Her bouquet cleaved his hardened shell,
and fondled his muscled heart.
He imbibed her glistening spell,
just before the other shoe fell.
My supervising officer would ask, “What happened to the animal abuse suspect you were bringing in?”
"Oh," I’d reply, "let’s just say I helped him to see the error of his ways."
Whatta bout Ass Wednesday!Day after tomorrow. That’s the day we rub ass on our foreheads.
And there’s an article in it—this is the current issue—about the comeback of the cougar, which we call ‘mountain lion’ around here.
The cougar, it seems, is the comeback kid of endangered species. When I was born, there were like 4 in the whole country. Now, they’re getting run over by cars on the freeways of LA.
I’m not even kidding.
I’m pro-mountain lion. I’ve even seen one here in town with mine own eyes. Very disconcerting to see a cat bigger than any dog. Frightening, even—especially at 4:30 in the morning.
"I think I’ll just walk the other way and try not to scream," I thought to myself, my heart hammering in my throat.
So, they’ve made a miraculous comeback and there are even hunting seasons for them now. We got one here in the Black Hills….which leads me to the point of this post.
In the article, there’s a nifty fold-out map showing their current range, how they’re spreading into the prairies and even further and further east. One day, perhaps, the North American mountain lion will be hunting the streets of New York City, killing and eating homeless people.
Keep those fingers crossed, Republicans!
Anyway, on the map, there are some symbols. Dots which show confirmed sitings. Brown areas which show established populations. Arrows which show migration routes (all are pointing east, by the way, one even directly at New York City).
Right over where I live, however, is a white star. It’s the only white star on the whole map. The legend says nothing about it. The article says nothing about it. The article, in fact, doesn’t mention the Black Hills or even South Dakota, this despite the fact that the map that goes with the article HAS A GIANT WHITE STAR RIGHT OVER THE BLACK HILLS OF SOUTH DAKOTA.
Now, when I say “giant”, I, of course, mean this in terms of comparison. It’s the biggest symbol on the map. Plus, it’s white on a map of browns, dark greens, and even darker yellows.
But it’s just fucking there. For no reason.
What the fuck National Geographic?
The Thunder Box Port-A-Potty Company
Ok, it wasn’t like I hated delivering papers or anything. I was alone, unsupervised. I could work at my own pace, within reason. Like I mentioned before, there was wacky white wing wadio to listen to. I had even, like I said, took on a bunch more addresses. I was delivering close to 200 papers a night. My thighs were rock hard and each ass cheek was like a tightly wound ball of string. Where all da ladies at?
But, yeah, I fucking hated delivering papers. There was never a day off from it. Day after day after day, two o’clock every damn morning. It sucked ass after a while. Plus, the actual delivering of them went on and on and on. I did a little countdown in my head as went. Every time i had finished up 10% of the papers BING! a little bell would go off in my brain and I would sing,
I’m just another ten percenter.
My mind is like an ocean,
my mind is like an ocean…
Thinking about the papers as ten chunks of 18 or whatever was doable, rather than as a single massive pile filling my entire backseat. It helped me to not take the #2 pencil I kept behind my ear and jam it up my nose and directly into the center of my brain.
So I started looking for something else, something with actual days off. I was a producer now, making more money than my bills required, even though I barely made any money at all. Like everybody, I still lived paycheck to paycheck, but at the end of every paycheck was some left over. Such a situation had never occurred in all the days of my life. It was kind of weird.
Unlike most Americans, who are trained by consumerism to spend everything they have plus a little or a lot more (consuming debt), living in a storage unit had changed my perspective on things. I did not blow my leftover money on more junk. I was surrounded by junk, other people’s junk. I could actually sense it piling up. It felt like it was about to mount an attack. Besides, I just plain didn’t have the room. My storage unit stored me and the accoutrements of me being all alive and shit.
Americans, no matter how much they make, don’t make enough. They have expensive handheld devices with expensive operating plans. They have expensive television packages and houses that are too big full of too many expensive gadgets and doohickeys that eat too much expensive electricity. They stare into closets full of clothes and have nothing to wear. They rummage through refrigerators full of food and have nothing to eat. They walk around thinking they are broke even though they are fabulously wealthy.
No surprise that their government behaves the same exact way, spending over half of every dollar taken in taxes on military and war shit, then throwing up its hands and pretending like it has a national debt.
My first interview was with a place called the Thunder Box Port-A-Potty Company. Saw their ad in the paper, called them up, and they told me to just come in. It was located in a warehouse out in the industrial area of town. There were two big flatbed trucks in the dirt parking lot with the company name painted on the doors. Next to the name was a cartoon port-a-potty with lines painted around the edges to give the impression that it was experiencing an earthquake.
The same logo was on the guy’s shirt. “You Ned?” he said to me as I stood in the warehouse door.
To the right were dozens of port-a-potties. To the left was a port-a-potty washing area. A guy was currently washing one with a hose that hung down from the ceiling of the warehouse. A large grate in the floor caught the water. The whole place smelled like shit.
"Welcome. I’m Kyle, one of the managers."
It took more than one? “Ned Law,” I said and we shook hands.
"Well, let me give you the five cent tour." He pointed to my right, his left. "These are the cleaned potties that are ready to go out." He pointed to his right, my left. "This is where the dirty potties are cleaned. That’s Mark on poop duty."
Mark waved and I waved back. Apart from the one he was working on, there were three others awaiting his attention. He wore a threadbare, stained Van Halen t-shirt and looked a little too happy, I thought.
"Obviously," Kyle said, "we rent these out, mainly to construction sites and outdoor events—fairs, concerts, and the like. You probably wouldn’t have guessed it, but the waste actually varies according to the rental. Over here…" he said and walked toward the cleaning area, are our chemicals."
I followed him to a tall shelf, which was filled with white gallon jugs. The labels of the jugs said SMELL AWAY! A little cartoon turd was in the corner of the label with the banned symbol, ⃠ , over it. “This is the main stuff we use. We fill up the tanks with it after an installation. It, as you can imagine, keeps the smell away, plus flies, which are attracted to human waste. Like, big time. Over here…”
We walked to a smaller shelf in the corner of the warehouse that also held gallon jugs, this time yellow ones. “Over here is the bad boy stuff.” The labels of the jugs read Reek-Be-Gone. Instead of an outlawed cartoon turd, there was a skull and crossbones. “This is the stuff we use mainly for construction sites. Those guys who work construction. Jesus…” Kyle shook his head, then launched into a nightmare spiel about human waste.
As I stood there trying not to listen, my mind clicked over to screen saver, which, for the last few days now was a clip of a gorgeous woman slowly removing fishnet stockings. Wood sprouted in my jeans and the act of trying to cover it with my hands snapped me out of my reverie.
"Anyway," Kyle was saying, "I think it has something to do with diet."
"I must go now," I said and left him standing there. I wanted a shower.
Like, big time.
It’s cuz all the coats are on the bed.
I remember in college my biology lab partner actually dropped the class so she could tune into Days of Our Lives. It was sudden, too, and I had to dismantle a dogfish shark all by myself.
Do you guys realize that the dogfish shark lacks an anal fin? Man, is it a crazy world or what?
I remember my mom used to watch soaps when I was a little kid. Eventually she abandoned this enterprise and switched to gameshows instead. The overall mental health of our family improved immediately.
Do they still have gameshows, like old school ones? I realize that most reality shows are basically gameshows, but like does anyone have to pull a lever or spin a wheel any more? The last old school gameshow I heard tell of was Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? I remember they really tried to amp up the drama in that show with really really long pauses and scary music, which I found so annoying I quit watching. “Come on,” I’d yell at screen, “the guy is trying to remember the 11th president of the United States, not perform the first brain transplant ever.”
James Knox Polk, by the way.
The guy was SMASHED, yelling, knocking shit over. This coffee shop is in a big hotel. There’s a bar also on the ground floor, but it just opened a half hour ago.
Dude, I’m trying to concentrate!
Moses dragged us for 40 years through the desert to bring us to the one place in the Middle East where there was no oil. — Golda Meir, 4th Prime Minister of Israel
It went up just yesterday in the Nashville cemetery where he’s buried. It’s big, described as a ‘monument’. Engraved on it underneath his name and timespan are the words HE STOPPED LOVING HER TODAY.
Sure, it’s a line from probably his most famous song, but that song is very sad. It’s a suicide song. He stopped loving her because he killed himself.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s me, but that’s kinda creepy to put on a tombstone…