.
This Sucks
EEHH!! EEHH!! EEHH!! EEHH!! EEHH!! I open my eyes. I’m still exhausted and my mouth feels like a furnace do to lack of brushing from the night before. I feel gross. My muscles are sore, and I’m groggy. I reach over to shut off that annoying buzzing and return back to my sleeping position. I begin to relax.
As I close my eyes, the next thing I know I’m listening to Michael Bolton mixed with screeching static and a rather annoying buzzing on volume 10. My second alarm successfully did it’s job. I was now awake. Unfortunately, it’s my emergency alarm, which is set for 5:20 am. I now have about 10 minutes to get out of bed, get dressed and get across the street to catch my train to work.
I race around my room, running in circles looking for something to wear. I pull a wrinkled polo shirt out of my closet and a pair of jeans off my floor. I put on my clothes then go and dig through change on my night stand. I need $2.25 for coffee and a newspaper. “Damn” I say to myself as I’m counting up nickels and dimes. I glance over at the clock, “SHIT!” I think to myself as I see the time. 5:39am. 3 minutes before my train comes. No time to do my hair, brush my teeth or wash my face. Only 3 minutes to leave my apartment, run across the street, buy my coffee and paper at the newsstand and bored the train.
I grab a hat and sprint to the bathroom to urinate. As I’m peeing, I reach over and grab the mouthwash. I take a mouthful, squirt out the remaining piss and begin to gargle as I flush the toilet and sprint out of the bathroom. Off I go.
I race across the street and head towards the newsstand to retrieve my coffee and newspaper. While approaching, I see a well dressed man in an expensive suit. He’s carrying a briefcase and moving quickly towards my destination. He gives me a competitive glance as he begins to pick up his pace. We were now officially racing. We both reach the counter at the same time, and before I can say what I need the businessman shouts out, “Iced Hazelnut coffee and a buttered bagel.”
“This fucking guy” I’m thinking as I look at my watch to see that it is 5:42am and that the train would be arriving any minute. I begin to get pissed and think, “Why does this guy have to order something so complicated? He can‘t just get a coffee? He needs an Iced HAZELNUT coffee?”
BUUURR!! DING! DING! DING! I hear the train approaching. Before the newsstand worker could even say “Can I help you?” I blurt out, “Post and a large.” “Post and a large” the large man behind the counter repeats like some kind of parrot. He then looks up at me, like he has everyday for the last five months, gives me a look like he’s just smelled a wicked fart and says “2.25.” I hand him my 10 pounds of change and head towards the side of the stand to fill my cup with coffee. In the corner of my eye I see the train moving toward the platform. I get my coffee all ready and proceed towards the platform. I reach the yellow line as the train stops and the doors open. “HOBOKEN TRAIN, HOBOKEN” the conductor shouts as he steps off the train and onto the platform. I breathe a sigh of relief as I step onto the train. I made it.
If My Grammar School Bullies Were SuperVillains
The Life of Banzabar
Banzabar lived in a barn just outside San Jose, California. His only food source was a hefty trash bag found in the center of his barn. Bonaserra is the rancher who comes and delivers the trash for it to mold and rot on a weekly basis. The garbage man only comes around every month or so. Sometimes they forget about the place but definitely make the trip to come out.
As night fell, Banzabar stirred from a dream and with anxiety hitting an all time high, he immediately stepped outside in the moonlight for some fresh air. With thoughts banging away at the dozens, all he could think about was spaghetti and honey. He looked over at the trash, which nestled close by and kept him warm at nights when it oozed some green and orange goo that smelled like molded cheese. Banzabar knew it was time for a change and decided to move away from the God forsaken place.
So early the next morning he set out on the dirt road looking for paradise. As he strolled along, his confidence was pouring stronger and stronger with each and every stride. But just when he thought it was all going to work out, a sudden churning sensation started to occur in the belly. It was diahrea, an illness that plagues us all. Finding a pleasant tree and its roots to spray the mess on, he turned his head so he could watch the show, which kindly reminded him of a sprinkler head and its purpose. Immediately wagging the drips from his beaten butthole, he continued to press on.
The further he got away from the barn, he began to miss certain luxuries. One in particular was the mashed bananas topped with gravy in a bowl that Bonaserra would prepare for him every other night. It was a real treat, but what a beating it did on Banzabar’s butthole. Then, after only a couple more hours of strolling, he found paradise. It was a barn very similar to the one he lived in before. Without hesitation, he walked right in.
There he met Bejiamarakahar Raheem, a stunning female veterinarian with terrible breath and sweaty armpits. She had a heart the size of an elephant and a team of pets of her own. There was a miniature horse who was the size of a mouse that spoke Japanese. There was a miniature human as well named Joel who had a relationship with a guinea pig. The relationship as the rumors go is said to be simply sexual but they keep it under wraps so no one really cares.
As for Banzabar, he’s found a lassie dog named Beemer who was born a hermaphrodite but got his pickle wrapped around a barbed wire fence while attempting to leap over it. So the sex life for Banzabar couldn’t have been better and you wouldn’t have guessed it but he and the others lived together happily ever after.
The End.
Jack the Ant
He was like no other ant in the insect kingdom. Jack weighed in at 300lbs 5 oz, had a mouth the size of a giant honeydew and eyes that mimicked the shape of a fat cumulus cloud. Unlike other ants he was an independent that feed on Krispy Kreme donuts. Jack spent his leisure time jumping rope and burying acorns over at the Mayor’s house. The Mayor hated the idea but as long as the Mayor wasn’t around, Jack thought to himself, “What momma don’t know, won’t hurt her.”
All the ants in town—- and soon enough around the globe—- respected Jack for all he was and the principles he stood for. The ants were waiting for evolution to kick in and boy did they get it with Jack. They told Jack, “Hey, is there anything we could do for you?” Now they knew Jack had a weakness. That whenever someone or something would approach Jack with a question, he would immediately go blind for 2 full days and couldn’t speak Ant language.”
But lucky enough, Jack was very versatile. Over 4 human months he had been alive, a group of seagulls imported frozen from Morocco were defrosted and taught Jack ‘Crow Meditation’. Crow Meditation gave Jack the ability to speak his thoughts to other ants as long as he was swimming in grape juice, which helped when we was blind and speechless.
Jack’s one wish was to have a sundial built for flamingos. Leaving all other ants confused, they asked, “But Jack, why do you care about the flamingos so much? What have they done for us?” Jack enthusiastically responded through his thoughts, “Well, I like the color of their feathers and it always makes me wanna dance in the rain when I see one.” They said, “Ok Jack, you got it.” So they built the sundial. Flamingos from all over—- from the zoos of Kentucky to the wild jungles of Nigeria—- came. One problem did arise. From that day forward, it never rained again. The world as we knew it was literally decaying.
The ants decided to declare war on the flamingos. They threatened them and wouldn’t stop unless they handed over the sundial. That didn’t budge the flamingos, who were a stubborn breed. As both species lined up on enemy lines, Jack speed in between both. Looking up at the sky and holding what looked to be a small feathered animal, Jack yelled: “I am going to eat this pigeon, you have left me no choice!”
Both the ants and the flamingos went numb. They knew that according to the insect bible, one should never eat a pigeon in the line of battle. The ants and flamingos were reluctant to believe and charged each other. Before they could actually do battle, Jack gulped the helpless pigeon down his throat… and it was too late. The flamingos and ants froze. The sundial burst into a thousand pieces, striking a gravitational pull from the sun and moon that brought dirt to rise to levels of 10 feet above the earth’s surface. As soon the mist of dirt cleared, all the flamingos turned into porcelain toilets and the ants became popcorn. It then started to rain.
The rain brought tears to Jack’s eyes and he felt guilty, but got over it when the Mayor convinced him that did the right thing. The Mayor explained there was a great demand for toilets and popcorn in southern parts of Russia and the island of Sri Lanka. Jack became proud and strong after what he had done… and it didn’t stop there. Jack was then appointed as a key contributor to the Peace Corps. After 8 long months of hard work, which in Ant time is 1053 years, Jack now resides near a delta in Louisiana where he grows corn and flirts with sheep.
End
In the Mind of Spencer
Spencer: I’m building a ship. A ship made out of aluminum foil. The best foil you’ll ever find in the jungle of Chile. All walks of life will be aboard the launch of this ship. Mexican, Russian, Jamaican, even Taiwanese will be on this ship. I plan on taking it out in the Pacific Ocean. And let me tell you, this ship is gonna be fast! I got 7 rockets all equipped on the outside of the ship to give me some boost. I bought some bamboo just in case I need to fight off any demons that try to sink us when we’re out there. I brought some plants to give us oxygen. Being that rocket fuel is expensive, I’m using paper. We get the paper for free from the Panda Bears. They’re nice people. (Pandering thoughts: I wonder if Christopher Columbus would have needed me back when he crossed the Sahara Desert in 1402. I would have been good, real good man). So that’s the plan. I hope to procreate the whole human race on this trip.
Pet snake: So how big is this ship?
Spencer: About 2 feet.
Pet snake: 2 feet?! Wait, so how do you plan to fit us all in 2 foot boat Spencer?
Spencer: Ah ha, I knew you’d ask that. I’m already 2 steps ahead of ya. You see, I plan on shrinking us like from that movie, Honey, I Shrunk The Kids.
Pollock’s Ghost
It appears that growing up is directly responsible for the loss of magic & wonder in my life. The possibility of ghosts, however, still excites me. When someone mentions a haunting, I light up like a child. This was the case my junior year of college. It was around Halloween and my friend Brian Pollock said all the right things: haunted cemetery, five minutes from his house and an uncle who could get us permission to investigate the area. We packed up for a weekend, invited a couple of friends and headed upstate to Troy, New York where a weekend intended for investigation ended in a staged haunting at the expense of Brian Pollock’s sanity.
“My uncle is the town supervisor and can get us in” was what he sold me on. Pinewoods Cemetery, which is also know as Forest Park Cemetery, is ranked within the top most haunted cemeteries in the country. Since who-knows-when, the cemetery was closed off because of intense foot-traffic that came from being nationally ranked as a hot-spot for paranormal activity. Ghost hunters and spiritualists from around the world were coming to Troy in hopes of capturing a bit of life’s magic, but the hooligans who were breaking gravestones ruined it for everyone. So Pinewoods was closed off with your stereotypical ‘No Trespassing’ signs and a diligent police-force combing the perimeter.
It took us two and a half hours to get from the Fordham section of the Bronx (where we went to school) to Troy. Dave Repking and his girlfriend Jill accompanied us on our adventure. For Pollock and I, this was old hat. We’d spent our first year of knowing each other swapping ghost stories and sneaking into Fordham’s underground tunnel system, not to mention exposing an on-campus haunting that our university swept under the rug. Upon pulling up to Pollock’s house, I couldn’t help but notice how eerie it was. The barn alongside the house looked ancient and the house itself could have passed as haunted from a distance. “Is it possible your house is haunted?” I asked Brian. “Yes. We’ve always thought that.”
Our plan: Stay in the first night to talk about Pinewood’s legendary hauntings, show up Saturday morning to feel-out the situation and call Pollock’s uncle Saturday night to get permission to conduct our investigation. I don’t remember a single story about Pinewood’s Cemetery told that first night because everything fell through. That Saturday morning, we made our way to the cemetery to scope it out. After a preliminary lap around the perimeter, we submerged into the depths of Pinewood Cemetery… when someone began walking towards us.
Initially we thought it was a cop, but as he approached, it became quite apparent he was a Satanist. “Hey guys… I guess we’re early for the rally.” He made the 10 mile walk to write satanic rap lyrics, give himself a tattoo and be early for the annual pagan gathering. That was it for Pollock. Taking our safety into consideration, along with a strong fear of a satanist gathering that could lead to human sacrifice, the expedition was called off. Pollock was no longer calling his uncle nor were we ever coming back to Pinewoods Cemetery. Instead, we settled for a haunted hayride followed by night two of wine and poker.
I wanted to see the Satan Rally; more importantly, I wanted to see a ghost with Pollock. It’s why I ghost hunt with friends: In the case I see something, someone is there to validate the sighting as true or just an hallucination. Pollock was being cautious, but I was being a baby. Instead of falling in line, I decided to bust his balls all night, which is one of my not-so-desirable qualities. Brian wasn’t giving in. After a lame haunted hayride and a few bottles of wine, I decided that playing poker was over and wanted to give Pollock the haunting he couldn’t give me. “I’ll be back,” I said as I left the group to stage a haunting that worked out far better than intended.
I’m a Jedi in strange houses. For some reason, I always open the right drawer without needing direction. The Pollock’s junk drawer in their kitchen had fishing wire and a lighter. On the second floor, they had games and toys spread out next to their staircase. There was a Quiji Board and a porcelain doll. I made my way downstairs to a small room that had candles, an area rug and a lamp. I put a candle in my pocket. With some fishing wire, I loosely tied a seemingly invisible line to the base of the lamp and ran it alongside the table, under the rug and had it stick out so I could reach for it without being noticed. With the Quji Board in hand, I made my way back to poker.
The idea went over well. I took Pollock up on his earlier claim that his house could be haunted and he was more than enthusiastic to play Quiji. Dave and Jill followed us into the room where my string was secretly waiting to be pulled. We sat down and what began as a joke turned into something special. You see, Quji never works unless the asshole of the group makes it work. We called on spirits and asked for names. After getting ignored by the wonderful world of ghosts who wait in-line for a face-to-face with Whoopi Goldberg, I decided to intervene. If I pulled it lightly, the lamp was supposed to move just enough to draw everyone’s attention and the string would come untied without being seen. So I pulled. And the lamp began to move. To Pollock’s amazement, his lamp was moving, but to my disappointment, the string remained tied. Before he could get up to see what was actually pulling the lamp, I gave it a tug… and the lamp flew right off the table as if it were thrown.
Luckily the string came untied, but as I was reeling it back, Dave caught on. With a subtle smile, Dave silently agreed to play along. Once the string was completely under the rug, I got up to appear intrigued alongside Dave. The look on Pollock’s face as he turned on the ceiling light to cautiously investigate the lamp was priceless. There was silence as Pollock held the lamp in his seemingly shaky hands. He looked at me to see if I had something to do with this but I shrugged my shoulders. He put the lamp down and asked if I could put the Quji Board back upstairs. His face was a lighter shade of white; he was genuinely frightened.
At the top of the landing, I placed the Quji Board back and took out the porcelain doll. It’s head was heavy and I used this to my advantage. I tied a noose made of fishing wire around its neck and secured the doll in the sitting position on the top step. Then I placed the candle under the fishing wire (which was tied to the railing), lit it with the lighter I found in the junk drawer and made my way back downstairs. My plan was for the string to pop followed by the doll falling headfirst down the stairs long after I left the second floor. I made my way back to scene of the crime where Pollock was still pondering the chances that a lamp could throw itself off a table during a seance. The staircase happened to start in the same room we had occupied and I waited patiently for my doll to make it’s presence known.
I was hoping for a clean slide down the steps. You can’t expect too much with such little preparation time. What I got was far greater than I bargained for. First, there was a single thud. All eyes were drawn to the staircase. After a brief pause, the thud turned into steps. My doll rolled down the stairs in such a way that sounded like footsteps. It reached the end of the line, and on the final step, it slowly tipped over and fell onto the seating position as if it were a slinky. My string wasn’t all that apparent, but to be sure, I was the first one to grab the doll and privately remove the noose. Pollock lost it. He grabbed the doll, ran upstairs, threw it in the pile of toys (where the candle was but somehow blew out before he made his way up) and started packing his stuff. “Everyone pack your shit,” he called from upstairs.
Dave, Jill and I spent the next half hour consoling Brian in the TV room. With his head between his knees, Pollock was starting to say crazy things. “We need to go now; I promise you guys this… I’ll never come back here again.” I thought of keeping this farce alive, but it was apparent that letting him know would save our trip along with Pollock’s sanity. To be honest, I’ve never fooled anyone that well before and I was afraid upon hearing the news, he’d attack me. “It’s bullshit Pollock,” as I pulled out the lighter and fishing wire. His skin immediately flushed back to life and he started laughing. After a quick tour through his haunted house, Pollock was not only relieved but appreciative that I went to such lengths to trick him on his own turf. I believe that the rest of the trip was especially enjoyable for Pollock because there’s nothing like appreciating sanity after believing you’ve lost it.
The Other Side
The prior night to the story I’m about to tell, I was followed home by a couple of punks. I was driving down Monmouth Road in Deal, NJ when I pulled up next to two young men in a Jeep Wrangler. Needless to say, I was dancing like a woman to ‘I Get So Emotional’ unknowingly to their amusement. When I turned my head left, they were laughing at me so I flipped them off. They followed me and in fear of my own safety, I ripped off my shirt, slammed on the brakes, exited my car and stormed their Wrangler. Surprisingly they sped away… as did I just the next day when a man who apparently had rabies almost took my life.
I was on the phone with Tim Stroebel, telling him about how I scared away two punks in varsity jackets by exposing the man-beast. It was back in the day when getting a cellphone ticket while driving was unheard of. I was holding the phone between my shoulder and ear, having a conversation and ordering a chicken sandwich from Burger King simultaneously. By the time I got on Monmouth Road, my conversation with Tim was over and I began to unwrap the sandwich. God it smelt good. This was at the exact intersection where I had taken my shirt off the night before… and like the night before, I slammed on my brakes again… only this time for an unexpected red light.
You know that white line you’re not supposed to cross at an intersection? Well half my car was over that line, making it slightly difficult for the Mustang coming from the intersecting street to get around me. He makes a gesture for me to roll my window down as he creeps by slowly. He did that arm thing people do as if he knew my Cherokee still had manual windows. I was mid bite at this point and figured he wanted to apologize for cutting it so close, so I rolled my window down. “How could they give someone like you a license?” was the question he posed as his copilot, another 30-something year old man, laughed hysterically.
I was over the white line, but this prick was embarrassing me and clearly cut close to my car to make me look stupid in front of his friend. “Oh really?” I asked with a mouth full of a chicken-mayo-bread puree. “Really,” he answered back. The driver was staring me down, enticing me to take action. He was about 25 feet away and his window was open just enough. I decided to take a chance. Grabbing the only good thing about my day, I flung my chicken sandwich at his car. What I didn’t expect was my accuracy, especially considering my mediocrity in baseball as a child. The chicken sandwich missed the exterior of his car and made it inside the half-opened window. I hit this mother fucker directly in his face. My heart stopped as did his car.
It was as if a bomb went off. His face was covered in fried chicken and sauce; I could barely make out his facial features. I remember it becoming a reality for me when I saw the inside of his windshield caked in mayo. “What the fuck” was the last thing I heard before he began his charge. He flung his door open and stepped out, exposing his muscular build and his temporarily disfigured face. I rolled up my window and locked my door as he lunged at my car.
If you’ve seen a zombie movie, they always include a car scene where the innocent, uninfected bystanders barely get the doors locked and windows closed before the attack. His head hit first then his fist. Over and over again he punched my window while he howled like the undead. I started to laugh when I realized I was safe; once the light went green, I gave him the finger and got the fuck out of there.
I made it a few streets down and had to call Tim. It had only been 15 minutes since I bragged about my heroics; now I was hiding in a stranger’s driveway, praying that ol’ Sandwich-Face wouldn’t find me because this time, exposing my chest hair would be useless.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Ellynn
I was still playing with action figures at age 12. Whether this handicap was to blame for girls not liking me or I played with toys because girls didn’t pay attention to me, the fact remains that I was still the only fifth grader decorating his bedroom with rubber wrestling figures. There was one woman, however, who loved me in spite of this shortcoming. Mom, also known as Ellynn, endorsed my slow development by purchasing a new action figure every week to keep me happy. Until one day… Ellynn became more bad-ass than Randy Savage when she violently attacked a man at Toys “R” Us.
I was hanging out with Wes O’Donnell, who is my younger cousin by 5 years. The easiest way for a 7 year old and a 12 year old to connect was through action figures and building forts. We were setting up elaborate backdrops for our X-Men village when a toy commercial came on. “Please mom, please. I promise this will be the last figure I’ll ever want.” Which was followed by, “If you buy it for me, I’ll never put my sister in the Sharpshooter ever again!” Ellynn was kind of a pushover and gave in. Off to Toys “R” Us we went.
We made our way though the aisles. One toy became two and so on. I had half a cart full of special addition Spidermen and Nerf accessories when out of nowhere… Lauren showed up. “Hi Miss Ellynn.” Lauren was a 5 year old who attended my Grandfather’s private school. We all knew her well; she was the bad kid that you couldn’t help but love. Where there was trouble, there was Lauren. But at the end of the day, she was charming and had a way about her that made fans out of foes. “Well hello Lauren, who are you here with?” my mother asked. “My mom and my Stepdad Chuck. Come meet them,” Lauren said as she dragged my mother’s hand. Wes and I tagged along reluctantly.
“This is my mom and this is Chuck.” My mother shook both hands but her eyes were fixated on Chuck. “I think I know you from somewhere,” mom said. Chuck looked like your stereotypical off-duty government employee: Tucked-in long-sleeve shirt of some college football team, crew cut, sunglasses indoors and a phone clip on his belt. “I’m not sure; I don’t think we’ve met,” answered Chuck. Needless to say, they couldn’t figure it out. After a few pointless inquiries into how everybody was doing and an inquisition about Lauren’s academic performance, we turned around, said our goodbyes and headed back to the action figures.
10 minutes had passed and Ellynn was done with my insatiable appetite for action figures. She wanted to leave and forcefully steered the cart from the aisles to the cashiers. I remember looking down each aisle as we passed by. One aisle was completely empty for a moment… until Lauren appeared in the distance. She was running in our direction with a smile and her step-dad Chuck was chasing her. From the look on her face, it was a game of tag. But it was obvious that Chuck wasn’t playing tag. It was like a slow motion scene in an action movie when the innocent person doesn’t see it coming; only the hero sees danger and can’t make it in time. Chuck caught up with Lauren… picked her up… and threw her like a dodgeball into a display of board games, knocking off her shoes as if it was a car crash.
Lauren stood up surprised, hoping it was still a game but before she had the chance, Chuck picked her up again… and threw her across the aisle into the another display. This 40-something year old man tossed this 5 year old like a hammer thrower. I was frozen. Never in my life had I seen domestic abuse, let alone abuse in a public place. That was when Ellynn dropped her purse.
All 100 pounds of my cheerful, innocent, blonde-Greek mother charged towards the situation. She ran as if her high-heels were track shoes. Before Chuck had the chance to reach Lauren for a third time, my mother had arrived. It must have been easy to climb on Chuck’s back because my mom quickly had her legs wrapped around his chest and her hands smacking the shit out of his already reddened face. This man was swatting her as if she was a pesky bat but she wasn’t letting go. Not even 10 minutes ago, my mother was having a civil conversation with this man. Now, she was ripping his face apart like a wild Chimp. It took three security guards and an off-duty cop to remove my mother from this man.
When the dust settled, he sat down confused as he spit blood and wiped his face. Lauren’s mother comforted him as if he was the victim. As my mother explained to the off-duty policeman what had happened, Chuck threw her the infamous “Crazy bitch” line under his breath. This ignited her once again as she lunged towards him like a caged animal, spat directly in his face and swore this wasn’t over.
Shortly after the incident, child services was called and eventually Lauren’s mom left her abusive husband. My mother soon remembered where she knew Chuck and made an appointment at a hotel spa. Chuck was a security guard at the hotel and as she walked in, she recalls that his face went white. A beaten man; divorced, under the radar of law enforcement and beaten up by Teenage Mutant Ninja Ellynn... my most beloved, real-life action hero.
Chairs are not Toilets
Few phrases in the English language have been spoken so poetically. It seems strange to think that one would ever have the need to utter such a slogan aloud. I mean, who would ever confuse the purpose of such items? Odd as it may seem friends, such a time presented itself one early spring morning in April of 2004 in Alumni Hall.
It was Spring Weekend at the University of Connecticut. A weekend typically characterized by drunken adolescent masses doing drunken adolescent activities. Where student accomplishments are quantified not with grades, but hangovers. Usual scenery includes naked coeds playing volleyball, bonfires made from couches, and upside-down burning cars. A place where dreams become Red Bull-vodka induced realities and Poly Sci-105 lab partners become one-night stands. A place where staircases become obstacle courses and non-English speaking math TA’s become beer pong partners. A place where empty kegs become bowling balls and parking lots become discos. Yes, Spring Weekend truly is a place where anything is possible; where even the simplest of desk chairs can become the most elaborate of toilets.
It was early Sunday morning. I had just spent last night combing the campus with a love interest of mine, Sharon. It was a great night and I was in high spirits. We sealed our adventure together with a kiss in the janitor’s closet. Promises were made, but not kept, and she turned out to be a weirdo. Outside, I could see the stars shining over the Nathan Hale Inn. I was balls deep in pillowness, enjoying the comfort of my own bed and dreaming the good dreams of youth and irresponsibility. I was completely unaware of the horrors that lay ahead.
As it often does, my body jostled itself awake about an hour and a half in. Angry and tired, I decided to initiate the rollover method in hopes of returning to slumber. After a quick yawn, I began my turn. That is when it happened. The next thing I know I am face to face with head of a complete stranger. I did a double take to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, but sure enough there she was. The head of an unknown female; slightly freckled with long brown hair. I gasped at the site, rolled back in the opposite direction and mistakenly fell out of my bed. After bumping my noggin on the carpet, I stood up and began a more detailed assessment of the situation.
- Inner monologue: Who is this person? She doesn’t look familiar; do I know her? Was I drunk last night; what was I doing? Fuck, I hope I didn’t… think dammit! Think! Wait, you weren’t drunk stupid, you were with Sharon last night. Alright…then who the fuck is this girl and what is she doing in my bed?
I decided I needed help. Linahan, my top bunk roommate, looked useless at the time so I ran across the hall to Joe and Sean P’s room. Joe never drank so he would be of sound mind. I knocked while entering and Joe popped up. After a brief attempt from Joe to quiz me on my date with Sharon, I quickly informed him of the situation happening in my room. Upon hearing my explanation of awakening to a random stranger sharing my pillow, Sean P quickly became wide eyed and sober.
The three of us swiftly exited their room and returned to mine. But before we could enter, Linahan motioned us with a wave to stay put. He then quietly dismounted from his bed but avoided the usual chair as a step-down device, which at the time I found very odd. He met us at the door and began his explanation of last night’s events.
- Linahan: OK. Bear with me. So last night, we all got back at what… like 3 Joe?
- Joe: Yeah.
- Linahan: OK, so I was fucking hammered, and you were still out with Sharon, so I crashed. Next thing I know, I wake up to this hissing noise. I can hear it coming from your desk so I look down and see a figure standing there. I grabbed my glasses to make out who it is… and I see this girl’s head. I can’t see her whole body yet, just the head, but I still hear this weird noise. So I sit up and lean over… and there is our girl, pants around her ankles, full squat, PISSING on your desk chair.
All three of us burst into laughter as we examine the soaking wet fabric of my once urine-free computer chair.
- Linahan: But I wasn’t sure if this girl was the same girl you were with last night, so I didn’t want to say anything, you know. Then she looks up at me, clearly blitzed from the look on her face… and I’m like, “Um…you good?” Then she smiles, zips up, crawls over your body and falls asleep next to you in your bed.
We are at full tears at this point. After about 2 minutes of pointing and laughing as if we were on that safari ride at Great Adventure, it was clear that something had to be done. It was time to wake the unidentified female pisser. When a tap on the shoulder wouldn’t do, I gave her the old shoulder shake until I saw an iris peek through the lashes. She came to and to our surprise was very calm. I began the questioning.
- Me: Hi. My name is Sean, I live in this room. Who are you?
- Unidentified Female Pisser: (Semi drunk gibberish).
We are now, the four if us, laughing directly in this girl’s face. You could see her eyes widen and her demeanor changed instantly. This pisser was now fully awake and no doubt completely baffled as to what was going on.
- Me: (Still laughing) So yeah, we’re gonna have to ask that you leave now.
- Linahan: Yeah; not that we didn’t enjoy the visit. Although there was an issue with the chair.
Clearly embarrassed, the pisser quickly gathered her belongings and vacated my room. We followed her into the hall where word had was spreading (courtesy of Joe and his texting) throughout the floor. The unidentified female pisser then began a string of door knockings, all of which were greeted by a quick laugh and a slam in the face. After her fourth or fifth failed attempt she began to cry. Her quest for clarity was becoming hopeless. You almost felt bad for her… almost.
The four of us made our way into the men’s room, cackling like hyenas, when I heard the sound of a phone ringing from my room. I sprang up from the bathroom floor and ran toward the sound. When I found a strange phone between my sheets, I wanted desperately to answer it myself and do a quick hang-up in hopes of letting the mayhem ensue. But I decided to give a dog a bone. I returned to the hall and found her huddled in the corner, tears a droppin’. I gave her the still ringing cell and she thanked me as she answered the call.
- Unidentified Female Pisser: Hello, Jen? Jen… oh my god, thank god. Where are you? I don’t know where I am. I woke up and.. Uh huh… the stairs… OK, I’m coming down now.
And so with her only piece of the puzzle in place, the unidentified female pisser began her fated walk of shame down the hallway toward the stairs… and Linahan was there to meet her.
- Linahan: Listen, before you go. There is something you should know.
She gazed into his eyes and he into her’s. Maybe he is going to tell me how I got here and solve everything for me; maybe it has all just been a big joke - these, among others, are just some examples of what thoughts might have been lurking in that fragile brain of her’s while staring into Linahan’s baby blue eyes. He opened the stairwell door for her and offered this complete stranger a final piece of advice.
- Linahan: Chairs… are not toilets.
Ex-Lax and Videotape
I did a bad thing once. My ex girlfriend cheated on me with the town douche. Not once, but three times. What was weird about the situation was this guy’s audacity. Let’s call him Chris to keep shit simple and we’ll call my ex Donna. This is my story about how I got back at Chris for sleeping with Donna and how I look back in amazement at my creativity.
At the time, it had been two years since Donna and I broke up. She still called on occasion but I never answered. I was at an Irish pub minding my own business with a few friends. In walks Chris, the guy who used to pleasure himself at my expense. Good looking yet no ambition and zero brains. Sort of like a model home, Chris was all outward appearances. He had, and has, absolutely nothing going for him except his looks and his uncanny ability to piss someone off. Take if from this anus: If you really want to upset a guy, sleep with his girlfriend and then rub it in his face.
“That guy over there bought you a shot,” said the bartender as he slides a pink colored shot glass in front of me. He pointed to Chris and his friends, who were raising their glasses to me. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s called Donna’s sweet pussy,” the bartender said as if he was reading from a script. Hasn’t he had enough fun at my expense? He fucks my ex three times while I’m dating her and has the nerve to rub it in 2 years later. Being a good Christian, I wanted to let things go. But not any longer. He now woke the sleeping giant.
At the time, her phone number was a 908 area code. You don’t see many of those now that 732 has taken over most of the Jersey Shore. “Caroline, it’s Ken.” That’s all she needed to hear. Caroline was a close friend of mine who was so attractive that gay men reconsider the closet. A while back I did her a big favor and she was in debt to me. We hatched a plan and by next Thursday night began to exact my revenge.
Supplies: A video camera, blind fold, hand cuffs, ankle cuffs, one adult diaper, ex-lax and $7. You may wonder how $7 fits in with the other items. At this particular bar, $7 was the exact amount for a vodka tonic (Chris’s drink of choice) and tip. Caroline looked amazing; I could see her with my binoculars from the street. Chris was there every Thursday night and since Caroline was from the Shore, he’d never seen her before. I watched as she wooed him with ease. After a few drinks, she grabbed his hand, led him outside and into her car.
That was my cue: when she gets him in the car, there was 45 minutes of foreplay and driving around before she brings him to a hotel room I rented out for the night under a fake name. I headed back to the hotel room and got to work. It took me less than 5 minutes set up the camera and shackles. All that was left to do was hide in the closet, crack the door and enjoy the show.
Right on time, the door busted open and Caroline let Chris fall on top of her. She eventually undressed and convinced him to do the same. Caroline started to play hard to get and convinced Chris to allow her to shackle him naked by the wrists and ankles to a make-shift torture rack (courtesy of me). The last step before things got dirty was the blindfold and I remember his face, the face of my enemy, as he smiled one last time as his world went dark.
She makes him a vodka tonic with ex lax and gives him some refreshment through a twisty straw as a I put on his adult diaper. It’s around this time he noticed that it’s not just Caroline in the room. “What the fuck is going on?” We never answered him. I took out the camera and set it on a tripod. There he stood. Naked, in an adult diaper, about to shit himself on camera and I thought, “Is what I’m doing wrong?”
I gave Caroline a hug and thanked her for everything. She left and headed back to the Shore as I went back to the hotel room. I’m not sick enough to actually watch it happen. By the time I returned, the diaper was brown and tears ran down his face. I found his cellphone in his jean pocket and texted his friend the hotel and room # to pick up him up. Knowing full well how much trouble I could be in for what I had done, I didn’t care. After packing my equipment in a duffel bag, I lifted his blindfold and held up the videotape. “If I ever hear of you sleeping with someone’s girlfriend, I promise to release this tape. Do we understand each other?” He understood.
To this day, no one has seen the tape and when I see Chris, he treats me with the respect that comes with fearing someone. My advice to anyone whose had their heartbroken under similar circumstances: It’s always your girlfriend’s fault, but if the dude involved rubs it in your face, you have the rite to shackle his wrists and ankles and make him shit himself on camera in an adult diaper while he cries like a little girl… and video tape it for the good of society.
Who’s the Boss?
Do I know Bruce Springsteen? Well, not exactly. Hailing from Jersey doesn’t mean I have a personal relationship with the Boss, but fate has intervened and our paths have crossed. I’d be willing to bet that a sizable portion of Jersey Shore locals have their stories. But for some reason, mixing Ryan Wetter and Bruce Springsteen has always been an episode out of Seinfeld.
Pilot: Less Weight; More Reps
It’s 6th grade and I’m looking for a mentor. My dad joined a gym and mentioned that Bruce Springsteen was a member. Who better to look up to then the Boss? I convinced my dad to let me join, hoping one day to have Bruce Springsteen ask for a spot. It was my first day at at the gym and initially I didn’t see Bruce. Never bench pressing before, I added too much weight only to have it fall on me. With stars in my eyes, Bruce Springsteen came from the shadows, reached down and lifted the bar from my chest. “Less weight, more reps” is what he said as he strolled out of my life and into the locker room. Next time, let me die of suffocation rather than from embarrassment. Dick.
Episode 2: I Was Walking In, They Were Walking Out
My friend Tim Stroebel had Bruce tickets. We were tailgating when someone droped the ball: “Bruce isn’t playing any of his old shit.” “Then why the fuck,” I thought, “was I here?” I haven’t kept up with his music. So I got drunk, hoping to fall asleep during the concert. Too drunk to walk unassisted, my friends led me to an empty row while they went for snacks. I resented Bruce for making new songs I didn’t know… until I saw something flying towards me. I stood up as it got closer and extended my arm. An insect the size of a bird but resembling a mantis had landed on my arm. I sat for a while with the mantis, loving that I ruined the Bruce experience for those around me who moved their seats because of the 10 pound insect on my shoulder.
Finale: Cross-dressing In The Dark
It was an assignment for French class. We had to create a video where we only spoke French. David Waldman (guy on the right is Waldman) was my partner and I knew we were fucked. I dressed up as our French teacher, Mrs. Maloney, and Dave as the Crocodile Hunter. He chased me around New Jersey with a butterfly net while speaking a mix of broken French and English. Midway through filming, we got tired of looking at our cameraman’s disinterested expressions. “We need to spice it up,” I remember Dave saying. It just so happens we were in Rumson, which was home to Bruce Springsteen. If only I could see his expression that day… when I rang his gate, stared into the security camera with a butterfly net over my face and proclaimed “Bonjour Bruce, C’est Madame Maloney! Remember moi? Petite weight, plus reps!”
We failed the French assignment, I fall asleep now at most concerts and to this day, I can’t bench press to save my life. I don’t blame my misfortunes on Bruce Springsteen. Rather, I blame anyone who brings him up when I mention where I’m from. “New Jersey you say? Do you know Bruce?” Although I don’t know him personally, he is still my hometown nemesis.
Like what you see?
New Jersey shopping malls are terrible representations of the people who hail from the Garden State. When I tell someone I’m from New Jersey, they confuse me with this guy. That asshole comes from New York or North Jersey (aka Other York). His kind slowly creeps down during the summer months from Brooklyn, Staten Island and Westchester. A few summers ago, I was walking through a local NJ mall with a friend when someone just like this guy was walking towards us.
As if it was a formula that every Benny follows, his girlfriend had the biggest fake tits and I just couldn’t help but stare. Not in admiration; rather, in awe that so much could fit beneath stretched skin. And then this guy caught me staring at his investment. “Like what you see?” asked the Benny.
Growing up, I was picked on for being chubby and socially awkward by guys like him. As I became older, I grew a set of balls and a rotten habit of making this New Yauwk, alpha-male type look foolish as much as possible. Turning around to face the couple, I looked straight into his eyes from about 30 feet, proclaimed “Yes, I’m enjoying the show,” stood there motionless as his face turned a deeper shade of orange and watched as his concubine whisked him away while urging him to not start a fight.
I thought my mission was accomplished. Hoping that jerk was somewhere near Macy’s, emasculated by my quick and unexpected response, I was shocked to hear, “Hey you.” There he was, standing not 5 feet behind me. Like a Silverback gorilla with a blowout, this dickhead must have spent the past ten minutes boiling and was about to burst his fist through my face. My friend braced himself for a fight and I could see Barbie trailing behind because of her heels. “Want to repeat what you just said?”
About half the people I meet for the first time mistake me for being gay. It’s believable if you stare at me long enough. My expressions are softer and my mannerisms during excitable times are questionable. There’s no doubt in my mind that I could easily pass as a gay man without surprising a single person. This thought came to mind exactly when it was needed the most. “I said I was enjoying the show… And I still am” were my exact words.
I was willing to bet he wanted to hear more before taking a swing. “So you think it’s right to stare at another man’s girl like that?” “Your girl?” I asked. “No sweetheart. I was looking at you.” He was shocked as I gave him the full-body glance, starting from his feet, pausing near his crotch and ending in his eyes. With his finger pointed in my face and a look that screamed “I’m the world’s largest homophobe,” Fred Flintstone backed off and went on his merry way.
Pulling the gay card worked wonderfully. I went home and was so excited about how I handled myself that I told my family this exact story. But when I was finished telling the story, expecting laughter, there was only silence until my mother spoke up, “It’s OK if you are, we’ll love you all the same.”
This story was suggested by Jake Byrne
Superbowl Suicide
The extent of my interest in football ends with the television program Friday Night Lights. This lack of enthusiasm for football and my overall pessimism didn’t stop my coworker Josh from inviting me to his Superbowl party. Sometimes I feel as if he’s trying to recruit me into normal life even after countless failures. Soon after losing interest in the game, I chose to focus on the cluster-fuck of the Superbowl party itself and why it’s the worst fucking few hours of my life.
Game plan
The mission of any good Superbowl party host is to put groups of unrelated friends, who willfully remain still for hours, in an apartment with limited seating and alcohol. This, in turn, brings the worst out of people.
Field Positions
Each person falls into a personality type in order to make a whole person, which becomes the Superbowl party itself. To fill these roles, each person is nominated through behavior. In a Snow White fashion, the 7 roles available are:
The Asshole
Even if we’ve become friends since, I wanted to shoot you in the face during the Superbowl. You spoke up right off the bat and made the get-together a stage for your drunken banter. You’re the unspoken dick-bag of the party where no one knows you well enough to shut you up.
The Ashamed
You should be ashamed. You’re the idiot who brought the asshole. Knowing ahead of time what she/he was going to say during each play and commercial, but hoping this time would be different. The occasional “honey, maybe you should take it easy” isn’t going to stop the asshole from spewing verbal diarrhea.
The Silent
An inappropriate title because it’s a farce. Most often, you’re secretly masturbating at the thought of being the asshole. You speak up every so often, hoping a well-contrived joke or factoid works us over. You want the chance to be the asshole, but you lack both the confidence and ignorance to let it fly, so you sit back and play with yourself.
The Host
You put these people in the same room and have the ability to end this catastrophe. So why didn’t you do something about it? With the comfort of home and the respect that comes with it, you sat like Maury Povich in the most comfortable seat and found enjoyment in the social nightmare that was ruining my life.
The Enthusiast
Although we have little in common, you’ve come with pure intentions. It’s all about the game and you’re able to ignore what I cannot. I watch you take interest in football and think back to things I enjoyed as a child; jealous of your ability to block that which does not matter and focus on what you love.
The Wise
Often mistaken for the asshole, you seem to know everything. When a question arises about football, you offer what seems to be the answer. But if you watch the enthusiast’s reaction, it’s obvious that the answer is either incorrect or half-right. The more questions you field add to the circumference of your ego and the size of my nightmare. I hate you most of all; whether right or wrong, your arrogance is poison.
The Grump (those like me)
Everywhere you go, you drag your misery. No one, including yourself, can escape criticism. Behind your lying expression lies an unhappy person incapable of not paying attention to everything that’s wrong with people. Although no one notices your discontent, the host may soon realize that inviting you back only takes away from the available seats.
The Huddle
The range of Superbowl party conversation is limited. One person says what they like, another person says they like it too and the group agrees. ‘Likes’ can be replaced with ‘dislikes’ or ‘knows.’ Here are a few examples:
Example 1
- The Asshole - “God, those uniforms are so gay.”
- The Silent - “Yeah, they really are gay.”
- The Superbowl Party (as a whole) - “So gay!”
Example 2
- The Wise - “Did you know that football was invented in China?”
- The Asshole - “I think I heard that somewhere.”
- The Superbowl Party - “Yes, we’ve heard that somewhere.”
Example 3
- The Asshole - “I like when someone forces a finger in my anus.”
- The Ashamed - “Yes, I can feel it right now.”
- The Superbowl party - “This is all such exciting and interesting conversation.”
Commercial Break
“I watch the Superbowl for the commercials” translates to “I have the character depth of a puddle.” This is the one time a year liking commercials is cool. If you’re looking to identify a mindless follower, listen up at end of each Superbowl commercial. When you compare the commercial’s comedic value to the unjustified laughter that follows, it’s hard not seeing the surrounding party as Budweiser frogs.
Game Time
The subject matter of conversation during the game is reason enough to drown a child. I sat through it reluctantly, knowing the only satisfaction would come in writing it down the next day. Here are some of the highlights:
He looks like
Intense debate on which defensive lineman (whatever a defensive lineman is) looks more like Shrek.
It wasn’t a Touchdown
As if we had the complex playback equipment needed to challenge the call from a couch in Venice.
I’m going with the Cardinals
Because ‘my team’ didn’t make it and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. It still boggles my fucking mind that people refer to teams as ‘my team’ or ‘us’ when referring to a football squad that has no idea you exist.
Come on coach, open your eyes
It’s not enough that you’re calling all the right plays over Direct TV. The offensive coordinator should be in your Fav 5 and feel compelled to include you in the play calling.
Is there a Superbowl of basketball
Yes, this was a question. And it’s not a stupid question by my standards. What she basically meant to ask was “Is there a championship in basketball?” It’s the fuck-stick that answered her who spoke as if he was teaching an autistic kindergartner how to eat. Fuck him.
So you’ve endured. Before leaving, some of you made plans you’ll never keep. Sure, snowboarding with your new friends sounds like fun, but outside the bubble of a Superbowl party, the character roles blend into the general population. Where you once felt special (part of a team perhaps) you won’t get back until the next mindless get together. Thanksgiving in LA you say? I think I’ll pass on the stuffing. I’ve had enough.
This Guy
We’ve all told lies. Most of the time it’s to get out of a sticky situation. Many times when people lie, we call them on it. Typical responses include, “You’re full of shit,” “Get the fuck out of here” or my favorite: The rolling of the eyes as the individual receiving the lie shakes his head and says “This guy!”
So there’s this guy at work. It’s something about the appearance and status of this particular person that cries out when comparing him to his fables. I’m all about fun, and love to laugh, so when I know he’s about to spit fiction, I weigh my options. I could:
- Tell this guy he’s full of shit, which if you’ve ever done so to a pathological liar, the result is Incredible Hulk-like rage directed towards you.
- Smile and shake my head while exclaiming, “Dude, no way!” (with a tone that sounds surprised rather than doubtful).
I always go with option 2. Why, you may wonder, would I allow myself to tolerate such blatant absurdity? The answer is simple: It leads to more outrageous fairy tales. It’s as if the pathological liar tests the waters to see how far you’ll let him swim. Meet my coworker, Jake.
At his current position, Jake makes roughly 45k per year. He’s 6’2” (yet he claims to be 6’8”) and weighs 420ish pounds. This guy is a wholly mammoth. From the look of his plaque-coated snaggle-tooth it appears he hasn’t seen a dentist in a decade. He has the body shape of Grimace (Picture of Grimace) and is a proud member of the dirty ass club (Click here to learn about the dirty ass club).
One day, Jake made the following claim: “Did you know that I have two fiances?” Comparing his appearance, hygiene and social skills to this statement, I knew something was off. This guy.. was completely full of shit. He was basically sharing one of his masturbation fantasies that in his mind is reality. I decided to play the game and exercise option 2. Boy did he take that ball and run.
Jake owns a 1.4 million dollar house. He’s acquired a custom auto shop and has recently purchased a Texas Steakhouse. Jake has a beach house in Long Beach Island, antique guns appraised at $50,000, 3 race cars, a snowmobile, a quad motorcycle, two wave runners, a $20,000 Ninja sport bike, a yacht, is a member of the county fire rescue squad, was a 9-11 hero, a former garbage man, an amateur race car driver, hunts every weekend (always shooting himself a 10 pointer), has been intimate with thousands of women and has accomplished all of this while working full time as a glorified secretary for a public utilities company.
He is a liar, but it’s important for our well being that we all have a “Jake” in our lives. It’s nice to know that when I’m having a bad day, there is always Jake, willing and ready to disclose intimate details of his imaginary life to help you appreciate your own sanity. Whenever I’m having a rough day, I look at Jake, recount some of his stories and chuckle as I think to myself, “This guy.”
It Smells Like Somebody Didn’t Wash ‘They’ Ass
That “ass” smell. If you’ve been in the company of overweight, out-of-shape Americans lately you are probably familiar with this stench. My own description of the smell can be summed up with a combination of 3 odors: Athletes foot, sweat and diarrhea.
While this isn’t your typical coffee-and-conversation topic, we’ve all wondered why obese people smell the way they do. In my original hypothesis, this “ass” smell was a result of perspiration trapped within the blubber crevices surrounding these massive individuals. I guess my idea was that the sweat sandwiched between pockets of blubbery flesh for hours at a time causes a type of mildew to form, giving off a doodie-like smell.
Recently I’ve had an unquenchable fascination with this infamous odor because of a gentleman who sits next to me on the bus. This man is extremely obese and has that “ass” smell. Interestingly enough, you would not think it from his attire and grooming. He is well dressed and clean shaven, so you would assume that his outward appearance would imply good hygiene. But the fact remains that this man smells like diapers. Then the answer came to me unexpectedly.
One day, upon entering the men’s room at work, I crossed paths with an overweight coworker. Upon his exit I entered into the lone stall and to my disgust, there was a brown film on the back side of the toilet lid. In the back of my mind I wrote it off as this guy being a slob. But then it hit me. I remembered the well-groomed fat man on the bus and hypothesized the following conclusion: Heavy people have difficulty wiping their asses.
Due to the size of overweight individuals, the slightest bit of activity, like wiping a massive ass, could be a huge chore. There’s a ton of ground to cover! Due to exhaustion from the wiping process (which involves lifting, reaching and balance that thin people take for granted) they most likely get a case of the “Fuck its” and give up. This in turn causes fecal buildup in the anal cavity. Upon leaving the restroom the ass cheeks rub continuously back and forth causing sweat to form. The combination of sweat, fecal bacteria and lack of air leads to an athletes-foot-smell to ruminate.
While disgusted, I was also relieved to finally come up with an answer. On my commute home that same day, I was sandwiched between a few African American gentlemen and an enormous individual on a crowded train. One of the black men says out load, “Damn man, what the fuck is that smell? It’s giving me a headache.” His friend announced in response, “It smells like someone didn’t wash they ass.” I couldn’t help but to chuckle and say, “Actually, it’s a lot like that.”
Clothing Optional
Snuggled deep within the fertile crescent known as the Jersey Shore lies a place of imagination, inner peace and uncircumcised wangs. Gunnison Beach (known to many as “The Nude Beach”) is located in Sandy Hook, New Jersey and was named after the Gunnison Battery, which was constructed in the 1800’s by the US government to protect New York Harbor. The only thing it protects now is the general public from geriatric patients hopped up on Viagra making bad decisions on a regular basis.
A percentage of our population refer to them as “Naturalists,” others “Nudists” and to some “Creepy naked mother fuckers” (The last one is my personal favorite). They gather every weekend to do whatever the fuck they usually do while being butt ass naked. Some work on their tan lines; others do jumping jacks in place. Should we judge them for their lifestyle? Absolutely not.
If you are from the Jersey Shore you’ve either heard of, tried to find, found or went to Gunnison Beach. The first time I caught wind of this wonderful place was in 1993 while attending Oakhurst Country Day Camp (Seashore SUCKS! Oakhurst RULES! Got to represent for the O.G’s). During the summer our camp group, known as the “Senior Boys,” would take day trips to Sandy Hook to change things up. Our counselors at the time, Mr. Jason Oldham and Mr. Steve Solly, passed on stories of a magical land filled with boobies and unicorns. At the age of 11, boobies and unicorns were enough to satisfy any young boy’s desires, and from here our plan was devised.
It was a hot day in the summer of ‘93. The sun was scorching and high tide filled the air with the sweet aroma of sewage from the New York City Harbor. It was the perfect setting for the perfect plan that turned boys into men and campers into legends. It all began around lunch time at beach C when four boys stood in a circle and devised a plan to pull off the story of the century.
There we stood, young boys in the crossroads of life with only one thing on our minds: BOOBIES! We set off with the determination of drunk college kids trying to find a late night rub and tug. An hour and a half of walking finally lead us within sight of the promise land. “Look, it’s a person! I think it’s naked!” screams Ryan Wetter. “Dude they are definitely naked,” I responded.
So our pace quickened. We were overjoyed that we have finally reached this mecca of boobies and unicorns. Finally! As we got closer our hearts pounded out of our chests. I was squinting into the sun trying to fight the glare in hopes of seeing my first real, naked boobie. Instead, a 65 year old naked man strolled up with a full on jack hammer-like erection and proceeded to yell at us.
“What do you guys think you are doing here? Where are your parents? You can’t be here alone!” I stood there frozen as if I was just got caught masturbating by my grandmother. “Oh, we are all brothers. Our parents adopted us and they like to hang out here. They are over there waiting for us,” young Ryan explains. Thank god he was on his toes or we would have ended up being sold on the black market. We squirmed away and walked as fast as our little legs could carry us.
Staggering down the beach with our minds warped, there was only silence. Our brains so confused we failed to notice any of our surroundings. THEN IT HAPPENED! We are all looking down at the sand but a godly force made us all lift our heads simultaneously. THERE THEY WERE!!! BOOBIES!!! And I’m not talking about any boobies. They were the size of small children. She could have fed a small village in South West Indonesia with those puppies. We all stopped in amazement, wondering if she just smuggled Mexicans across the border in those things. As we stood there and witnessed these amazing creations from the almighty god above, a calmness came over our souls. We were now men.
We headed back down the beach towards base camp and not much was said, but we all knew we were changed forever. There was a little more swagger in our step, more charisma in our actions and more depth in our voices. As we approached our camp group, everyone stared in amazement knowing the epic journey we had just completed. The campers gathered around us sitting Indian style, waiting to hear of our journey. A single question came up: “Did you guys see boobies?” And all I could reply with is “Yes.. Yes we did.” We lived out the rest of our time as campers in infamy only to walk and hear whispers of our legendary quest. We started our journey that summer as boys. When it was completed we were more then men. We were legends!
Yaya’s Bathroom
Urban Dictionary dot com defines a hemorrhoid as “an irate little man that pops out of your butt hole and screams at you to stop grunting and wiping your ass so hard.” It’s unlikely that a small child would develop a hemorrhoid, unless you’ve frequented Yaya’s bathroom.
Yaya is my Greek grandmother. Her advice was either spot-on or far-off. “Don’t pee in the woods” was good advice considering my instances of poison ivy and tick bites from urinating outdoors. “Don’t play with your penis because it will fall off,” however, was poor advice and detrimental to my sexual maturation.
From an early age, I grew fond of Yaya’s bathroom. It was fully carpeted with a seat-cushion and padding that protected your lower back from the cold side of the toilet lid. There was a space heater close to the bowl and chocolate candies within reach. Although against Kosher Law (I’m not Jewish but some of their dietary restrictions seem to make sense), I would eat the chocolate candies while relieving myself. I used to think that poop was chocolate brown because the candies I ate immediately passed through, as if my digestive system worked like an efficient assembly-line at Wonka’s Factory.
Yaya’s bathroom was more comfortable than the wooden furniture she adorned her house with (in spite of my grandfather’s chronic arthritis, she decorated with hard, uncomfortable furniture). Sometimes, I’d slide off the bowl pants-down and nap on the carpet. Other times, I’d bring my He-Man and Ninja Turtle action figures and set up worlds of imaginary play that lasted hours. “Ry, are you still in there?” I’m in the middle of something Yaya. April O’Neil is about to give a stormtropper the reach-around while Master Splinter and Evil-Lyn play with their plastic private-parts.
“Well Mrs. Wetter, it appears your son has developed a Hemorrhoid.” The doctor slowly withdraws his finger from my anus. “But he’s 4 years old,” my mother responded. “Although uncommon, Hemorrhoids develop in children who spend too much time on the potty. Do you spend too much time on the potty son?” Fuck yes I do, and you would too if your Yaya had a bathroom like mine.
Cutting Loose
Unlike unicorns, vaginal flatulence is a reality. Wikipedia defines vaginal flatulence as “an emission or expulsion of air from the vagina, often during or after sexual intercourse or other sexual acts, stretching or exercise. The sound is somewhat comparable to flatulence from the anus but does not involve waste gases and thus often has no specific odor associated.” Wikipedia neglects to mention that harnessing this ability for everyday use is possible with practice.
In 1999, Anthony Hopkins starred in the movie “Instinct”. Hopkins played the part of anthropologist Dr. Ethan Powell living amongst gorillas. Similar to Powell, I spent 1999 researching wild creatures in their natural environment. Accepted as one of their own, I witnessed a group of Catholic school girls attempting to master the art of vaginal flatulence, most commonly known as queefing.
I was gaining insight into the shameless lives of teenage females. The leader of the group was called “Queen La-queefa.” She led the swarm, teaching her attractive counterparts queefing as if it were a craft. “The secret,” according to the Queen, “is allowing air to enter.” She would lay back and collapse her abdomen. To the amazement of her students she’d thrust her hips forward creating noises distinct but similar to passing gas.
With her uncanny ability to queef, the Queen would mimic real-life occurrences. There was the barking dog, the hyena and the laughing child. On special occasions she lit cigarettes using vaginal inhalation. To see beautiful women queefing was both traumatic and enlightening. Women no longer surprise me and to see what happens in privacy of pajama parties was reassuring. Beautiful women are not perfect. They smell bad and make funny noises, but secrecy gives them god-like status in the eyes of admirers.
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Life In Fiction
Introduction
Rob continues to slip away from reality as his imaginary K-9 pal, Banzabar, seeks refuge in a new barn. I feel molested every time Rob submits something new.
Sincerely,
Ryan Wetter
Life In Fiction
Introduction
This is Rob’s second installment of the strange world that lives inside his mind. His bizarre connection to insects and the animal kingdom may one day win him a prize at a local carnival. I understand this type of bizarre tale isn’t the norm on Life Of My Story. But there is no Dana, only Zuul.
Sincerely,
Ryan Wetter
Life In Fiction
Introduction
To preface this story, my friend Rob has a deep imagination. Given enough time to ponder, his mind wanders. I’ve encouraged Rob to let his imagination roam free when he’s feeling this way. This is the first of many fictional stories that occur in Rob’s mind during his sabbaticals from reality. It’s a conversation between a homeless man named Spencer and his pet snake. Enjoy.
Sincerely,
Ryan Wetter
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