Miranda Pettibon walks up to the front door of her Mother's Wilmington home with news of her Uncle's death in Mt. Airy.
Mother opens the door.
Mother- Ohhh Dandy! Look at your precious face.
Miranda- Hi momma. I didn't have time to do my make-up.
Mother- Oh you look naturally gorgeous!
Miranda- Is my wrinkle still smiling to all the world?
Mother- This cute little dimple? No matter how hard you try, there's no cream that can remove it "so don't even try".
Miranda- Well I still "try" to listen to what you've always said, " it's a second smile I'm too lucky to lose."
Mother- Yes. I know you don't seem to like it, but it's true. Now look at these real wrinkles.
Miranda- Stop it. You're the beauty queen. Oh I miss this couch. I miss sleeping on it in the afternoon.
Mother- The afternoon's never a good time to be sleeping.
Miranda- It's good to sleep when you can. Night time's not always the right time.
Mother- Your father loved to watch TV on it.... There's plenty of time for sleepin'.....(dead and gone).
Miranda- Oh mother....It is really good to see you. Did you make any of your delicious tea this morning?
Mother- What kind of question is that? I'll be right back with a glass.
Miranda prepares to break the news of her mother's deceased brother.
Mother- Here you go Dandy. No bitter lemon.
Miranda- Thank you. Mother, I'm glad that you're alive and awake and smiling with your lips with all YOUR cute little dimples.
Mother- I'm glad you're here too.
Miranda- (pause) Did you hear from anyone today?
Mother- Only you.
Miranda- Well, you know I just had a long ride from Mt. Airy, that's why it's soo good to sit on this soft couch.
Mother- Yes, it's certainly a soft couch.
Miranda- You know I really feel like... I don't know if you'll even care...
Mother- Care about what?
Miranda- I can't bear that you probably won't give a damn..
Mother- About what? The greyhound? That bus isn't what it used to be when your father and I would ride it down to Savannah and then on down to Fort Lauderdale...
Miranda- Greyhound? I took Dottie's car. I drove it all the way here because "I" have to give you information that none of your relatives are able to. Because you won't talk to any of them.
Mother- My relatives..
Miranda- Your sister-in-law Dottie havin' ME to tell you this!
Mother- An in-law's not a relative, she's..
Miranda- She's married to your brother.
Mother- Why bring her up? We don't speak. It's really too nice of a day to waste the time.
Miranda- No chance now because the day's over.... He doesn't exist anymore!! Your brother died.
Mother- (pause) Why would she tell YOU that.
Miranda- It happened after I arrived visiting her and the rest of the family. How could I not find out?
Mother- I don't know why you had to go visit. I can only imagine the work they give you to do at that college. They don't talk to us and then all of a sudden...they're tellin' you.... It's just an inappropriate thing for a young woman who needs to worry about her own life havin' to think about that morbid business of average people she barely knows.
Miranda- People? Your brother? My uncle? Isn't it funny I went to my uncle's funeral! Why weren't you there?!
Mother- Now don't you tell me what I should and should not do and where I should be. (long pause) Why didn't she called me!?!??!?
Miranda- He was your BROTHER. You didn't talk to him or his wife that he loved for more than 20 some years.
Mother- That's nobody's business.
She walks to the front porch. Miranda grabs her.
Miranda- Why are you so cold towards everybody that tries to love you besides me.
Mother- Because you came from me and your father and they didn't show up for us when he passed, did they??. No.
Miranda- How could they when you and daddy both cut them off.? You came from them. You're still them!! You sound like your brother when you laugh..
Mother- Not anymore. I'm sure everyone's sorry that he passed, but that's really his wife's concern. Is she sorry that your father passed?
Miranda- You mean your sister-in-law? Of course. Even though daddy called her a bitch and punched uncle Buck and never apologized. You stood by.
Mother- I don't have any sisters. She's his Wife, period. Which I think it's time to think about becoming.
Miranda storms out onto the porch.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Kotex Comjenez
Barnaby Kotex was tip toeing east village curb lines with swift scoots to escape a gang of unruly jeerers following not too far behind him. He wore a yellow top hat which was filled with all the change he had saved for the past 3 weeks. The change was in little zip- loc bags duct taped to the inside of the rimmed canary head cylinder. Bobo Keeharney had been scoping Barnaby's treasure accumulation from his nearby 4th story window on Ludlow all week long and wasn't even aware that barnaby stored 3 weeks of coins. Bobo wanted to steal a week's worth of coins from Barnaby to take to Coney Island for a Ms. Pacman competition with Ijerdo Comjenez. Ijerdo ran a numbers racket for retirees in Brighton Beach for his main gig but loved a little hardcore ms. pacman competition on the side. Bobo also wanted some of the coins for coldcuts, cheese, and lightbulbs to give to his poor cousin who was sort of a pansy, but didn't want to look like a total feather-fluff-canary-egg-lay in front of his gang.
The gang jeered at Barnaby standing behind Bobo, but didn't do much else. A moment later when some of the members actually thought about stopping Barnaby, they didn't even think they would have to rob him. A few actually just sat down and talked to each other while the others did the jeering. They privately thought they could be lazier since they had a look that was soo intimidating. Thi was the whole gang's help to Bobo to get the coins from Barnaby. At the least, Barnaby was scooting on his tip-toes along the curb lines.
The gang jeered at Barnaby standing behind Bobo, but didn't do much else. A moment later when some of the members actually thought about stopping Barnaby, they didn't even think they would have to rob him. A few actually just sat down and talked to each other while the others did the jeering. They privately thought they could be lazier since they had a look that was soo intimidating. Thi was the whole gang's help to Bobo to get the coins from Barnaby. At the least, Barnaby was scooting on his tip-toes along the curb lines.
Monday, August 4, 2008
3
The shadowed burnt grey mountain ridge on the northern side of Santa Fe danced like dying flames in Tammy's eyes. Split second unfallen tears on the surface of her pupils reflected anticipation of another quick decision. "Albuquerque.. occupations come and go.
A train collided into a buick station wagon 3 miles away. A cockroach in the Buick's floorboard stood startled in roach confusion. As the buick's engine combusted in a series of chain reaction explosions, the driver's side door burst opened and un-belted Hardy flew from the sliding demolition. Rolling across rocks and dirt, instantly processing bruises, alive in the now.
Sally opened the cabinet of cleansers beneath the kitchen sink and examined a large white and blue bottle. She unscrewed the unsnug lid and inhaled the bleach within. She looked behind her and then stuck her small right index finger in the bottle's mouth. When she put that finger to her tongue, her father called her from the living room.
Tammy's bags fit in the hatchback trunk of her green 1984 chevette with room to spare. She wouldn't put them in the passenger's seat, because she always kept that seat available.
It was dark red, orange, and blue barely making out those tones by the time she was about 25 miles out of town. Things started to cool down. Everything but the rage for maybe what she did too hastily. She remembered how many times he hadn't been there. How many letters she'd received that were blanks. These emotions and memories were like a drug mixed with approaching night drive She feared the next 2 hours because that was the transition time of slipping into a driving daze. She'd swerve, she'd open her eyes and they'd try to shut again, she'd pull over but not for long. Her available seat wasn't during the nighttime in this desolation.
Hardy thought his left ankle was broke. He started to feel swelling in other areas of his body. A few people gathered, leaving their store fronts and all-of-a-sudden parked cars and trucks. A man bent down and told Hardy not to move, shocked by Hardy's burning buick 100's of feet away. He told Hardy that he was lucky he wasn't dead and to be still! Hardy resisted and sat up almost entirely straight. As he attempted to stand his left ankle gave way and he fell short, back to the ground. The man told him once again to be still! A woman forced her husband to call for an ambulance from a nearby payphone. Hardy farted, which was a physical sign of hope and relief.
He got up from the couch and stumbled to the kitchen. He knocke 2 pictures of Sally off the wall. One standing with her mother and Mickey Mouse. The other with her grandfather who Sally's father owed $10,000. He expressed that he couldn't stand the picture of Sally's grandfather who nagged, but not so often that he would actually receive his debt owed, just enough to keep Sally's father feeling blue and discouraged. When he made it past the broken glass and frames to the doorway to the kitchen. He eyed a 22 ounce michelob and reached out his left hand. He took and swig and complained that it was piss-warm. Then it sank in that his daughter was sitting with an opened bottle of bleach. He walked around a shabby breakfast table and kicked it away, knocking Sally's wrist with his shin. Sally rolled back and grabbed her wrist, drenching the back of her red shirt with Bleach. It would be pink and then white and she would wear it weeks later as a fashion trend. Art she created with her father.
A train collided into a buick station wagon 3 miles away. A cockroach in the Buick's floorboard stood startled in roach confusion. As the buick's engine combusted in a series of chain reaction explosions, the driver's side door burst opened and un-belted Hardy flew from the sliding demolition. Rolling across rocks and dirt, instantly processing bruises, alive in the now.
Sally opened the cabinet of cleansers beneath the kitchen sink and examined a large white and blue bottle. She unscrewed the unsnug lid and inhaled the bleach within. She looked behind her and then stuck her small right index finger in the bottle's mouth. When she put that finger to her tongue, her father called her from the living room.
Tammy's bags fit in the hatchback trunk of her green 1984 chevette with room to spare. She wouldn't put them in the passenger's seat, because she always kept that seat available.
It was dark red, orange, and blue barely making out those tones by the time she was about 25 miles out of town. Things started to cool down. Everything but the rage for maybe what she did too hastily. She remembered how many times he hadn't been there. How many letters she'd received that were blanks. These emotions and memories were like a drug mixed with approaching night drive She feared the next 2 hours because that was the transition time of slipping into a driving daze. She'd swerve, she'd open her eyes and they'd try to shut again, she'd pull over but not for long. Her available seat wasn't during the nighttime in this desolation.
Hardy thought his left ankle was broke. He started to feel swelling in other areas of his body. A few people gathered, leaving their store fronts and all-of-a-sudden parked cars and trucks. A man bent down and told Hardy not to move, shocked by Hardy's burning buick 100's of feet away. He told Hardy that he was lucky he wasn't dead and to be still! Hardy resisted and sat up almost entirely straight. As he attempted to stand his left ankle gave way and he fell short, back to the ground. The man told him once again to be still! A woman forced her husband to call for an ambulance from a nearby payphone. Hardy farted, which was a physical sign of hope and relief.
He got up from the couch and stumbled to the kitchen. He knocke 2 pictures of Sally off the wall. One standing with her mother and Mickey Mouse. The other with her grandfather who Sally's father owed $10,000. He expressed that he couldn't stand the picture of Sally's grandfather who nagged, but not so often that he would actually receive his debt owed, just enough to keep Sally's father feeling blue and discouraged. When he made it past the broken glass and frames to the doorway to the kitchen. He eyed a 22 ounce michelob and reached out his left hand. He took and swig and complained that it was piss-warm. Then it sank in that his daughter was sitting with an opened bottle of bleach. He walked around a shabby breakfast table and kicked it away, knocking Sally's wrist with his shin. Sally rolled back and grabbed her wrist, drenching the back of her red shirt with Bleach. It would be pink and then white and she would wear it weeks later as a fashion trend. Art she created with her father.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Jelly Rings
Quinton Liddlenuff stood stiffly staring beside a neighborhood mailbox toward his kooky Auntie Prom Gerbert's canary yellow and baby blue victorian house. Such pretty pastels painted on a factory of embarrassment and annoyance! Once again, Quinton was to deliver treats of acknowledgment from one distant sister to another, his mother to his Auntie Prom Gerbert. He was a meager delivery male-man for two odd women related by the prideful insecure blood. They had not spoken directly, sister to sister in over 4 months because of Quinton's mother's active duty as rheumatism nurse captain at a local foster home. "Mother should leave the foster home on her lunch break to deliver these gummy worms, given the recent nurse hirees!", he complained silently.
The remembrance of an embarrassing fiasco/tangle involving he and his auntie de psychotica made him cringe. Uncomfortably recollecting, "So sweet in the eyes of the public, getting them to think her humiliating actions toward her nephew are acts of feminine rowdy, clown-like kindness. SHE's a killer honey bee with a horrendous mullet hairdo! Wearing obnoxious sequined XL Looney Toons sweatsuits! Neon green reebok velcro hi-tops! That poofy clothed fake martial artist who abuses Flying Bat-Fu techniques (mock Kung-FU based on movements of fruit bats) to bully her nephew and feel like the "big bitch"!! the big bitch!! the big bitch!!" Quinton had to refer to his Auntie Prom in her presence alone with the monicker of "big bitch" during their private Bat-Fu combat sessions. "I hate calling her 'Big Bitch' though she is very mean.. she's my relative", he quietly yelled between his ears.
He knew that she acted like this because she didn't have a son of her own. Her insecurities whitewashed by a grandiose ego compensated for the bland self-image she had under those loud clothes. Clouds rolled overhead though not heavily gray nor bright white. Just bent sheets and shreds of recycled paper towels floating across the sky to second-hand clean up a distant mess.
Auntie Prom relayed her lack of self-worth when worn out or tipsy soon realizing what she was doing, then becoming aggressive. But for her to be tired or drink pina colada wine coolers was very rare, so it was the "dry sober" bullying that never ceased. Why didn't he disobey and neglect this feminine atrocity? Why did Quinton spend horrible mornings, afternoons, and evenings with her? It was because he was too frail and meek to go shoot Winchesters with the town rednecks. So he coped with her bruising Bat-Fu practice that forced him to wear turtlenecks to hide shades of black and blue on his neck. He was too honest to lie and make up a heroic tall-tale to tell the rednecks that he never really talked to begin with.
As he stood by the mailbox he said to himself, "I delivered chocolate jelly rings and prunes the other stinkin' day and now she wants these stupid gummy worms from my silly Mom. They barely even spend time together. They send me to do this! I should bury the gummy wiggles in the soil!". He looked at the ground and saw a stick under an elm tree. He picked it up and began to break the soil with it.
AND NOW for "The previous three day recollection recollected digging soil by the neighborhood mailbox"-
"WI WI WONG WI!!", Prom whisper-exclaimed in strange kung-fu vocalizations as she released her timid, grandmotherly nephew's hands from her clenched wrist's and fingers' strongheld "bong wi" grip (Flying Bat-Fu technique). Her nephew quickly gasped for ease wiggling his frustrated, reddened wrists for relief. Anticipating his auntie's tie-dyed leather fingerless gloved left hand. Anticipating her cubic zirconium wedding banded right hand. Both hands, withholding the next attack of their surprise constrictions lurking. Auntie Prom Gerbert thought of herself as a " woman ass-kicker who could also walk down the aisle in white lace like a gentile lily-woman". Quinton found her to be more like a curdled milk-maid butch wanna be bull fighter that pitched baseballs at wooden milk bottles to win coveted county fair prizes. At one carnival, she stood back and watched the world famous Pete Rose pitch 60 baseballs and drop $120 before he had to walk away with his crying grandson prizeless and defeated. She then stepped up and within one pitch won a Hank Williams Jr. mirror. One pitch! She loved that fact!
"I want those chocolate covered jelly rings, Quinton! My sister sent them. Give them to me now Hee Hong Wai EEE!!", she quietly commanded. She always wanted to prove how tough she was, more than him. She had embarassed him in public all his life. Twisting his ear lobes, shoving cotton candy in his face, commenting on the smell of his breath and disheveled hairstyle, especially in private, in this house, in front of her husband "Kroll".
Kroll was a 42 year old shipping clerk for K-Mart married to Prom. He met her at an A&P grocery store...they loved shopping together ever since. He had a lumpy forehead and wore eyeglasses, rimless along the bottom of the curves of the lenses. About 330 lbs, he liked Three's Company and loved, loved, loved to eat prunes so that his body could release gnarley manifestations he acquired through frequent smorgasboard dining. "Keep your pipes clean, and that will keep your mind clean!", he'd say like a high school health teacher too relaxed with his students. But Kroll was asleep downstairs as Quinton wiggled and choked, pushed into his twin mattress by Prom's 225 pound muscular but mildly flabby body. Prom's neck muscles tangoed and salsa'd to the breaths of her nephew control. It was not cool.
Quinton looked towards the front door to see if his ogre-esque uncle Kroll was going to peep in and witness this humiliation. Prom grabbed both of his wrists twisting them outward and wrapped them behind his back. "WO WO WEEEPEE WI!!", she lightly cried as she gripped. He whimpered under his breath. "I told you not to look at the door. He's down in the basement passed out on that jar of sunkist prunes you brought! My sister said you had another jar and Kroll has them bug-eyes, now COUGH UP the jelly rings!!", she demanded aggressively as she sent her left forearm into his chest and then locked his neck.
Quinton was only 115 pounds and 6 feet tall. Twenty Three years old in a lavender ralph lauren button up oxford and his boxer shorts. 10 minutes before she had bumrushed him as he was putting on his khaki's. He was like an emaciated Tom Cruise in Risky Business with no sex appeal. No drive towards doing the wrong thing like not going to his Auntie's house, getting a job, getting an apartment, moving to another town. He was punky geek with only enough edge to dye his eyebrows grey, because it made him look wise like Alexander Graham Bell. His Aunt and Mother individually made fun of this with disgust. Prom was 34 and still had brown eyebrows bent inward as she concentrated showing him her "ding chi won technique" that she learned from her latest instructor, Bang Woi.
Bang Woi was a chinese-scottish hooligan who moved from Great Britain to bring the spirit of Hooliganism to Washington DC. He had been thrown from the 2nd story window of a pub called "Wolf's Blood" by 2 Arsenal hooligan fans. Bang cheered for the Iranian team just to be a prick. So he landed on a 1987 Fiat 2 stories below. The aluminum hood contorted with his body's compression leaving him with only a broken femur bone, bruises and aches for a few weeks. After the Iran-Fiat fiasco he realized that he could have avoided the fall by deflecting grabs and attacks through body-defense skills. So he took up Kung-Fu and then through the next five years found that many techniques mimicked animal movements. "But not the Fruit Bat!" So he went to Mexico to study the fruit bats and to hunt chupacabra on the side which he never found, just coyotes (he took one lone coyote to the ground barehanded, snapped it's neck and cried) "The fruit bats swooped to eat fruit which was their prey." Bang Woi's mission after the dead coyote lamentation became to never kill opponents/attackers even in self defense. And so he created Bat-Fu, not giving up hooliganism entirely, opened up a dojo which Prom Gerbert attended.
"Give me the f'n jelly rings!", she yelled. Now becoming slightly exhausted, she let him up. "Go get them now. I'm the big bitch", she said. He limp-walked over to a concealing dresser where they were hid, took them out of the clandestine drawer, hesitated but then surprisingly slammed the prunes and the jelly rings onto the counter of the dresser. Prom dug deep into her inner reactionary bat-fu power and slipped her forearm under Bryan's balls and lifted him over her shoulder back onto the guest matress. He was lucky not to have broken his thin neck. He couldn't believe this. SHE HAD ALMOST BROKE HIS NECK. "I HATE THE BIG BITCH!", he screamed with hesitance and began bawling. "These sweets are the only thing keepin' your auntie from really kickin' your ass. So shut up while your ahead", she said as she panted and ripped into a handful of jelly rings. Even she knew that she had almost paralyzed him. "I'm going to to tell your instruct....or that you are abus....ing your techniques....... that are supposed to be using..... for SELF-DEFENSE only!!", he yelled with fatique and pain. "Yeah right, you need to become a man", she arrogantly gasped while jelly ring engulfing.
Quinton stared at the soil in recollection as he dug about four inches into the earth. He then heard a furious honk from a familiar vehicle. Chills went up his neck. It was Prom's station wagon. He slowly turned and saw Uncle Kroll behind the steering wheel.
The remembrance of an embarrassing fiasco/tangle involving he and his auntie de psychotica made him cringe. Uncomfortably recollecting, "So sweet in the eyes of the public, getting them to think her humiliating actions toward her nephew are acts of feminine rowdy, clown-like kindness. SHE's a killer honey bee with a horrendous mullet hairdo! Wearing obnoxious sequined XL Looney Toons sweatsuits! Neon green reebok velcro hi-tops! That poofy clothed fake martial artist who abuses Flying Bat-Fu techniques (mock Kung-FU based on movements of fruit bats) to bully her nephew and feel like the "big bitch"!! the big bitch!! the big bitch!!" Quinton had to refer to his Auntie Prom in her presence alone with the monicker of "big bitch" during their private Bat-Fu combat sessions. "I hate calling her 'Big Bitch' though she is very mean.. she's my relative", he quietly yelled between his ears.
He knew that she acted like this because she didn't have a son of her own. Her insecurities whitewashed by a grandiose ego compensated for the bland self-image she had under those loud clothes. Clouds rolled overhead though not heavily gray nor bright white. Just bent sheets and shreds of recycled paper towels floating across the sky to second-hand clean up a distant mess.
Auntie Prom relayed her lack of self-worth when worn out or tipsy soon realizing what she was doing, then becoming aggressive. But for her to be tired or drink pina colada wine coolers was very rare, so it was the "dry sober" bullying that never ceased. Why didn't he disobey and neglect this feminine atrocity? Why did Quinton spend horrible mornings, afternoons, and evenings with her? It was because he was too frail and meek to go shoot Winchesters with the town rednecks. So he coped with her bruising Bat-Fu practice that forced him to wear turtlenecks to hide shades of black and blue on his neck. He was too honest to lie and make up a heroic tall-tale to tell the rednecks that he never really talked to begin with.
As he stood by the mailbox he said to himself, "I delivered chocolate jelly rings and prunes the other stinkin' day and now she wants these stupid gummy worms from my silly Mom. They barely even spend time together. They send me to do this! I should bury the gummy wiggles in the soil!". He looked at the ground and saw a stick under an elm tree. He picked it up and began to break the soil with it.
AND NOW for "The previous three day recollection recollected digging soil by the neighborhood mailbox"-
"WI WI WONG WI!!", Prom whisper-exclaimed in strange kung-fu vocalizations as she released her timid, grandmotherly nephew's hands from her clenched wrist's and fingers' strongheld "bong wi" grip (Flying Bat-Fu technique). Her nephew quickly gasped for ease wiggling his frustrated, reddened wrists for relief. Anticipating his auntie's tie-dyed leather fingerless gloved left hand. Anticipating her cubic zirconium wedding banded right hand. Both hands, withholding the next attack of their surprise constrictions lurking. Auntie Prom Gerbert thought of herself as a " woman ass-kicker who could also walk down the aisle in white lace like a gentile lily-woman". Quinton found her to be more like a curdled milk-maid butch wanna be bull fighter that pitched baseballs at wooden milk bottles to win coveted county fair prizes. At one carnival, she stood back and watched the world famous Pete Rose pitch 60 baseballs and drop $120 before he had to walk away with his crying grandson prizeless and defeated. She then stepped up and within one pitch won a Hank Williams Jr. mirror. One pitch! She loved that fact!
"I want those chocolate covered jelly rings, Quinton! My sister sent them. Give them to me now Hee Hong Wai EEE!!", she quietly commanded. She always wanted to prove how tough she was, more than him. She had embarassed him in public all his life. Twisting his ear lobes, shoving cotton candy in his face, commenting on the smell of his breath and disheveled hairstyle, especially in private, in this house, in front of her husband "Kroll".
Kroll was a 42 year old shipping clerk for K-Mart married to Prom. He met her at an A&P grocery store...they loved shopping together ever since. He had a lumpy forehead and wore eyeglasses, rimless along the bottom of the curves of the lenses. About 330 lbs, he liked Three's Company and loved, loved, loved to eat prunes so that his body could release gnarley manifestations he acquired through frequent smorgasboard dining. "Keep your pipes clean, and that will keep your mind clean!", he'd say like a high school health teacher too relaxed with his students. But Kroll was asleep downstairs as Quinton wiggled and choked, pushed into his twin mattress by Prom's 225 pound muscular but mildly flabby body. Prom's neck muscles tangoed and salsa'd to the breaths of her nephew control. It was not cool.
Quinton looked towards the front door to see if his ogre-esque uncle Kroll was going to peep in and witness this humiliation. Prom grabbed both of his wrists twisting them outward and wrapped them behind his back. "WO WO WEEEPEE WI!!", she lightly cried as she gripped. He whimpered under his breath. "I told you not to look at the door. He's down in the basement passed out on that jar of sunkist prunes you brought! My sister said you had another jar and Kroll has them bug-eyes, now COUGH UP the jelly rings!!", she demanded aggressively as she sent her left forearm into his chest and then locked his neck.
Quinton was only 115 pounds and 6 feet tall. Twenty Three years old in a lavender ralph lauren button up oxford and his boxer shorts. 10 minutes before she had bumrushed him as he was putting on his khaki's. He was like an emaciated Tom Cruise in Risky Business with no sex appeal. No drive towards doing the wrong thing like not going to his Auntie's house, getting a job, getting an apartment, moving to another town. He was punky geek with only enough edge to dye his eyebrows grey, because it made him look wise like Alexander Graham Bell. His Aunt and Mother individually made fun of this with disgust. Prom was 34 and still had brown eyebrows bent inward as she concentrated showing him her "ding chi won technique" that she learned from her latest instructor, Bang Woi.
Bang Woi was a chinese-scottish hooligan who moved from Great Britain to bring the spirit of Hooliganism to Washington DC. He had been thrown from the 2nd story window of a pub called "Wolf's Blood" by 2 Arsenal hooligan fans. Bang cheered for the Iranian team just to be a prick. So he landed on a 1987 Fiat 2 stories below. The aluminum hood contorted with his body's compression leaving him with only a broken femur bone, bruises and aches for a few weeks. After the Iran-Fiat fiasco he realized that he could have avoided the fall by deflecting grabs and attacks through body-defense skills. So he took up Kung-Fu and then through the next five years found that many techniques mimicked animal movements. "But not the Fruit Bat!" So he went to Mexico to study the fruit bats and to hunt chupacabra on the side which he never found, just coyotes (he took one lone coyote to the ground barehanded, snapped it's neck and cried) "The fruit bats swooped to eat fruit which was their prey." Bang Woi's mission after the dead coyote lamentation became to never kill opponents/attackers even in self defense. And so he created Bat-Fu, not giving up hooliganism entirely, opened up a dojo which Prom Gerbert attended.
"Give me the f'n jelly rings!", she yelled. Now becoming slightly exhausted, she let him up. "Go get them now. I'm the big bitch", she said. He limp-walked over to a concealing dresser where they were hid, took them out of the clandestine drawer, hesitated but then surprisingly slammed the prunes and the jelly rings onto the counter of the dresser. Prom dug deep into her inner reactionary bat-fu power and slipped her forearm under Bryan's balls and lifted him over her shoulder back onto the guest matress. He was lucky not to have broken his thin neck. He couldn't believe this. SHE HAD ALMOST BROKE HIS NECK. "I HATE THE BIG BITCH!", he screamed with hesitance and began bawling. "These sweets are the only thing keepin' your auntie from really kickin' your ass. So shut up while your ahead", she said as she panted and ripped into a handful of jelly rings. Even she knew that she had almost paralyzed him. "I'm going to to tell your instruct....or that you are abus....ing your techniques....... that are supposed to be using..... for SELF-DEFENSE only!!", he yelled with fatique and pain. "Yeah right, you need to become a man", she arrogantly gasped while jelly ring engulfing.
Quinton stared at the soil in recollection as he dug about four inches into the earth. He then heard a furious honk from a familiar vehicle. Chills went up his neck. It was Prom's station wagon. He slowly turned and saw Uncle Kroll behind the steering wheel.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Mashed Potatoes
A bowl of mashed potatoes is knocked off a table by a hungry golden retriever. His owner comes into the kitchen and tries to grab the fallen bowl from the retriever's mouth, slipping in scattered gravy, twisting and going hands first onto the edge of a counter as if hanging from a small cliff, swinging slowly, coming to his knees. The golden retriever laps the last of the mashed potato dabs, peering from the corner of his eye at his slapstick fallen owner. Licking his canine lips and teeth, he stares and pants at his furry instigated buffoonery. The retriever slowly walks over to his owner on tentative paws and lays beside his owner's nervous ankle. The owner scoots to his settling knees to turn to his inconsiderate but innocent dog to gently mush the top of his head with a petting of disbelief. Then while hugging the dog, looking at the culinary disaster caused by an uncontrolled urge, the owner laughs with delayed surprise and awe.
After putting a leash on his dog filled with potatoes and gravy, he walks him down to the park for the retriever to pass the high-jacked dinner. The owner picks it up with a park provided plastic baggy and drops it into the garbage, desensitzed to what would make others squirm and gag. Then they go home. The owner fixes something else to eat then watches TV with the dog's head at his feet.
Sometimes LOVE is accepting the ups and downs of another's unbridled will to find happiness, and accepting those "mistakes" made in IT's bumbling pursuit.
After putting a leash on his dog filled with potatoes and gravy, he walks him down to the park for the retriever to pass the high-jacked dinner. The owner picks it up with a park provided plastic baggy and drops it into the garbage, desensitzed to what would make others squirm and gag. Then they go home. The owner fixes something else to eat then watches TV with the dog's head at his feet.
Sometimes LOVE is accepting the ups and downs of another's unbridled will to find happiness, and accepting those "mistakes" made in IT's bumbling pursuit.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Oil Pressure (sub-par pulp fiction excerpt from brain)
Marty Markentharp brandished a Hello Kitty ruler in his Pokemon cape made from a sheet set purchased at the downtown Pittsburgh JC Penny's 3 weeks ago. The sheets were for his "soon-enough-to-be-born child". His girlfriend Francis finally deserted him that morning leaving in her father's Chrysler Le Sabre. It was because of his relentless vicious verbal attacks, his breaking of toasters and lamps stemmed from his inability to cope with the recent miscarriage of his and her precious "soon enough-to-be". All week he had been firestorming from the mouth, blaming the miscarriage on Francis' lack of faith in God, calling her the shit of Satan. "She hated America, she had no connection with what it was to be a Judeo mother". He wondered aloud to her if "God was saving the baby from 'doom' or if it was in hell now because of her". He didn't know what to say that wasn't demonic from an angelic place where angels spit at each other with flying fists of rage. These outbursts were inspired by anguish and recent innocent death reflection, a place where he'd rather not be coming from. He wanted that child, a pianist, an opera singer. His rough spark-plug battered hands slowly degenerated day in/day out at his job losing the freshness of his teen spirit. He had grown distracted and apathetic behind his inherited grandfather's electric organ over the past 28 years. The lost child could have started fresh with brand new tiny hands to learn healthy musical movements. But now he was too "happy", dancing in purple tights in front of his puzzled auto mechanic colleagues, to care. He was swashbuckling the weeks with a hello kitty ruler. He whirled and twirled attempting to shove down his other visions of his thinning mother sick with Leukemia. He hadn't visited her in over 3 weeks consumed by his wife's inability to create a grandchild. Two weeks before his ex-girlfriend's miscarriage and about one week after. Sub-conscious guilt layered on top of mourning and anticipation of 2 of the biggest losses he would suffer cut the air with the kid's ruler.
George Pierogie was the manager of Marty's auto shop and looked as puzzled as Steve Rondell and Ham Chipley. Ham had sensed something strange about Marty all week long escalating to this current hectic moment. On Tuesday, he noticed Marty changing oil on a Lincoln Navigator using radiator fluid to wash his hands before spinning the recycled rolling oil drum like a oversized 1950's spinning big top toy. Marty said. "See the electric sparks?" There were no sparks or buzzing lights coming from the oil drum. The drum tipped over. Then Marty put his hands underneath the flowing used oil and started making baby noises, then wiped the oil on his neck and face like a savage. He said, "It's not good for us to be in contact with all this used motor oil is it? We're gonna get cancer!!" This was poisonous, and to Ham, beyond bizarre and frightening but he was the only one to see it when others were at lunch and new that Marty was suffering. But that was not as bizarre and frightening as Marty dancing in a pokemon bedsheet cape and purple tights hopping in and out of a coiled water hose. This was amusing-twisted, not physically harming, unless Marty was to slip and bash his head into a car lift which was surely possible bouncing on his toes like a damaged tasmanian devil. "Should we call the funny farm?", Ham whispered to George. "Let's wait just a few, maybe he'll calm down and I can give him a wet paper towel to wipe the sweat off his face. But if he starts throwing power tools, dial 911", George replied not as quietly with a subtle chuckle. Ham couldn't wait for that, he didn't see the humor. He said, "I'm going to have a cig. Steve, do you want to step out here?". They both exited out past car bay #3 and walked around the side of the garage. Ham pulled his cell phone out of his oily Dickies pocket and pressed 911. Steve pulled out a Camel.
Steve strolled along like the voyage of a snail in the boots of a perplexed oil technician.
He thought emotion was something you saw on TV, so rarely did he express it. Steve hated prime time wrestling, only went to live independent wrestling events where wrestlers "really got hurt". This being part of his religion, he was only amused by Marty's behavior. He wanted Marty to try some funny sh$% on him and find out what being lifted off the ground and slammed onto a sidewalk outback by the garbage dumpster felt like. "I'm going to slam Marty into the garbage if he doesn't stop his sh^&", Steve said to Ham. Ham reached into his other pocket and pulled out his lighter betting that once again Steve had left his on the medicine cabinet in George's private bathroom that Steve wasn't supposed to use.
George Pierogie was the manager of Marty's auto shop and looked as puzzled as Steve Rondell and Ham Chipley. Ham had sensed something strange about Marty all week long escalating to this current hectic moment. On Tuesday, he noticed Marty changing oil on a Lincoln Navigator using radiator fluid to wash his hands before spinning the recycled rolling oil drum like a oversized 1950's spinning big top toy. Marty said. "See the electric sparks?" There were no sparks or buzzing lights coming from the oil drum. The drum tipped over. Then Marty put his hands underneath the flowing used oil and started making baby noises, then wiped the oil on his neck and face like a savage. He said, "It's not good for us to be in contact with all this used motor oil is it? We're gonna get cancer!!" This was poisonous, and to Ham, beyond bizarre and frightening but he was the only one to see it when others were at lunch and new that Marty was suffering. But that was not as bizarre and frightening as Marty dancing in a pokemon bedsheet cape and purple tights hopping in and out of a coiled water hose. This was amusing-twisted, not physically harming, unless Marty was to slip and bash his head into a car lift which was surely possible bouncing on his toes like a damaged tasmanian devil. "Should we call the funny farm?", Ham whispered to George. "Let's wait just a few, maybe he'll calm down and I can give him a wet paper towel to wipe the sweat off his face. But if he starts throwing power tools, dial 911", George replied not as quietly with a subtle chuckle. Ham couldn't wait for that, he didn't see the humor. He said, "I'm going to have a cig. Steve, do you want to step out here?". They both exited out past car bay #3 and walked around the side of the garage. Ham pulled his cell phone out of his oily Dickies pocket and pressed 911. Steve pulled out a Camel.
Steve strolled along like the voyage of a snail in the boots of a perplexed oil technician.
He thought emotion was something you saw on TV, so rarely did he express it. Steve hated prime time wrestling, only went to live independent wrestling events where wrestlers "really got hurt". This being part of his religion, he was only amused by Marty's behavior. He wanted Marty to try some funny sh$% on him and find out what being lifted off the ground and slammed onto a sidewalk outback by the garbage dumpster felt like. "I'm going to slam Marty into the garbage if he doesn't stop his sh^&", Steve said to Ham. Ham reached into his other pocket and pulled out his lighter betting that once again Steve had left his on the medicine cabinet in George's private bathroom that Steve wasn't supposed to use.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Prune Jam!
It's a matter of fact that,
I just smiled at you politely and opened the door to this pharmacy,
to let it then slam into your back... by accident.
I helped you pick up the cracked eggs you dropped
and broken milk bottles you bought
to fill your warm and homey plate and glass,
I saw the dissapointment in your eyes and the weakness of your forgiveness.
I, Willie Prune Jam!
Who late at night stands on the subway house orchestrating bad things from my fingertips.
Looking down you.
Invisibly.
You sense me!
It was you who created the "I'm RIGHT...RIGHT?" attitude when you and I both know of the sh$% stains in your draws!
That's why I set these stages, for you to..
trip on banana peels and earth shifted sidewalk cracks,
flatten your Michelin tires with nails dropped by my ho hum drunken hammer carpenters.
Making the ground so appealing that you position your head down, and then bump into the wrong guys I provoke
ending up hurled over a fence, man-handled, running from MY scrappy little monsters,
moo hoo ha ha-ing you away, away.
Oh Lord Yes!
There go I Prune Jam! Up here! Up there!
My firey fingertip projections...of such evil clear electricity!
The bad magic baffler atop the subway station steeple!
Transparent. Sense him.
Doppelganger, "Willie Prune Jam", anti-law!
Mishaps from a mishap.
High above this commerce courtyard.
Old Willie Prune Jam, stickin the pins in my nearby dolls!
Gettin' you good!
The mothaf%^&er'
Willie Prune Jam Doppelganger!!
I just smiled at you politely and opened the door to this pharmacy,
to let it then slam into your back... by accident.
I helped you pick up the cracked eggs you dropped
and broken milk bottles you bought
to fill your warm and homey plate and glass,
I saw the dissapointment in your eyes and the weakness of your forgiveness.
I, Willie Prune Jam!
Who late at night stands on the subway house orchestrating bad things from my fingertips.
Looking down you.
Invisibly.
You sense me!
It was you who created the "I'm RIGHT...RIGHT?" attitude when you and I both know of the sh$% stains in your draws!
That's why I set these stages, for you to..
trip on banana peels and earth shifted sidewalk cracks,
flatten your Michelin tires with nails dropped by my ho hum drunken hammer carpenters.
Making the ground so appealing that you position your head down, and then bump into the wrong guys I provoke
ending up hurled over a fence, man-handled, running from MY scrappy little monsters,
moo hoo ha ha-ing you away, away.
Oh Lord Yes!
There go I Prune Jam! Up here! Up there!
My firey fingertip projections...of such evil clear electricity!
The bad magic baffler atop the subway station steeple!
Transparent. Sense him.
Doppelganger, "Willie Prune Jam", anti-law!
Mishaps from a mishap.
High above this commerce courtyard.
Old Willie Prune Jam, stickin the pins in my nearby dolls!
Gettin' you good!
The mothaf%^&er'
Willie Prune Jam Doppelganger!!
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