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.

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