I don’t mind. It’s the sorry bastard that has to listen in on my calls that should be out there protesting. If somebody is getting paid to listen to me talk in a variety of voices and accents, make odd animal noises, and have conversations about whether or not turtles can breathe through their anuses (some can), more power to him or her.
My one concern is that some brown-nosed yes-man looking to make a name for himself will mistakenly decipher all this as some sort of bizarre code, instead of taking it at face value.
If so, all I can say to the government is this: come at me bro.
Well, today is the birthday of my Mother. She taught me a great deal about frugality, which is why I’ve been using the same sandwich bag for over five months now, and haven’t flushed my toilet in three. She’s on vacation Brazil at the moment, but this is the conversation we will have when she gets back in a week or so.
Me: I got you flowers on your birthday, but they got old and I had to throw them out.
Mother: You shouldn’t have!
Me: Oh good, ‘cuz I didn’t.
Lesser mothers would be disappointed, maybe even insulted. Mine however, will be happy that I thought about getting her flowers. Then, she will be even more happy when she realizes that I was able to brighten her day without spending any money at all. Happy birthday Mom!
Years back, when I was working in sustenance delivery, my manager got a thoughtful look in his eye and told me this:
“You know, you can spend your entire life building bridges. But, during that time, you suck one cock, just one, and everybody remembers you as a cocksucker, not a bridge builder.”
At the time, I wondered why he had singled me out as the keeper of his deep, dark secret.
Until today, I didn’t realize that his words transcended sexual experimentation.
Two years ago at a friend’s cabin, I bought a 36 pack of beer for only $12. Just one 36 pack. And the beer, Boxer Lager, has a crown on every can. A crown! What symbol has humanity produced that surpasses the crown as a mark of respect and honor? Yet the insults rained down on me all weekend, even as I defended the fiscal responsibility of my choice. I had spent less money and gotten more alcohol than anyone at that cabin. America is supposed to reward those who have more money and more things than people with less money and fewer things.
Flash forward, to now: These days, I buy better beer. And even if I continue to do so for the rest of my life, I’ll still get calls like this one, which came in just this morning: “Hey, I saw a guy walking down the street with a 36 pack of Boxer, reminded me of you.”
I’ll always be remembered as the guy who made a wise, thoughtful decision to save money, and get more for the little money that was spent, even if that meant drinking something that tasted like it leaked out of a homeless man with bad kidneys.
It’s been a few years since I read The Great Gatsby, which was recently converted to the silver screen. If memory serves, wasn’t Jay Gatsby just some guy who let a bunch of strangers party at his house while he called them “old sport,” then somebody shot him and nobody showed up to the funeral?
When you dwell in an apartment complex, you get to know your neighbors over time. A large portion of these relationships develop based on how well the contractor decided to insulate the partitions above, below, and side to side in each unit. I’ve heard all the basic stuff—one guy liked to shag his girl, then scream and punch the wall. Another couple would have loud, frivolous arguments, pause to bump uglies for a few minutes, then continue on with the bickering. One coital instance had me believe, but never confirm, that the dog-lovers had thrown little Fido into the mix.
And I’m not over here straddling a stepping stool topped with phonebooks, pressing my ear to the ceiling. If I’m on the couch and I hear these freaks digging in, I’m not about to get up and inconvenience myself just ’cause somebody wanted private time. I sit where I sit, and I hear what I hear, which brings me to wonder what kind of feats the new downstairs neighbors are going to bring to the table.
The former people below me had a brief, unobtrusive sexual calendar that was very accommodating for me. Only woke me up a handful of times.
But it’s been quiet down there lately. Maybe they’re waitin’ on me to set the tone. Little do they know, I only get my lovin’ on in high-class steak joints, in order to avoid the shame that comes with communal love-making. I believe it was a little known bard from the 17th century that quoth, “Don’t crap where you eat, and don’t love where you live,” at least according to what is scratched in the stall where I get it on. In the men’s washroom, everyone assumes you just downed a choice cut, and are enjoying an opulent BM. Nothin’ weird about that.
I’ve got a number of unfinished projects on my desk right now. Screenplays, sitcom pilots, a novel, an erotic novella, a few doodles of me slaying an evil unicorn and then saving some lusty broad from a castle tower. And also, this: a rough outline of the first in a series of lectures, an ongoing symposium, if you will, to be delivered to the students of Harvard Law School, when I receive an honorary doctorate degree from that institution, 23 years from now, after accomplishing a to be determined feat.
My first action: in front of a packed classroom in Austin Hall, I will hold up the textbook, Everything You Need To Know About Law, and address the students. “Do you all see what I’m holding in my hand? This book? Take a look. Everything You Need To Know About Law. (I’ll slowly rotate so everyone gets an eyeful, then bring it down, flip through a few pages) A fella could learn a thing or two from this.” Then I throw it over my shoulder, out the window, and say “That’s everything you need to know about law.” Hold for applause. Only then do I realize that I forgot to open the window beforehand. Glass shatters everywhere. No big deal. I tell the most knock-kneed, pock-faced chowderhead to clean it up, and wink at the cute chick in the front row.
I’ll continue: “You probably all want to hear about how I was once like you, a young, eager law student who put his pants on one leg at a time. Eat this guys—I don’t give a wet slap about law, and I don’t put my pants on one leg at a time, never have. The first time I dressed myself I sat on my bed with my pants at my feet. I scrunched the bottom of the pants up to the top, held them in both hands, and slipped both legs through at the same time.”
After that, give them all some bogus writing assignment on why they want to be lawyers, then duck out and play hacky sack on the quad with some major femininas.
I think that Kmart commercial would have been a lot funnier if everyone, instead of saying they just shipped their pants, said they had just shit their pants. There’s nothing funny about pants being loaded into a truck and delivered somewhere. And if they used my suggestion, there could be some kind of tie-in campaign with cleaning supplies and laundry detergent.