Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Attention, three people who have ever read this: I have moved to 

You can read all the fun new stuff over there! 

Monday, September 12, 2011

"The Rapture"

I stroll into the bathroom and rip a hot piss into the sink while my boys laugh in the other room. In a framed photo Trey's mom smiles in her Sunday best while she watches me. I chuckle and high five myself. I wish I was in my truck so I could honk my horn. "Hey bros," I say, "guess whose sister is getting the old..."

I turn the corner and the basement is empty. The couches are bare. Not a single bro is left; only a folded ballcap that says Cocks remains. It is disturbingly quiet. There is no laughter; there is no talk of anal sex. The TV is on, but once I realize the gravity of the situation, America's Funniest Home Videos is anything but. It hits me like a slap on the beanbag: this is the Rapture. My friends are gone - whisked away to Heaven, while I, perhaps the lone sinner of the gang, am left to wander this abandoned planet, considering my faults. While my friends enjoy eternal bliss with their families and porn stars, I will be alone on Earth, regretting all of those hot pisses I ripped in sinks. What else have I done to deserve this fate? I consider the jet-skis I stole and the extreme air I caught on them. Did I hit the wake too hard? Did I get too much air? Should I have donated some of that air to the less fortunate? I think of the time I staged a party in my bedroom just to have shirtless pictures of myself pounding sugar-free Rockstars to upload to Facebook. Does Ari from Entourage count as a false idol? Images flash across my mind: sexually explicit touchdown celebration dances; BitTorrent downloads of the Fast and Furious pentalogy; putting my lips right on the water fountain spout when I had strep throat just because I am a dick.

I remove my clothing and assume the child's pose on the floor of Trey's basement. I am alone now, trapped with my sins, and I know that I should repent to the Heavens, to strip myself to my primal essence and beg forgiveness for all of the hotel towels I rubbed my butt on and all of the lab partners I sexted in vain. I remove from the wall a framed photo of Trey shaking hands with Muggsy Bogues and shatter the glass over my head. I dance in a circle and chant incomprehensible sounds. It feels right; I know it is right. I spin in violent circles until the room is a smear and I fall to the ground, nude on a pile of glass and camouflage cargo shorts. I look skyward and shout, "I apologize for defecating in my sister's backpack! I repent for eating frozen yogurt samples with no intent to make a purchase! I atone for all of the heckling of other fans on the lawn at DMB shows!" and I rear back, a bull ready to charge. I aim myself at the television, a fifty-five inch big-screen, about three feet deep. I sprint into it, releasing a guttural scream from my bowels, hoping this gesture will prove to whatever higher power exists that I am truly sorry for mooning that family while I wakeboarded past them. I crash through the screen and a shower of sparks tickles my back. My hair is fried stiff and I have been electrocuted.

A door opens and there is noise. I cannot see anything from the cage of glass and plastic I reside in. Is it God? An angel? I can only hear muffled noises. "What the fuck? We go to Arby's for five minutes and this is what he does?"

I am frozen and bleeding. The Rapture did not come, but Arby's did. I hope those assholes got me something.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

"Before Last Names"

Dear Ophelia,

I am writing...Hang on, before I start this let's just sort this out to avoid all the confusion from last time. So this letter is meant for Ophelia, daughter of Ophelia, daughter of Ophelia, in the house of Lucius. The Lucius with the long hair, not the bald Lucius my last letter apparently went to. I mean the Lucius with the long dark hair, the one who sells olives. And then, within his house, I mean the Ophelia who is twenty years old. I know there are a few Ophelias in there, so I need this to go to the one who is intolerant of lactose. I don't know how else to describe her. She looks a lot like the other Ophelias in there and one time I learned the hard way after fornicating furiously with one of them who was apparently not my Ophelia. So maybe to find the right one you could make all of the Ophelias drink milk and find the one who throws up the most and give her my letter? But I guess at that point she'd probably be in a pretty bad mood. I don't know. She's the Ophelia with a mole on her hand. Someone will figure this out.

Ophelia, my sweet Ophelia... Christ, I'm almost out of ink now. Long story short, I'm pretty sure my horse ate your mother today. I would elaborate but I'm almost out of ink. Is your mother the Ophelia with the reddish-brown hair, or one of the Ophelias with the brownish-red hair? Maybe we could just give her a second name, something like Ophelia Horsefeed, so we can remember she was the one who got eaten by the horse.

-Tiberius, son of Tiberius, son of Gaius, the one with the long index finger. But not the really long index finger, that's a different guy.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

"Good Seal"

I straighten my bow-tie and tuck my shirt in again. My father's tuxedo hangs off of me and every time I adjust the sleeves I blow my alibi of being a man. My armpits are transparent with sweat and cologne. She is in a dress and I don’t know how to describe it. Shiny. Beautiful. Purple? She tells me I smell like gasoline and I hush her as we crawl into the cannon. The seal is already in there and he doesn’t make a peep, just like we agreed. If the ring leader hosting the show out in the big-top knew we were in here he’d beat me with a big shoe.

We are packed in tight, sealed in total darkness. We are greased with elephant fat to ensure a smooth take-off. The fuse is on its last fibers. Boom. We rocket out of the cannon, me and her hugging this seal, Lucas, the Lord’s most beautiful and slippery creature. We shoot skyward, through the tent and towards the heavens. Cool sky melts behind us and the clowns are screaming from the ground, noisy ants, some red, some black, some in a tiny car. The moon beckons us and with a gust of wind, an exhalation from God, my tuxedo slips off of me and I am revealed for the creature I am: long, gangly, greasy, young, and eager. My father died in that tuxedo, caught on the wrong end of a black market pancake deal gone sour, but I will die without it. Her dress is torn in two and she grips Lucas the seal, nude and free and joyous. We lock eyes as the world becomes a period and we know we have transcended the finality of our terrestrial bind. Lucas balances a beach ball on his nose. It does not waver in the two-hundred mile-per-hour wind. Good seal.

We are Adam and Eve. Adam and Eve and Lucas the seal. We kiss passionately over Mercury and the hairs on our neck stand up. Is it the magic moment? Is this the hand of God urging us to a new universe, beckoning us to populate it? I feel we have defied physics, because how can fireworks exist in outer space? Or is it the heat of the sun’s rays igniting our epidermis? The flames grow stronger and the almighty sun engulfs our field of vision. Pure yellow, pure red, pure fire. Lucas’s blood boils and the steam smells of berries. The stench hits me and I know how wrong I was. We are no Adam and Eve. We are Icarus. The heat rays make contact with the thick layer of cologne on my skin and with a Devil's handshake they merge, lighting my acne-scarred skin on fire. Pure hellfire licks my face and body. We are a shooting star. We are a ball of light, pure energy, pure wonder, pure pain, an unbreakable bond glued together by our mutual enjoyment of a Motion City Soundtrack song. I sniff and realize she was right all along: I do smell like gasoline. My lady and I are blinded and we embrace, knowing our fate is to be broiled on the surface of the sun.

Those, sir, are my intentions with your daughter. I hope that you will trust her with me during tonight’s homecoming dance.

"Am I the Guy?"

Am I the guy you’ve been waiting your whole life for?
Am I the guy you take home to mom and dad?
Am I the guy you brag to your friends about?
-Oh he’s just the greatest; he can eat so many wax candles.

Am I the guy inspiring your diary entries?
-Dear diary, he did it again! He shot an ear of corn out of his nose.
-Dear diary, he made me a birthday card out of skunk skin. Prince Charming!
Am I the guy your friends talk about when you all gorge yourselves on stolen tomatoes?

Am I the guy you think about before bed?
Am I the guy who sends you pictures of hot dogs cut to look like penises?
Am I the guy who talks to your socks?
Am I the guy you wrote that psychology paper about?

Am I the guy you text your friends about?
-Just wanted to say, he smells like rotten seafodd
-I think he might sleep in a dumpster
-Sorry, seafood* in the one from before

Am I the guy who stinks up your apartment?
Am I the guy who clogs your shower with blood clots?
Am I the guy who eats everything in your pantry and sneaks out the back window before you even wake up?
Am I the guy who sugars your gas tank because you told me you like sweets?

Am I the guy you write letters about to your dead grandma’s skeleton?
Am I the guy you lie to your dog about?
Am I the guy who has been eating your dog’s food?
Seriously, all that food is gone and my breath stinks and I have a stomach ache. I've found evidence of all of the above things and I really worried I'm the guy who has been doing them.

Friday, September 2, 2011

"iLearn That Life is Not a Game"


Wednesday, August 31, 2011

"Come On, Dad, We're Just Trying to Hang Out"

On that very day Abraham took his son, Ishmael, and every male in his household, including those born there and those he had bought. Then he circumcised them, cutting off their foreskins, just as God had told him. (Genesis 17:23)

Hey guys,

I’m writing this just to say that I’m really sorry about what happened at the sleepover last Saturday. It was just terrible timing, and I swear my dad is usually pretty cool. I'm not sure what got into him. He usually uses that little knife just to slice vegetables to put in this really killer pasta salad. I know I said we'd play some card games and eat snacks, but sometimes things don’t go as planned and, hey, what can you do? It was just as traumatizing for me as it was for you when my father burst into the basement with his scalpel and started chanting, "Time to peel some ding-dongs." Hopefully one day we will come to laugh about the sadistic look on my dad's face when he told us he was not playing a prank. So we’re all a little lighter in the loins, but at least it looks pretty sleek, right? My girlfriend, Rebecca, told me it looks less like a serpent now, which it pretty cool.

I would like to invite you all over next Friday to atone for the horrors we endured. There will be truth-or-dare, a basket of tomatoes, and on the off-chance my dad decides to stomp on our balls or something, I will ask that you wear a protective cup.