Early Onset of Night

cafeofthedamned:

(in this post, Mike gets angsty. like he was in his teen years.)

Indeed. Like in all other years too.

were just here. Working fellows, with big bellies and joi de vive. I have a new modem, so that I might access the weirdness at high speed. It was like, for a moment, that I had friends. I had large, manly men in my apartment. They spoke gruffly, had large bellies, were callous about wires. I looked on, jealous. God help me.

Ain’t this somethin?
I told my Pap and Mam
I was comin to the mountains to trap
and to be a mountain man.
Acted like they was gut shot.
Says, “Son, make your life go here,
here’s where the peoples is.
Them mountains is for animals
and savages.”
I says, “Mother Gue, the Rocky Mountains
is the marrow of the world.”
By God, I was right.

I ain’t never seen em,
but my common sense tells me
the Andes is foothills
and the Alps is for children to climb.
These here is God’s finest sculptures
and there ain’t know laws
for the brave ones
and there ain’t no asylums
for the crazy ones
and there ain’t no churches,
cept for these’n right here,
and there ain’t no priests,
cept in the birds.
By God, I’m a mountain man.

Keep your nose in the wind
and your eyes along the skyline.

I have a pre-existing condition. I was born with transposition of the great vessels, a heart defect. Basically, it means: what the hell are you still doing alive?

I am personally invested in Obamacare. Is it perfect? No, but I’ll fucking take it. Is it flawed? Yes, but I’ll fucking take it.

I’ll take it because before Obama was elected I had no hope, none at all. No insurance. Doctors who “maintained” me…at high dollars. Since adulthood, I have racked up almost $40,000 in cardiac events, absolutely none of which I have paid, nor ever will.

I’d go to the emergency room with atrial fibrillation, sign the paper, gasping for breath, and later throw it the fuck away. Whenever they tried to garnishee my wages, I quit my job. Fuck you.

I am a man of principle.

Now, as I get older, when shit may get real in a hurry, I don’t have to worry much. I have some hope. Before I had none. I would die early, simply because I’m poor.

Now you fuckers have to pay to keep me alive. Hahaha.

I’ll fucking take it.

\m/

1. I am out of garlic. It is a tragedy not only on an astronomical scale, but on an ontological scale as well. Mike without garlic is like a mountain man without his mountain. I put garlic in EVERYTHING: cereal, fig newtons, Dr. Pepper, vaginas I am about to perform cunnilingus on. EVERYTHING.

2. I have all of sudden started smoking Toscano-style cigars. I don’t inhale. Sue me.

3. There is something dead by my shed and I cannot, for the life of me, locate the corpse. It is horrendous. This nightmare is compounded by the fact that that’s the area of the yard where I keep my lawnchair and smoke the above cigars. Seriously, who died?

4. I accidentally deleted all the Buddy Holly on my computer. Goddamn it.

5. There is an extremely gregarious, sweet, friendly, adorable new cat in the neighborhood. I have bestowed upon him the name Squeeky because of the way he meows. My heart is being ripped from my chest by the fact that I’m not stealing him. Oh my god, you guise.

6. I am currently eating a grilled cheese sandwich with avocado and tomato. And no garlic. Fuck.

When last we met, Satan, Jr. and his father (also known as me) were faced with a moral dilemma of sorts. The evil Brett Tool, threatened by Satan, Jr.’s Olympic level Beer Pong play, had launched a campaign of general dickishness against him. Satan, Jr., being my son, was entirely innocent in the matter, even halo-sporting.

For my part, I was pissed. I would have to be the one to cough up new tire money—and in this economy, too.

“What does this Brett kid even look like?” I asked Satan, Jr. as we stared into the open trunk of his car. “Have I ever seen him?”

“I highly doubt it and he looks like a fuckhead.”

“Figures. How tall is he?”

“I don’t know. Yay tall.”

“Yay tall? Is that metric?”

“About my height. Why?”

“Just curious why you won’t pop him one in the mouth.”

“It isn’t fear, Father,” Satan, Jr. said, banging the trunk closed. “It’s pacifism.” He stormed inside, leaving me standing out in the driveway like a dipshit.

Clearly, my poor lil guy was upset, which made me upset. So now I was both pissed and upset, which are hard feelings to sort out, being so damn similar to each other. I decided then and there that this tire-slashing, this assault on mobility, this grievous automotive injustice would not stand.

“No fucking way,” I whispered to the wind. Music from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly began playing in my head and I felt like a cowboy for the first time in my life. I looked up the street, hoping to see a lonely tumbleweed roll by, but no such luck.

I headed downtown and bought a reconditioned tire for thirty damn bucks—and in this economy, too. I also stopped at Second Time Around and got a straw cowboy hat, which I immediately put on and vowed to wear for the rest of my life. I looked for spurs, but they were out. They’d look stupid on my Vans anyway.

I brought the tire home and had Satan, Jr. put it on his car. It’s important to teach your youngins basic automotive maintenance and upkeep. Satan, Jr., for example, knows how to change tires and oil, how to check and fill the various fluids that are the lifeblood of today’s transportation devices. He knows how to change the lightbulbs in his tail lights so he won’t get pulled over by the cops and he knows to wait a little bit before opening the radiator cap when the engine’s overheating. He knows, especially, that the Check Engine light is completely useless due to its utter and cosmic vagueness.

I cooked us an organic margherita pizza, which we ate in contemplative silence. As we were washing up, Satan, Jr. finally spoke.

“What’s with the stupid hat?” he asked.

“This old thing? I’ve always had it.”

“Whatever. You look like a dork.”

“Think of it as my warpaint.”

“Huh?”

“So where does this Brett Tool live?”

“Oh, he lives down there in that trailer court, Serenity Estates. Why?”

“The one behind the mental hospital?”

“Yeah,” he said and laughed. “Why?”

“Which trailer is his?”

“The rusted-out puke green one. Number 14, I think. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We, Son,” I said, putting my arm around him. “What are we going to do.”

“Stop doing that,” he said, pulling away. “You’re freaking me out.”

“Stay home if you want. It’s payback time.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We, Son. What are…”

“Shut up!”

“As you wish.” I headed down the hall to my bedroom. That’s where I kept my 12-gauge Mossberg 500, in the closet, right next to my job interview shirt. This whole story would be a lot more interesting with a shotgun in it, I’d decided.

“Hey!” Satan, Jr. called after me. “You better not hurt him!”

Has Satan, Jr.’s father finally gone batshit? What ever will he do to the evil Brett Tool, if anything? Is a shotgun really an appropriate story device, especially in a story about parenting? And what’s with the stupid hat? Tune in later this week to find out! Thank you, and don’t forget to visit our sponsor!

That is my definition of perversion: using that power, that imbalance to get off.