Well, I’m home… again. After my “Adventures
in Greenville” over Thanksgiving, I was looking forward
to a barrage of similarly crazy escapades over Christmas, but there were really only a few, so I can probably sum it up in
a single entry. We’ll see.
First
of all, let me just say that both Delta and Northwest Airlines can suck my Dick Tracy.
I will probably NEVER fly again, and if I do, it will be to hijack a plane and fly it into an airline’s corporate
office. I probably shouldn’t joke about that, since the CIA reads my site,
but I used to be an operative before I went into the Witness Protection Program, and there’ll be hell to pay if they
come after me.
I
know things about pigeons, Marian…
Anyway,
my roommate Richard had volunteered to give me a ride to the airport, but he had to work that morning, so I drove up to my
old place of employment, Client Logic, to wait for him to get out of a meeting.
I’ve
never mentioned my ex-company by name before, but I’m gonna do so now because it truly IS a fucked up place to spend
eight hours a day. As soon as I walked in, my old work buddies started shuffling
over to me, their arms outstretched, their faces pale and zombie-like. Their
collective rendition of the old negro hymn, “Master Got Me Working”, slowly came to a halt.
“Why
did you leave us, Michael?” they groaned, purple tendons hanging from skeletal limbs, “Come back to us… Join us… Be one of us again…”
I
hit the closet girl with Richard’s office chair, then swinging a torch from side to side to keep the rest at bay.
“GET
BACK, YOU SONS OF BITCHES!!!” But on they came, their low, incoherent moans
echoing from the sterile cubical walls. Bereft of weapons, I unzipped my pants
and brandished my phallus, then holding the still-lit torch right in front of it.
“I’M
NOT KIDDING, GOD DAMN IT!!!” I screamed, “I’LL BURN THE LOT OF YA!!!”
Alas,
they didn’t understand the power of my penis, and I let loose with a fire hose blast of urine. Since said urine is about 90% alcohol, it ignited in the open air and caused a literal holocaust right
outside of Richard’s cubical. Like a flamethrower I wielded my Johnson
in all directions, putrid office ghouls going up like giant packs of matches, their sixty page TPS reports becoming kindling.
At
least two dozen were sent to whatever hells they believed in, their mindless corpses evaporating until there was nothing left
but scorched piles of goo on the carpet.
“Whhhhyyyy???”
the last one screamed as her face fell apart, and I almost started crying.
“Believe
me, Gretchen, I did you a favor…”
A
deep grumbling of thunder rolled across the smoldering battlefield, and I heard a voice whisper, “It is finished…”
Extinguishing
the torch in a nearby garbage can, I returned my penis to its housing just in time to see Richard rounding the corner.
“Hey
man,” he greeted, nonchalantly eyeing the carpet, “What happened here?”
“Ah,
the usual,” I replied, “You ready?”
“Sure
am, let’s get you on a plane!”
The horror…
The horror…
I
honestly can’t believe I spent five years in that hellhole. The desperation
is palpable, hundreds upon hundreds toiling away without ever realizing that they will never be promoted, and that even if
they are, (as I was), it’s only until their ability to kiss ass falls beneath their ability to actually do the job.
I
am free now. Truly. I work for a
noble man, a noble company. As God is my witness, I’ll never go hungry
again…
***
Okay,
so the flight from Asheville to Atlanta was largely uneventful, but as soon as I got off the plane and started checking the Departure Boards for my flight
to Memphis,
I knew I was fucked. Every single flight to Memphis had “Cancelled” out
beside it, the airport itself jam packed with thousands upon thousands of people.
There
were lines everywhere, and no one to talk to.
A
physically FORCED conversation with a Chinese businessman in the guy’s bathroom revealed that a snowstorm had descended
upon the northeast, and that the Memphis Airport had been closed.
I
was stranded, and- after pulling the Chinese businessman’s head out of the urinal and threatening him to secrecy- I
did what any ninja badass would do… I called my parents.
*
ring… * ring… *
“Diet Center, this is Linda.”
“Mommy? Mommy it’s little Mike!”
“Hey,
sweetie! Where are you?”
“I’m
in Atlanta,
and I’m scared! There are so many people here! They’re everywhere, and I hate them! I’m never
flying again, NEVER!!! Do you hear me?
I’m NEVER FLYING AGAIN!!!”
Just
so you know, I really do hate people. Seriously. There
are WAY too many humans on this planet, which is why I advocate both Abortion AND the Death Penalty. Parents who have babies piss me off, and I decided right then and there that I was never going to procreate. Yes, my children would rule the world. I
get that. But the 2nd Age of Reason a new batch of Descado’s
would bring is inconsequential to the sheer number of Homo sapiens that have infected the earth. If I was a robot, all the rest of you sons of bitches would be FUCKED!!!
Agent Smith from the Matrix ain’t got shit on me!!!
I
spent the night in a hotel in Atlanta, which wasn’t so very bad since they had high speed internet in the rooms, and hookers in the
phone book.
The
next day I woke up and got dressed in the SAME UNDERWEAR I’d worn the day before, upon which I realized that I have
a certain “smell”, a certain “musk”. Yes, I took a shower,
but that only made it worse since I was clean and my clothes were saturated with the scent of sweaty Mike.
I
would later try and hit on a hotel receptionist who asked me if the lobby suddenly “stunk”.
I
kicked her in the GDP and then took the complimentary shuttle back to the Atlanta Airport.
I’ve
talked enough about this, so let me just say that I spent the next FOURTEEN HOURS between Atlanta and Memphis, eventually
arriving in Greenville at around 7:00 PM, (keep in mind, I got up at six that morning).
Man,
FUCK Delta Airlines! I know they can’t
control the weather, but a stewardess told me that the Memphis Airport wasn’t equipped with de-icing machinery, and that THAT’S why they’d had to close.
Nice
planning, dumbasses. You think just because it’s “The South”
that you don’t have to think ahead? Tell ya what, instead of paying your
crack team of security officers to cavity search me at the terminal, how about spending some of that money on inclement weather
protocol?
Yeah,
yeah, 911. Uh, huh. I get it. But what you have to realize is that terrorists will NEVER be able to take over a
plane like that again. The mindset of fear has been SOOO effectively engrained
by the Bush administration, there’s no way a hundred or more passengers would simply sit back and LET three or four
Iraqi guys hold them hostage with GOD DAMN BOXCUTTERS!!!
I
know I’m being insensitive, yet, I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if someone like me, or my
brother Eric, or my friend Kyle, or even [Super Asskicker], had been on one of those flights that crashed into the World Trade
Centers. Maybe I would’ve remained docile under the promise that “nobody
will be hurt if you cooperate,” but I seriously doubt it.
I’ve
beaten people’s asses for far less than sticking a half inch Exacto knife in my face, and I actually heard that the
fourth plane- the one that crashed in that field- was diverted from its target by a group of normal guys, (one of them a Judo
player), who were informed via cell phone of the terrorists’ intentions.
God
damn it, my fellow Americans!!! FIGHT!!!
Our military is the greatest the world has ever known. Shouldn’t
our civilian population share AT LEAST some measure of courage?!?
Ah,
fuck me... I don’t know what I would’ve done. It just pisses me off that such a senseless tragedy occurred. Not
because it WAS so senseless, or that it WAS so tragic, but that it’s been used to orchestrate an ongoing war that is
virtually unrelated.
The
world makes me sad sometimes.
ENOUGH
OF THIS SHIT!!! I don’t even know how I got on the subject of 911, so let’s
move on…
I
was picked up at the Greenville Airport by my father, and from there we drove, (in his BADASS corvette), to this restaurant called “Shaman’s”
to await the arrival of my mother.
That
particular dinner isn’t realty worth mentioning, except for one thing. It
was just me and Dad sitting there by ourselves for a good thirty minutes, and I felt really bad that we couldn’t simply
“talk”.
In
one of my “Adventures in Greenville” stories, I claimed to have gotten a chance to talk to him, but that wasn’t really true. Certainly on a superficial level, but there are so many things I want to know about
my father, so many things I want him to know about me. Yet, whenever we get the
opportunity, whenever it’s just us, (without Mom around), we always choke.
For
the last five years, each time I’ve found it necessary to go back home, I always vow to somehow orchestrate a “Me
and Dad” night, a night were he and I go out to a bar, order a fuckload of drinks, and gradually lose our father/son
inhibitions within the freedom of alcohol.
So
much distance has grown between us that getting drunk together is the only way either of us will ever “open up”,
the only way we’ll ever discover one another again. A few thousand years
ago, Latin speaking people called this phenomenon “In Vino Veritas”, which means, In wine, there is truth.
Mark
and remember, Perseus, because it will come into play later…
Mom
eventually arrived and the small talk continued until it was time to go home and go to bed.
I slept fitfully, but without dreams.
The
next day was Christmas Eve, and I awoke to learn that we were having Christmas Dinner THAT night instead of the following
morning. I’m not sure why Mom wanted to do it that way, but I didn’t
care. As soon as she started cooking, the house was filled with the aroma of
roasting turkey, mashed potatoes, and buttery corn. It took me back to a time
when the entire clan would get together at my Grandmother Lucille’s house, there to laugh and joke and be a family.
I
miss those times. I miss the parts of my childhood that didn’t suck.
Alas,
I was also to learn that our now-much-smaller clan would be joined by people from my parents’ church, two of which were
Beatrice Grabmyass, and that 70’s porno looking guy with the crossed eyes- both from my “Me + Church = !@#$%”
story.
I
immediately threw a temper tantrum.
“GOD
DAMN IT, MOM!!! This is OUR family, OURS!!!
I don’t know these people! I don’t have anything in common
with these people! My beliefs, politics, and general world views are totally
different from theirs! You and Dad get a free pass because you’re my parents,
but I don’t extend that courtesy to everybody, so, if you want me to sit quietly at the table while you guys chit chat
about bullshit, go ahead and have ‘em over! Ya know what? Go ahead! Seriously! I
WANT you to have ‘em over! I haven’t RUINED SOMEONE’S SHIT
in a while now! Yeah, go ahead! I
can’t WAIT for somebody to ask me MY thoughts on something! And, I’ll
tell you another thing, someday I’m gonna be drunk when you pull some shit like this, and… Ah, fuck it!”
Like
a five year old girl who didn’t get what she wanted for Christmas, I stormed off to my room, then to seethe there atop
the bed. Despite my childish anger, I was literally envisioning fucked up stuff
to say to whoever showed up, thusly deadset on concocting a social Armageddon the likes of which the most dastardly of reality
shows has never seen.
I
was gonna teach my mother a long overdue lesson. I was gonna MAKE her “respect
my boundaries”, (I term I got from Lori Banderas, after she met Mom in person).
I was gonna force my mother to accept that her vision of me is NOT who I am.
Ten
minutes later, Mom appeared in the doorway of the bedroom I spent eighteen years in.
Her demeanor was quiet, reserved, almost wise.
“I
didn’t realize that’s how you felt…” she said, “But, you’re right… This is our family, our
Christmas dinner… Beatrice is the only one I’ve made definite plans
with, so, I’ll call her right now and cancel… The rest I won’t
call at all… It’s just that these people don’t have a family… They don’t have anyone to eat Christmas Dinner with… I only invited them because they’re my friends…”
I
said nothing, and Mom departed as silently as she’d come, leaving me alone in my bed to feel like the biggest asshole
that ever walked the earth.
Generally,
I have no pity, no remorse, no empathy for others. The way I grew up is a coward’s
excuse, but I remember a poem by D. H. Lawrence I heard in high school that sums it up, one that was later featured in the
movie “GI Jane” with Demi Moore.
I’m
doing this from memory, so, if I get it wrong, FUCK YOU!!!
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a
bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
That’s
me, or so I like to believe… The truth is, while, no, I don’t feel
sorry for myself, I cannot abide undeserved cruelty. I take fiendish pride in
knocking the arrogant and assured and sadistic from their pedestals. I take pride
in turning the predatory observance of weakness into the horrifying realization of intentionally disguised power. I take pride in hurting people for DARING to undermine my own pride.
Still,
what I like to believe is wrong. I’m
not that frozen, unremorseful bird. I’m the warm yet callused bystander
who watches it drop dead from the bough. I’m everything that’s primordially
evil in the world, and- at the same time- everything that’s inescapably natural…
I
went to my mother as she was picking up the phone and I told her to hang up, I told her to let Beatrice come. No matter how uncomfortable Beatrice eating dinner with us would make ME feel, I had to accept the fact
that I was merely being sorry for myself, that the true cruelty would be to force this widowed woman to spend her afternoon
alone.
Yes,
Mom did what she did out of ignorance, out of a complete and perpetual inability to respect other people’s boundaries,
(namely, mine). Yet, it was the noble thing to do. Along this line, yes, Mom sees me once a year at most. Yes,
I’m her son. Yes, she should KNOW that this particular collection of hours
was allotted to family, to the healing of old wounds.
Yes,
yes, and yes… And it means nothing.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
Regardless,
that same bird may feel sorry for the kindred bird beside it, the bird that dropped dead first, the bird that never lasted
as long.
Whether
or not Mom truly decided not to call the other church members on her Christmas Dinner “Guest List”, Beatrice was
the only one who showed, (as far as “family”, my uncle Clint was supposed to come too, but transportation problems
prevented it), and the four of us- Mom, Dad, me and Beatrice- did our best to put a dent in a feast that would’ve fed
a small battalion.
As
I expected, it was tense and uncomfortable, since Beatrice did indeed reiterate her sexual offers for me to be her “beefy
young buck”. She actually asked if I had a girlfriend, and when I said,
“Yeah, I’m kinda seeing this woman from Jackson, who kicks ass.” Beatrice
responded with disdain, going so far as to pout and sneer, “That’s the wrong answer, Michael!”
My
cold indifference probably conveyed the appropriate message, (both to Beatrice, and to Mom), buy I cannot regret the fact
that our little family of three paid service to an outlander. Despite what I’ve
said above, Beatrice, (whose real name is “Helen”), is a spirited and inspiring person to be around. I have no intention of living to be her age, but, if I do, I’ll be well pleased if I’m still
as full of beans.
Merry
Christmas, Helen. I don’t really know you, but I bet you’ve lived
a life worthy of inclusion in this tale…
***
I
had to stop just now and fix another bourbon and diet coke. Honestly, this doesn’t
sound like me writing. It sounds like a giant walking vagina has taken over my
computer keyboard, and NOBODY PUTS BABY IN A CORNER!!!
Okay,
so, Christmas (Eve) Dinner lasted about forty five minutes, and then we were off to the Lutheran Church for a seven o’clock homage to the bastard baby of a
Jewish deity and a Nazarene virgin, (yeah, right). Assuming you’ve read
my “Me + Church = !@#$%” story, I’m not gonna go into the hellish experience of mingling with the congregation. They were mostly still old people, except that a few of the soon-to-be worm farms
had brought their grandchildren.
My
little cousins were there as well, (you remember Anna, right?), along with their mothers, Melissa and Sarah, and Sarah’s
two kids- whose names I can’t remember. As has always been true in my life,
the little ones flocked to me, and I spent the service trying NOT to let the wee lasses light the church on fire with their
Noel candles.
Okay,
okay, I was actually ENCOURAGING them to burn the place down, but Melissa and Sarah kept fucking it all up by being, well,
mothers.
I’d
actually positioned myself to sit on the pew with Melissa, Sarah, and their menagerie to keep from having to sit with Beatrice,
who was standing a disappointed guard with my own parents in the row directly behind us, (yeah, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…).
Jesus
probably gotta good laugh outta that.
I’m
not sure I need mention this, but I hadn’t exactly “dressed up” for the occasion, my attire consisting of
jeans, hiking boots, and a maroon Chaps sweatshirt. Hey! It’s a progressive church, and I don’t have to look like a million bucks to celebrate the birth
of Yahweh’s kid, right?
I
regretted this later. But we’ll get to that.
With
my cousins in attendance, (and my parents behind me, where I couldn’t see their disapproving glares), I had no choice
but to be a dickhead, and- since she was right beside me- I spent the service cracking my cousin Melissa up.
Employing
under-the-breath jeers like, “Jesus, the other white meat!”, and “The body of Christ: it’s what’s
for dinner!”, I had her in stitches- so much so that at one point, Melissa grabbed me discretely by the arm, squeezed
my bicep as hard as she could and hissed, “Damn you, Mike. I NEVER come
to church! That shit was funny twenty years ago, but if you have me acting a
fool in here, I’m gonna kick your ass!”
“As
it is God’s will,” I replied, dead pan, “So let the prophecy be fulfilled…”
I
had a great time. I have no idea what the Christmas “message” was
about, but then, I probably know more scripture than any seven people in that congregation, so they can pretty much eat my
ass with their cutting eyes and their “Shhhhh’s!”
One
side note that needs mentioning here, is that I think I might’ve stumbled upon a girl I’m eventually pursue with
genuine interest. During the service, I kept looking around to see if anybody
besides my cousins thought I was the funniest guy in attendance, and I kept seeing this Asian chick studying me as if I were
a specimen in a Biology petree dish. She wasn’t smiling, she wasn’t
frowning, she was just watching me… Ponderously, objectively, indifferently,
she was watching me.
Her
hair was long and shiny and dark, her eyes almond shaped behind the kind of sixties “nerd glasses” pseudo intellectual
hippie chicks wear here in Asheville. Because she was wearing a big black coat, I couldn’t
get an exact sense of her build. Still, I’m an expert on such things, and
I’d guess she sported the lithe, boyish body of most woman of Asian descent.
(And
when I say “boyish”, I don’t mean that in any type of homosexual way.
Haven’t I made it abundantly clear on this website that I’m not gay?
Well, pretty much? …Don’t get excited my four loyal MALE readers,
you’re barking up the wrong tree, and I’ll probably beat your ass for it.)
NEVERTHELESS,
I found her strangely enticing, partly because she was attractive, and partly because she was so out of place, (remember,
besides my family, and the abundance of roaming grandchildren, this stranger was the only person that even approximated being
my age).
Much
to my dismay, none of my younger cousins set the church on fire with their Noel candles, (a fact I blame on myself…
because I’m a shitty uncle… who doesn’t know how to properly educate his kin on pyrotechnics), and the Christmas
Eve service ended without calamity.
No
sooner than the farcical Judeo-Christian ritual broke up, I was bombarded by smiling well wishers and gushing strangers who
wanted to bask in my titanic might.
“Have
you met little Mike?” my mother kept saying, which I find ironic since only a professional wrestler would consider me
“little”. Most of ‘em actually HAD met me over Thanksgiving,
but their collective Alzheimer’s made me a perpetual alien.
“Nice
to meet you, young man. It’s so great to see your generation in church.”
“Yeah,
well, I worship Satan, so this is kind of new for me. Do you guys sacrifice anything? I brought my knives.”
“Huh? Did you just say you worshipped-”
“Gotta
go!”
And
that’s how it went from person to person, group to group, me amusing myself by throwing in little jeers like that anytime
Mom wasn’t close enough to hear.
I
told one lady that I was only here to see if Jesus would heal my Chlamydia.
Eventually,
Mom dragged me over to the back of the sanctuary, there to introduce me to the cute Asian chick I’d been scoping out
before… and her Mom.
“Mike,
this is Theresa Khanter.”
“Oh
yeaaaah,” I replied, shaking Theresa’s hand, “You’re my brother’s friend, right?”
“Um,
yes, but you and I have spoken before on the phone. I was supposed to come to
Asheville
for a wedding? And you were gonna show me around?
It was a couple of months ago?”
DOH!!! I’d done it again, my memory going back to that time at Phil’s wedding
when one of the Bridesmaids said “hey” to me, and I responded with, “Have we met?”
“Uh,
yeah… Several times…
Thanks,
bourbon!
Anyway,
Theresa and I made polite chit chat, and I could tell right away that she was smarter than me.
Well, okay, we all know that’s not possible, so let’s just say that she was a genius. Articulate, poised, and perhaps even a little reserved, she exuded the kind of mature yet humble intelligence
that makes one wanna start giggling like a retard.
“Ah,
golly shucks gee whiz, Theresa… You so brainy… If you were a cat food, you’d be Kibbles and THE SHIT!!!”
Yeah,
I’m supremely attracted to intelligent women, especially when they’re not conceited about it, (like me). Alas, I knew that Theresa had gone out with my brother Eric, and that put me in a
very precarious position.
You
see, there’s a code amongst brothers that prevents one from dating the other’s romantic interests, even if this
particular interest was a long time ago, and not that serious. As such, I played
it really cool, going so far as to intentionally NOT hit on Theresa, which is kind of hard for me since I’m a whore.
I’m
sure she thought I was really shy and really NOT interested, but I had to do it that way because I’m either hot or cold,
never luke warm.
At
any rate, church ended and we went our separate ways. I figured we’d never
see each other again, but my mother (of all people) had other plans. Theresa’s
part in this story ain’t over yet, so stay tuned…
***
The
next morning arrived to find the Christmas tree void of presents, a fact I kind of expected, but was genuinely hoping against.
My parents had already hooked me up with my favorite gift, CASH, and I guess
they didn’t have enough left over to buy me a shirt or some new underwear.
No
problem, there was still plenty of Christmas food to be had, and the three of us spent the day pigging out on leftovers. Eric called from Arizona later that afternoon, and he told me all about his new endeavors.
He recently purchased his own security business, and he’s having trouble collecting on some outstanding debt
he inherited. I found this strange, and when I asked why he hadn’t RUINED
SOMEONE’S SHIT, Eric informed me that there are certain legal restrictions that prevent account settling by violent
means.
Sounds
like a bunch of police double-speak to me.
“Hey,
man! You buy me a plane ticket, and I’ll come down there and shove a few
umbrellas up a few asses!”
“I
don’t think so, Mike,” Eric replied, “In fact, I’m pretty sure that would only make it worse.”
His
loss…
It
was mine too though, because even after talking to Eric for a good HOUR, I totally forgot to ask him about Theresa. I required a Papal blessing from him to pursue her, and since I hadn’t obtained it yet, I was a cold
fish to Theresa when she called later that day.
* ring * ring *
“Hello?”
“Hi,
this is Theresa Kanter. Is Linda available?”
I
could be wrong, but I think Theresa identified herself right off the bat in hopes that I would strike up a conversation. That was my immediate wish, anyway, because I wanted to talk to her too. Alas, I was still in the “brother no fly” zone, and I responded with:
“Sure,
hang on… Moooooom! Teeeleeephone!!!”
Mom
got on and I hung up, then shaking my head in disgust because of how much of a dumbass high school moron I am. But then, if you don’t have loyalty, you don’t have anything.
Mom
came sauntering into the kitchen ten minutes later.
“Guess
who that was?”
“My
dignity?”
“No,
smart guy. It was Theresa Kanter. She
wanted to ask me about writing a letter to the head of Delta Airlines over the terrible way they’ve handled all this
bad weather.”
(Theresa
was currently mid-journey back home)
“Nerd
Alert!!!” I chimed.
“Stop
it, Michael. I think she was actually wanting to talk to YOU! I really like Theresa, you couldn’t say two words to her?”
“I’m
sorry, Mom. I’m emotionally immature.”
“Yes,
you are. But I’ve got her email address and her phone number in Atlanta.
Maybe you should call her or something?”
“Maybe
I should put on a diaper and let you rub Vaseline on my hinny? You could tell
me how special it is, and how it’s different from everyone else’s?”
“Oh,
Michael Junior…” Mom sighed, sliding a piece of paper over to me with Theresa’s info on it, “You could
do worse than a smart girl like that, and I need some grandbabies…”
Mom
left the kitchen before I could remind her that she probably already had SEVERAL grandbabies, of which both she and I are
unaware.
I
sat there at the kitchen bar and stared at the small piece of paper, once again torn between the desire to call this class
act of a lady, and the self-imposed loathing that always accompanies thoughts of dicking my brother over.
Luckily,
the phone rang again at that very moment. It was none other than my pseudo internet
girlfriend Lori Banderas calling to secure our plans for that night. Lori was
in nearby Cleveland visiting her own family for Christmas, and she was gonna drive down later that day to pick me up and take
me back to Cleveland for a night of drunken debauchery with some of our old college friends.
