I REALLY HATE my fucking job.

OK, so…This is my first time “blogging”, or for that matter, writing this pseudo-publicly, on a site that people I don’t know may actually read….And I have been sitting here trying to figure out just how the fuck I am going to start this little story up. I even read a bunch of entries on the site to get some feel for just how this is done by “professionals”. My last writing course was many years ago, and I didn’t do very well, but my friends say I can write and that I’m “funny” so it has to be true, right?

(To be honest, my impression of blogging was that it allowed for self important, overly literate computer nerds to assert their opinions without reliving the beatings they probably got for opening their mouths when they were younger…At one point, I even considered starting a business that would hire out local High School Football teams to confront and beat down obnoxious bloggers/forum trolls/internet nerds with entitlement issues blah blah blah…)

I need a strong opener…Nothing too fancy, not over-reaching, not being more than I am…something simple, that I believe that others can relate to, that relates to my story and the topic…

OK. I REALLY HATE my fucking job.

I work at a factory as a machinist, running automated grinding machines that make bolts for aircraft. So, if you’ve been on a plane and had a wing fall off due to a “catastrophic fastener failure”…it wasn’t me.

I work third shift, 11pm to 7 am, a shitty schedule that I still have not gotten used to after over 3 years. Just about everyone I work with is a flaming fucking asshole. Racist Bikers, drug addict ex-cons, blue collar white trash, gangsta’ wannabe douchebags, drunks…Apparently factory work attracts the bottom of the socially challenged barrel.

One pain in my ass is a kid in his mid 20’s that runs my machine on the shift before mine. He’s an illiterate slob with little to no mechanical or people skills, a pill popper and a drunk, and just a plain shitty machine operator, always messing up jobs, breaking the machines, and leaving a mess for me to come in and deal with. Add to that, he’s a cocky motherfucker that thinks he runs the plant, and I’ve got a special vein in my forehead that throbs whenever he opens his mouth.

Luckily, he doesn’t talk to me often…I’ve developed a habit of getting to work 2 minutes late every day so I avoid the kid. So, he writes notes, and leaves them on my toolbox…

(…Just a quick aside here, the company issues all employees large rolling toolboxes, about 3 feet high, 18″ wide, 24″ deep, with 2-4 large drawers,  full of tools like wrenches, vice grips, micrometers, and other things we need to do our jobs properly. Think of it like a cubicle to those of you trapped in an office space…My personal “area” to keep my personal shit.)

…Barely legible, incorrectly spelled, horribly written notes. For a while, I kept a scrapbook to show them off. You’ve seen the signs on the highway, around construction sites, that say “MY MOMMY WORKZ HERE PLEESE SLOW DOWN” written by some half mongoloid ADD kid, with the backwards ‘e’s and shit spelled wrong?…He could have a lucrative career writing those.

The incidents and stories I could share about this kid are endless…He’s broken into my toolbox and taken things out (which I proved by breaking into HIS toolbox and getting them back), left our machine broken and denied it, sabotaged or screwed up jobs so I would have to fix them, he’s a fucking terror. But, in a factory as large as ours, unless someone causes violence, sexually harasses or makes direct death threats, management basically tells you to get over it and be happy you have a job.

I should also add, I am a firm believer in karma, and I felt certain that this fool would eventually get what he deserved. It’s just…the WAITING that kills me…

One day, I was so tired of this kid’s crap, I was ready to explode. I had complained, I had confronted him, I had tried to do everything within the company policy to handle this situation, and nothing was being done. He just writes another cocky note, breaks something and ruins my fucking day all over again.

So I pissed all over his toolbox.

Yes, you read that. I pissed all over his toolbox. On top, in all the drawers, all over the picture of his blonde girlfriend that he had hanging on the side of his toolbox, all over the magnetic Philadelphia Phillies calendar with special dates highlighted that he had tickets too, all over the lock that I had broken into,  all over his oil rags, all over his tools, especially the handles of his tools, all over the stash of spare change he used to buy snacks (ever seen a bunch of quarters immersed in a puddle of pee? It looked kind of cool…) and made sure to leave a few drips in his coffee cup.

This isn’t a “gee I’d love to” or a “wouldn’t it be funny but I’d never do it…” Nope. I did it. Totally premeditated, malevolent urination.

I am sure you’re wondering how….Right? I mean, I couldn’t just drop my pants, prop my nuts on his toolbox and piss away, could I? No, there was some thought, and a little stealth.

I bought a 20oz bottle of lemonade from one of the vending machines, drank it, went into the bathroom, and filled it back up. No one will question a bottle of lemonade, right? (note to reader-Urine and Lemonade look a LOT different than most people realize). I took it out to his toolbox, and went to town, dumping it all over the place, a cheery golden shower of vengeance. The only issue came when I realized that I left a strikingly-yellow-under-the-fluorescent-lights puddle on top of the box, but used some of his oil rags to soak that up. The outside of his toolbox was all glistening and wet, so I had to snag a floor fan to blow on it and dry it out, lest someone walk by and say “Is there a leak somewhere? That toolbox is all wet, and glistening, and yellow….”

And FUCK ME it felt good. I had my personal little revenge, his toolbox would start to stink in the oppressive shop heat, he’d be handling everything I pissed on by the next shift, and I have a fun “don’t fuck with me or I’ll piss on you” story to pull out at parties. Everyone wins. Well, I win. A small victory. And lots of giggles every time I see him open his toolbox.

Then, as I drove home, my truck sputtered and died as I pulled up in front of my house. No previous warning. My fuel pump went. $650 to have it fixed. Fucking Karma.

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Well, here it is October, and as usual I am bringing up the rear with the final and probably worst post of the month. You bastards already used up all the good ideas and I am stuck with my crappy, recycled ideas not the ones I telepathically stole from you minds while you were sleeping so here are some ramblings. Damn I hate being last.

When the topic of mischief making reared it’s gnarled, misshapen head, the first thing that came to mind was to write about some of history’s most famous mischief makers, such as Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, and Napoleon Buonaparte. Or, to possibly bring it a little more up to date and look at the work of Andrew Jackson, Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin or George W. Bush. (Please don’t’ get me wrong, I am not putting all these players on the same level of mischief and destruction. George Bush is last on the list not just because he is the most recent but also the lowest achiever, all of the others either perpetrated genocide or conquered vast territories and peoples. Bush definitely fucked up our country but as far as conquering goes he even sucked at that.) All of these guys are really just mischief-makers taken to the illogical extreme. I can just picture them as young boys tying cans to cats tails–except Genghis, he was doing naughty things to camels in the Gobi–and starting fires in the neighborhood swamp, all lashing out to get the parental attention they so desperately craved. Picture young Adolf Hitler in Art School in Vienna getting ridiculed for his mediocre painting becoming an early graffiti artist and defacing schools and graveyards. Truly the overachievers of mischief-making, these guys’ unchecked and spiteful mischief led them down a dangerous path, most dangerous for the rest of us, and each caused havoc in his time. Ironically, we, as a culture, only repudiate the ones that we didn’t agree with. Not many history teachers rail on about the evil deeds of Genghis Khan, (supposedly 1 out of every 8 people on the planet have some of his DNA, really, look it up) or Alexander the Great. Hell, we call him “the Great,” but I bet many of middle-eastern and Persian ancestry have no love for him. Were these historical figures evil or just crying out for help and love in the only way they knew? If you believe in good and evil as absolutes then your answer is clear, but I do not. So, were they just really mentally disturbed and with proper therapy may have been normal and, having gotten the right attention, might the world be very different culturally and politically? Sure, Europe would never have gotten the stirrup which allowed mounted knights and the Feudal system which led to the Rennaissance and then the Enlightenment, American Liberty and the Genocide of the Indians, the rise of Nationalism and Fascism and the great atrocities of Hitler and Stalin which led to the new states and governments in the middle East and the absurd Iraq war of George W Bush. You see it is all on long chain of Mischief with each event leading inexorably to the next.

Oh yeah, now on a completely different track, here are some of the less sinister things that we did as kids in the 70’s and 80’s that you could never get away with today. By the way, if any of these things are illegal, I never did them, this is a purely fictional memoir type ramble on the fun of yesteryear before the Patriot act took all the fun out of our youth.

The main key to mischief making is to not get caught or as my mother used to implore, “Stay out of trouble.” My Dad’s only injunction was not to upset my mother ,so I figured as long as I didn’t get caught it’d all be good. But man, with that mindset did we have some fun.

My earliest memory of raising hell is of my closest childhood friends, Jeff and Larry and I poised upon the granite cliff next to my mother’s house in West Gloucester looking down on the road below with anticipation and fear in our hearts but exhilaration in our minds. Snow was flying and the sky was a cable steel gray, typical New England January day, cold as a witch’s tit and we were well supplied with snowball ammunition to chuck at cars on the street below. We were like the guerrilla fighters of West Gloucester, in our imagination we were heroic defenders against the tyranny of the combustion engine. All right, who am I kidding, we just want to throw shit at cars. It was a blast until one big, mean dude stopped and started charging up the hill yelling profanities all the way. Needless to say, we escaped into the dense forest warren of escape tunnels and switchbacks that only we knew.

In middle school we took our exploits to new levels of daring-do and despicably sticky and smelly chaos. In Gloucester at that time, it was the custom on Halloween to go to the local golf course and instead of hurling snowballs at cars we were now going to engage in a full-on egg battle, a veritable war de oeufs. Groups of friends from school would form battalions of egg and shaving cream wielding combatants creating an unholy mess on the greens. A true, experienced eggeteer would buy his/her eggs weeks in advance and let them ripen somewhere in their yard until they were just revoltingly odorous. The cops let this go on for years, it was a local tradition for generations. I guess they figured they could keep the mayhem contained there and spare the civilians.

Another uber-fun endeavor was a past-time we called hooking. No, we did not sell our teen selves for crack our herion although in Gloucester, at that time, this could have been altogether possible. No, hooking was downtown winter fun at its finest and most perilous. We would pick a stretch of road that was flat and straight and with a stop sign at one end, the stop sign was imperative. We would hide behind the snowbanks made from the street plows and wait for a likely target, a car with a good, low bumper with easy handholds. Then, one of us would creep out behind the car and grab hold, bend our legs into a stunted version of a skier’s stance and go for a slide. Our own poor kid version of a Nantucket sleigh ride for a few hundred yards or more. The peril and hilarity often ensued when the driver realized they had a parasite and hit the gas to shake us loose and still all was good until we hit a pothole or railroad tracks then, blammo, it was like a yard sale, shit was everywhere. Snow hat over here, glove over there little kids a few yards farther away sometimes with a sprained ankle or broken wrist and the rest of us laughing our asses off. But, we were next, the pulse rate rose in anticipation and the fear in the pits of our stomachs. This was the fun of it, never knowing how it would go, a clean ride or some asshole driver who hits the brakes and slides you under the car.

When we got to High School, GHS, or the Gloucester School for the High as we affectionately called it we got licenses and cars and graduated to more pernicious pranks. We played that great American past-time with fervor, it could only be, mailbox baseball. At sixteen and seventeen we were cruising about the streets either before or after a party, or just on a boring suburban school night, looking for ways to be bad. I always kept a bat in the car anyway so naturally this degenerated into mailbox baseball becoming our new sport. We’d look for a nice shiny or freshly painted new box sticking out just a bit farther than others to make it a better shot. It was truly a team sport as the driver would slow down to between 25 and 30 miles per hour and line up the strike zone while the batter got ready at the plate. The pitch is good, the batter swings and bam-pop the “ball,” by which I mean box, would go sailing out into left field or at least down the street. I man who remains unnamed was a repeated target not only by us but as I recently found out by a friend of mine who graduated seven years later and knew nothing of our exploits at the time. Truly, this is a multi-generation sport. When I get a house I am building my mailbox out of ¼ inch steel and welding to the pole, I know Karma’s a bitch but screw these kids nowadays.  I like this one.

This stuff just taps the surface but if you ever catch me at a party after a few drinks ask me and I’ll tell you some of the grosser and riskier things that we did and got away with. Sadly, this type of fun today will get you arrested and keep you out of college.

So, on this Halloween, go out, be bad, get dirty but don’t get caught, don’t upset your mother and don’t try to do anything Alexander-the-Great wouldn’t do.

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Once, and only once, did my mischief-making do anyone any good.

I had a comfortable buzz at a beach house party in Rhode Island, so I found an empty couch and struck up a conversation with a guy named John who had a friendly smile and who also seemed drunk enough to be staying put.

Maybe it was the two Cape Codders I’d had that evening, but he reminded me of my friend and former college roommate, the beautiful, irascible, lovable Kory. Like her, he was funny, opinionated, foul-mouthed; he seemed like someone who got to the heart of things quickly, who had no patience for small talk. He even liked Billy Joel, for chrissake: her favorite. My instincts, bossy at times, were clamoring for me to take action. Minus the breathalyzer attachment someone ought to put on every cell phone, I went into another room to call Kory in Wisconsin and wake her up.

“There’s a guy here who reminds me of you,” I slurred with glee.

“Wow, you’re wasted,” she said, laughing at me.

“True story, but eyes on the ball: there is a GUY here. Can I give him your email?”

I could hear her tolerating me from 1200 miles away.

“Sure, what the hell, but tell him, ok?”

Tell him. By this Kory meant that I should tell him that she has a disability, a neurological disorder that put her in a wheelchair ten years after the first diagnosis. Before anyone knew what was wrong, we watched it progress in college; all of her friends tried to help her as this nameless, ugly thing made her lose her balance, fall on the stairs, get hurt again and again. Over time, she’s learned to cope; she fights hard for herself and gets around efficiently. Despite her disability, she is one of the more adventurous people I know, living in a city far from her family and often embarking on exotic, accessible travel. She knows how to laugh at herself – and us – when something goes wrong.

Back in the living room, John was talking to my fiancee. Like Kory, John seemed like someone to whom I could immediately say anything with little fear of offense, so I started by asking if he was single (oh, the drunken audacity!) and when he said yes, I proceeded to launch into a lengthy description of Kory (her loving nature, her odd-but-lovely red hair/no freckles combo, her incredible ability to listen and not judge, etc., etc.; I must have talked for half an hour). John nodded appreciatively, actually listening (without judging, of course).

“There’s one more thing, though. She has a disability. She uses a wheelchair to get around.”

“So?” he asked.

“Well, it’s been hard for her with guys. They hear that she’s disabled, and they head for the hills.”

A beat went by, a meaningful beat: it meant something was happening that everyone knew about but me.

“Why would I care about that?” asked John, with an open, patient face I’d come to know well later. I was drunk, euphoric, and clueless, and I thought: jackpot!

John and I hauled ourselves off the couch to find a pen and paper in the kitchen. Walking behind John, I noticed that he had something of a limp; his gait was steady but unbalanced. Sauced, I thought; we’d all better knock off the cocktails.

In the kitchen, I found a notepad, and proceeded to write Kory’s email on half a sheet. I handed the pen and the other half to John.

“Write down yours, and I’ll give it to her.”

“Ok, but you’d better write it.”

I smirked. “Why? Shitfaced?”

Now some unease crept onto John’s face. “Well, a little, but actually, I can’t write very well. I have CP. Cerebral Palsy?”

If I’d had the hand-eye coordination to smack myself at that moment, I would have. The unusual walk. The not caring about a potential date’s disability. My beer goggles had reached an absurd extreme. How could I not have known?

I could have called her back; I could have warned her the way I’d warned him. I decided not to, that I’d let them work it out. This decision occasioned a phone message from Kory a few days later wherein she asked quite drolly if I’d made the match because of the “cosmic cripple connection.” I winced, but smiled underneath; she sounded pleased.

And a match it was; after a few years of on-and-off long distance contact, and a well-timed meeting, they fell in love, and John plans a move this June to her home in Wisconsin. I’ll rent a van and drive him out there, undoubtedly making plenty of mischief along the way. I like to think that, if they get married, the story of how they met will be told, its opening line perhaps boiled down to our friend Sam has outrageous conversations with strangers when she drinks. But thank goodness for drunken hubris, just this one time.

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I remember how important it was.

How we’d elbow and push against each other vying for the first position, it would begin the very second anyone caught a glimpse of that yellow behemoth rounding the corner wide and stiff, condensation rising from the hood like hot breath.

The collective excitement would rise in concert with the shoving and giggling the seriousness of competition pushed aside by youthful ignorance. The most important thing in those days was being the first one on the bus, the pack leader, choosing the first seat and thereby setting the social standard for the seating choices to follow.

It was like this every morning for four years. However Halloween of ‘89 wore this particular morning like a jaunty fedora.

Some of us were costumed, others weren’t. Each of us wanting more than any other to be the first.

School was merely a formality to the night of mischief and candy collection to come. We shuffled off the bus in the opposite fashion, being the last one off was the important play here.

The day was longer than it was boring, the afternoon held promises, and my thoughts were affixed to fulfilling these promises before the evening insisted upon my attendance. My classes a blur when looked back upon, lessons, Halloween wishes and oddball teachers dressed in what they clearly believed to be hip or funny costumes.

Last bell, schools done. Next Stop, the Army Surplus.

As I pulled the wrinkled bills from my front jeans pocket my head filled with glee and excitement, the grizzled old man behind the counter shoved my new-to-me 100% authentic World War II gas mask in a used and slightly greasy paper sack, I think it was originally from Albertson’s.

The crumpled bag a distant memory a handful of feet behind me as I ran all the way home wearing the gas mask, I could barely breathe and I didn’t care, I looked scary and bad ass and I felt twice that.

The plan was to meet up at the bus stop and start our candy mayhem spree from there. There was Ryan, Paul, David, Evan, Peter, Shawn, Kevin and I. Eight of us, our breath visible like thick smoke, mingling in the center of the circle. Kevin and I the largest of the bunch, both pushing six feet four and around two hundred fifty pounds a piece, the others called us the twin towers. I hated it, I think Kevin loved it. Paul and David, tall and skinny, tight brown curls, identical brothers. Evan was the smartest of the group, slim, tall and blonde. Peter, Ryan and Shawn lived near by and were closer with each other than the rest of us, but we all played sports together after school, and to this them was just about the same.

I can’t remember the exact costumes anyone else wore, but I know they were all based on; one pair dark jeans, a hoodie, a baseball bat, one king size pillow case—to be filled, and some sort of mask—mine the only mask of the gas variety. The point was to be just dressed up enough to use Halloween as a cover for our future behavior, but also to keep ourselves nimble and cloaked.

We headed out. We smashed and kicked and destroyed every pumpkin we found. We took more candy than offered, once Kevin grabbed the entire bowl from a porch and dumped the whole thing into his pillow case, then, almost as an afterthought he kicked the shit out of the pumpkin he discovered descending the stairs.

We were raising hell. We were being boys. Terrible, misbehaving, unsupervised, large as men… boys.

Later in the evening we were walking along a long stretch of highway. I think Paul yelped first, then Evan and then perhaps me, the sting of humiliation came later, presently the the actual sting of pain was what caused the main batch of fear and panic and sharp cries of pain, we had no idea what was happening, we broke camp and ran in eight directions, yelling and crying out. After regrouping we discovered that we had been collectively egged. Humiliation now evident.

A few of us were really pissed off by what had just happened and Kevin knew who was responsible as he’d seen the car as they sped away.

It was decided to retaliate. So we set off, bats in tow, to find these egg throwing villains, and in a way our dignity. Ryan knew where they lived and we went straight there finding the car parked in the driveway we hid in the bushes, screwing up the courage to charge.

I heard Kevin scream with a guttural and deep tone that reminded me of a war movie I’d seen the week prior and then a flash of black and gray as he rose, rounding the line of bushes, bat in hand and began mindlessly raining fury down on the villain’s car glass cracking then shattering, metal bending and folding around the strong downward strokes of Kevin’s heavy swings. We all watched from the bushes, to scared to join, to thrilled to stop him.

Lights blinded us from the porch.

A man’s voice “What in the hell are you doing, you son of a bitch!”

Kevin yelled back in a furious rage “That’s for the eggs you fucker!”

“What eggs?” More curious than angry, the man asked.

Kevin ran past the bushes where the rest of us hid into the unyielding darkness of night, I’d never seen him run so fast, not before or after that night. The rest of us crawled away in the dirt until we caught the strength to stand and run away as well.

We found out a few days later that we had, in fact been at the wrong house.

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I have had a lot of peculiar things running through my mind lately. It appears that the very nature of my being has been infused with some chatty bastard of a she devil. I have said and done some things which I, in the past, would not have thought possible or plausible. As I’ve aged I have stopped fighting against whatever path I happen to find myself on. This path though, while to others might have seemed daring, has been quite safe and formulaic for the last several years. I have been hiding behind a façade of woo-hoo when in fact I have been sitting here feeling quite ho-hum and boo-hoo. Sometimes you find that your path has become so heavily trodden and well traversed that your footsteps have worn it down into a deep sad blinded trench. Three months ago I realized I was trudging through life with blinders on.

The one thing Buddha does teach you is ,” This too shall pass. ” When you let go of attachment to something… your relationship to it changes. I chose to let go of my attachment to misery. The definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. We all know this and yet I was miserable and it wasn’t changing. I had become so attached to it, as if it somehow was a part of who I am; like the blonde hair, the scar on my leg from the metal can, the impaired vision requiring glasses–cool glasses mind you. Even these things aren’t truly who I am but they are the basic facts of my physicality. The basic fact of my psyche though was this, I didn’t have fun anymore. I didn’t get invited to things anymore. I smiled on the street at people and chatted everyone up in that same safe formulaic way. Close enough yet far enough. Near and far. Then one day I decided that I had to do something. I was either going to walk in front of a bus OR throw a wrench in things and do something absurd. That one absurd thing led to something else even more absurd until eventually somehow my formula seems to have become all jumbled and blown to bits in a matter of the last several months. I say this because apparently I have found myself on the naughty path to eternal damnation. I am trying to maneuver unfamiliar territory and be in the moment. To explore, witness, and experience. To boldly go where, well, where I never thought was an option, I guess.

And so, I have become quite wicked. The last week began with G rating and has day by day crawled its way through nearly the entire ratings systems. My new motto seems to have become “Do One Thing Everyday That Makes You Feel Naughty”. I guess that herein lays my quandary. When is mischief good and when is it bad? I am not speaking of the bad that is ‘oh, sooo, good’ but the kind that makes you clench your teeth with wide eyes and pulled back lips in a ‘oh holy, what were they thinking’ kind of way. If no one gets hurt, if there is no collateral damage to said mischief, if looking back on it 5 days, months or years brings a flush to the cheek rather than a regret. I suppose these are all relatively harmless means of mischief. There is not only regret in what we have done but there is a more woeful regret. A life unexplored.

Realistically I could be halfway through my life, or more. All of us could be. We don’t know. On one hand that is sad and elicits responses of fear but on the other…it can be very liberating to think of the impermanence of life, of possessions, of debt, of misery,yes and even of joy. Thank you Buddha, for ”This too shall pass.” I am trying to be in the moment. I am trying to become an explorer of my own realm. I am still butting up against old habits; old ruts in the ground that want to divert me off the trail of absurdity into the old sad trench. I am trying to bring the play back into my adult life. The youthful wtf that I think I used to have. Did I? Maybe I was always a little bit of that safe girl. Sure, I SEEMED risqué, mischievous and deviant but deep down inside it was all strategically handled. I may have been in the room but I was the farthest away from fire. I avoided the fire by never getting warmed by it. Now, I want to run through the fire but I am traversing unfamiliar ground.

I have behaved far too often in my life, especially as of late. My role in life seems to have been that of the nurturer, the care taker of others, and quite often, subsequently, the masochist and martyr. It has been the easiest path. Not the desired path, but the familiar. If you notice, none of them seem very FUN. Inevitably I end up spent, exhausted and empty as everyone walks away with their egos and their lives bandaged and kissed better. Perhaps no one will be there to bandage my life or kiss my ego but I would rather wake up with a sorely broken, bruised and battered ego with no regrets at lost life than how it had been playing out. At the end of the day I can laugh at myself, even if others can’t. Because, at the end of the day. I am the only person I will need to answer to and those naughty things I did at 34, those will be the seeds for a fruitful fuller life. The life that begins with a sparkle in the eye, an idea, a wink, a chatty little she devil whispering in my ear.

So, with mischief firmly embraced, watch out world….

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This post will be unapologetically lewd, and in horrible taste. That is the only warning you’re getting.

What’s the best thing about fucking twenty five year olds? There’s twenty of them!

Do you laugh when you read or hear that joke? Do you cringe? Perhaps both. Does that make you a pedophile, or in some way dismissive of pedophilia? Of course not. So why do people get so uptight about jokes that make you squirm a little? This world is full of horrible things… the aforementioned pedophilia, racism, child abuse, cancer, AIDS… we can either wrap ourselves in misery as we contemplate all of this, or we can do as is within our nature to do, and find ways to cope; and what better way to cope, than with laughter?

I am generally careful about where I tell certain kinds of jokes, and to whom, but I always try to push the envelope a little bit. Nothing evokes a conversation like supposition that Rihanna should receive writer credit on “Hit Me Baby One More Time”, or that the surefire way to keep black men from jumping on the bed is to put velcro on the ceiling. My motto is if you don’t feel a little guilty laughing about it, it’s probably not that funny.

Jesus walks into a motel, hands the innkeeper some nails and says, “can you put me up for the night?”

Humor is an art form. We’ve seen art develop incredibly over the past couple of thousand years, but the one thing that rings true is that art always delivers to us both the beautiful and horrible things in our lives or imaginations. It’s a steam valve… it helps us to celebrate, as well as mourn. It helps us laugh, as well as cry. Humor is more focused on the laughter, but that’s no reason to ignore the bad stuff. It’s a coping mechanism, and it must be allowed to be just that for everyone. When my mom died, it was February 29th, 2004. Leap day. During the earliest gathering of family after the event, one of the first things I said was to point out that Mom was thoughtful right to the very end; dying on a day that required us to mourn only once every four years. I had to. I still refer to that joke, and people still chuckle/squirm at it.

A documentary I saw recently showed a support group of mothers living with “special” children of varying ages. For the sake of shock value, I generally refer to them as “SPEDS” (short of special ed- a term I learned from the friend of an ex boyfriend who worked with ’special’ kids). The moms cried, and laughed, and shared all kinds of stories about their kids. Yes… I said laughed. They laughed at situations involving people who didn’t know better. Is that horrible; for a mother who lives every day with a person who will grow up and still require an intensive level of support to laugh at the fact her 24 year old wet his pants from excitement when he saw the trailer for Harry Potter? Or is it indeed cathartic. My vote is on the latter. And it is with that in mind that I encourage you to find ways to laugh about terrible things. Just remember… you’re not laughing at it, you’re messing with the stigmas, and discomforts that surround it.

I finish my blog with a joke that is legendary, and said to be rooted way back in vaudeville times. It is a sort of coming-of-age for comedians, and is told differently by everyone who tells it, with the only similarity being that it is told not as much for laughs as for shock value. There is even a documentary about it with the same name as the joke- “The Aristocrats.” Check out the movie, and prepare for Mattatonic’s spin on The Aristocrats.

A man walks into a talent scout’s office with his wife, their daughter and son, the family dog, and a three-legged goat. The scout says “Can I help you sir?”

The man replies “I hope so. I have an act I want to propose.”

The scout just lets out a sigh and says “I’m sorry sir, but nobody likes family acts anymore. It’s all about sexually ambiguous brothers like the Jonases.”

So the father throws his hands up. “Wait… before you say anything else, you have to see this… I guarantee it’s like nothing you’ve seen before.” And so the scout reluctantly sits back and folds his arms, while the family scuffle around and begin ripping off each other’s clothes wildly. In moments, they are wrapped up naked in a pretzel on a hand-drawn Twister board. The father reaches around with his right hand and and grabs his wife’s left tit. while the son stretches his foot just enough to shove his big toe up the ass of the dog, who (in a startled state) lashes out and bites the three legged goat, who begins to run around the room, shitting and stumbling as he goes. The daughter then bends her head backward, and plants herself face down in the goat shit, singing a medley of Bee Gees songs, with her pussy spread widely enough for the scout to see a family of gerbils, who frantically scurry from her exposed snatch.

Now the son, whose toe is of course free of the goat’s ass, flips forward, landing on his feet, and dives head first into the massive vagina of the well-traveled daughter. With a mad cackle, he leans forward and pushes himself up into a hand stand using the daughters legs to keep himself aloft, head planted firmly inside her.

By now, mother’s breast is red from all the twisting, and she kicks the father in the jaw, causing him to squeal in pain, and three teeth fly from his mouth. The mother gets up, reaches for the dog, and thrusts it forward into the crotch of the bleeding father.

By now, the daughter is losing her balance, and so too the son is as well. Dad’s crotch is being gnawed on by Fido, and the goat has just slipped and gotten its horns lodged in mom’s ass. Mom responds by screaming out, altering the pitch and tone while moving her hand up and down in the style of Mariah Carey. Daughter and son then topple onto mom and dad, and all wriggle around in bloody feces for a moment before standing up, putting their hands over their hearts, and reciting the pledge of allegiance, stomping their feet to kill the family of gerbils, while Fido fucks the three legged goat in the background.

After a moment of silence, the father smiles and the scout applauds wildly. “That was amazing,” he says. What do you call yourselves? And after a sly wink, and a turn to the side to spit out some blood the father grins at the scout and says “The Aristocrats!”

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I don’t know about you, but when I got arrested, it was for beating the shit out of my boyfriend. Tack on charges like solicitation, possession, public nudity, terrorism, and overdue library fines and you’ve got a nice sample of what people guessed might have happened. It was none of these things, or maybe all of these things, but I’ve labeled it under Mischief-Making Gone Horribly (Horribly!) Awry.

I can tell you that handcuffs do hurt, riding in the back seat of a cop car is humiliating, sobbing will not help, and police officers do not care if you are funny. They won’t acknowledge your tears, and they won’t laugh at your jokes, in part because their hearts are some kind of impenetrable metal fortress that only Battlestar Galactica can bust through. My cop was like Bishop from the Alien franchise: clean, efficient, and completely without personality. He was also aggressively bland, in a silent, suburban way that made me avoid eye contact with him. I decided he was beyond generic, and dubbed him Officer Cop. ‘Great, I’ve been arrested by the cop equivalent to a used pet rock,’ I thought. This guy would be more intimidating if he looked like Willem Dafoe, not Dwight from The Office.

The police station was non-descript and creepy; I don’t know what I expected, but I was hoping for more flair.  We pulled up in total darkness, and my heart went KER-THUMP. There was an unmarked, dirt-streaked white door with handprints all over it, and I made the Blair Witch connection almost instantly, shivering in the cold. The cop made me wait under a flickering street lamp, right outside the door, which managed to make the place seem more Freddy Krueger-friendly and less like a place where justice is served. I turned to Officer Cop and said, “Is this a secret entrance or something? Kinda creepy.” He looked at me, shrugged, and said, “Sure, whatev.” I gave him my best glare. Was it so much to ask that he entertain me before getting hauled into the slammer?

There were actually no jail cells, just small rooms with no windows; the lighting was unfriendly, which matched the pea green paint color. I entered the room and sat down, on a cold cement bench, next to a hooker named Amy.

Me: Hey.

Amy: Hi, I’m Amy.

Me: So what’re you in for? Or is that weird to ask? Oh god, it’s weird to ask.

Amy: Umm…it’s okay. You know:  this an’ that.

Amy looked embarrassed, which piqued my interest. I tried looking neutral, imagining bunnies and sunshine and a potentially amazing jail story I could someday tell my friends. I focused on the cement floor, feigning disinterest.

Me: Oh?

Amy: I was with a gentleman friend tonight in my car and was caught.

Me: Is that a nice way of saying you’re a hook—um, an escort?

Amy: Ha! I like that one. “Escort.”

Me: My personal favorite is ‘lady of the evening.’

Amy: Oooh, fancy.

Me: Fancypants.

Amy: Sorry?

I felt like a nervous freak. Here I was, talking with a real! live! whore! and all I could think of was how idiotic I must sound to her, how redneck-y and small. I also worried that invisible skank spores were infecting me through our close proximity, and tried breathing away from her, in case she was extra toxic. I know you can’t get AIDS this way, but I don’t know if it’s the same for being a rundown ho; I just needed to avoid it. I’d make a terrible prostitute.

Me: Oh, uh, heh. Sorry. Um, when I get nervous – or well, really just anytime, really – I just tack on the word ‘pants’ to whatever word—

Amy: You say something-something-pants?

Me: Well, right now it’s just because I’m nervous, see.

Amy: So I could say ‘bus’ and you’d say—

Me: See, that’s not a great example because ‘buspants’ isn’t cute; it just reminds me of being on the bus, which is gross.

Amy: Yeah, I love my car.

Me: …clearly.

Amy: So what are you in for?

Me: (nervously) Fancypants.

Amy: What?

Right in the nick of time, Officer Cop walked in. I’d never been happier to see The Stoic Mask of Blah in my entire life. I jumped up, ready to face the music.

Cop: Okay, it’s time to talk for a bit.

Me:  OkaywellitwasnicemeetingyouAmyhopeeverythingturnsoutokay.

Amy: Okaypants!

Me:  (sigh) No, see, you have to—certain words don’t—never mind.

Amy: *waves*

Our conversation consisted of him asking me boring questions, over and over again, trying to see if my story would change. At one point I called my boyfriend, said some very terse words that the officer smirked at, and asked for a glass of water. If they were going to keep me there all night, I would not die from dehydration; I would most likely die from the tacky paint color covering their office walls like a disease. Turns out Officer Cop loved stories about my boyfriend, so I kept him entertained all night while he filled out my paperwork.

Cop: What kind of guy doesn’t know how to drive a stick shift?

Me:  I know.  I told him he wasn’t a man or an American.

Cop:  You told him he wasn’t a man or an American because he can’t drive a stick?

Me:  Well. Yeah.

Cop:  Wow. That’s harsh.

Me:  I know, right?

I was sitting at his desk in the station, and this drunken frat boy walked by in handcuffs with another cop.  He nodded to me with familiarity, and I froze in return. I thought, Oh fuck – do I now belong to some underground club for miscreants?  Is there a secret handshake?  Did he recognize the felon in me? [At this juncture, my lawyer would like to point out that I am not a felon, was not arrested on felony charges, and that I paid my debt to society. Thank you.]  The dude in handcuffs was a regular bro, but not someone who would ever acknowledge the likes of me. It was unnerving.

He walked back from being fingerprinted and yelled, “HUSKIES RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUULE!”  I leaned to the side of my desk and yelled after him, “GO COUGS!“ because my brothers went to WSU and I have a sense of propriety about these things. He looked back at me, drunk and hurt. I felt bad for breaking our felonious bond.

Officer Cop drove me home. As he dropped me off, he asked if I had learned my lesson, but it was 4 A.M. and – truthfully – I hadn’t learned anything except to get arrested around dinnertime if you want to be in bed by midnight. I was also a bit put off by his parental tone; where was the robotic camaraderie we’d come to enjoy? It was abrupt at our drop-off point, and cold. He said, “If this works out the right way and you keep your nose out of trouble, we won’t have to see each other ever again, and that’s a good thing.” What about if I apply for the police academy and we end up being partners? I asked, annoyed. “That, I hope, will never happen,” he replied, driving off in the night. I haven’t seen him since.

I walked upstairs, completely overwhelmed by the evening I had barely survived. I paused outside of my apartment door, knowing I would break down in tears the minute I opened it. I gave myself a minute to reflect, and thought, ‘Well, at least I can drive a stick.’ Towards mischief, one hopes.

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{Spoiler Alert} This post has nothing to do with cow-tipping!  Those stories will be saved for later (?).

For someone who has always been seen as the good little girl, never the “bad girl,” I have had a lot of mischief creep up in my life. Despite not being the “doer” of the mischief, I’m always involved somehow. Some would say I was just a tag-along… those who know me better would know I”m more like the instigator whispering in the ears of those who would listen.

Today’s story, though, is about a time when I was the one was “tricked,” and had mischief made on me!

Imagine if you will – 3 “pre-teens” who were sick and tired of babysitting siblings, a giant field of amazing trees that were built for climbing, some blankets, and a beautiful fall day.

The day began with me being blindfolded and told if I wanted to be part of “the club,” I needed to be initiated. The initiation began with all of the day’s supplies – a picnic lunch, blankets, and whatever else they could find – piled into a back pack with me as the mule to carry them. Then, to ensure that I was keep completely out of sorts, they added a blindfold, so I could never find the “club house” on my own.  I was soon to discover that this secret place was a cluster of trees that were easy to climb, and tie blankets on to so we could hang dangling between the branches. I asked my friend, “Aren’t the cows in this part of the field?” But she assured me that they were kept on a different part of the farm, and that the biggest thing that would scare me here was a bunny rabbit.  “What? Are you a scaredy cat???” If I was, I couldn’t be part of the “gang.” For me, that was enough to shut me up; I wanted to be cool.

After about a 20 minute walk into the forest, we found what we were looking for, climbed up, and enjoyed the day by reading and yelling back and forth between the trees. I know what you’re thinking :pretty cool club, wish I could have joined.  But we thought it was awesome.  No parents, no baby siblings driving us crazy and best of all – no one knew where we were.

So, we’re having lunch, relaxing, chatting away. . . you know, being girls, that are cool.  Then, the Bull arrived. Yup… an angry bull – giant red horns – with flames shooting out of his nose. (I *might* be exaggerating that part, but my 10 year-old self still sees the bull chomping at the bit trying to scare the helpless little girls.)  Now remember — I had no idea where we were, except in a forest, somewhere on my friends’ family farm.  We hadn’t told the parents where we were going.  I didn’t know how to get back… and my best friend was yelling, “BE QUIET;  IF HE CAN’T HEAR US, HE WON’T HEADBUTT THE TREE AND MAKE IT FALL OVER!”  Um… you’re yelling… how is that quiet?

No one is coming to save us… No one…

Cows = Scary

The bull started attacking the poor trees – we cried – our lives were over.  We knew that no one knew where we were. We traded stories back and forth about how we were going to die, how the fire breathing bull was going to eat us alive (a few too many horror movies I think …).

And then: we saw our savior.   My best friends’ Dad came to our rescue on a giant tractor.  He plucked us out of the trees, and we were taken to the house to be properly yelled at, and sent off to my friends’ room while our parents talked about our punishment.  We had scared them and worried them; we deserved it.

Now for the funny part: They not only knew where we were… but my friends’ Dad had actually let the cows loose – then brought the tractor to a respectable distance so that he could watch us, but where we couldn’t hear or see him.  Apparently, we were never even in danger; they just wanted to teach us a lesson by scaring us half to death. We’ve been told by now that this was one of the funniest tricks her Dad had had ever pulled, watching us be afraid of a baby cow, who had no idea he was scaring us.

Yeah yeah… laugh now… but… it was scary…. then.

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Make some mischief with yourself. Stay tuned for a powerful exercise at the end of this mischievous lie-filled rant!

(Thanks to salviaforme for the cartoon.)

Sinners Beware: What you are about to learn will help you to realize you will never be punished and you have never actually done anything wrong. There really was never anyone to give you permission in the first place. You made up the joke, and the joke is on you.

Before we get too deep into making mischief, know that I do not mean suicide or any kind of destruction to your body. I encourage the destruction of how you think about, interpret, and experience the events of your life.

Correct. You must destroy yourself while you still have time. It will feel better to get it over with now and not a moment later.

…there are things you can accomplish in the span of a single minute that would blow your mind…

Who wants to sit up screaming in terror on a deathbed after having the realization that who you really are was not who you thought you were all those long, hard years?

I promise you, it will feel much better to sit up screaming in terror and have that realization now with the potential for a good amount of life still ahead of you. The life awaiting you after your own terrifying moment of realization may expose you to an abundance of love, adventure, and creativity.

Enthusiasm and zest for life get hidden under crushing ideas, expectations, beliefs, shoulds, ought tos, and musts that inform and define your idea of who and what you are. This conglomeration piles up like heavy sediment at the bottom of a river. Who and what you are is something far different and far deeper than ANY ideas you or anyone else have ever had.

Thanks to Brian M. Smith for the image.

You are the flowing river. The sediment is just garbage that other people threw into you. The sediment is not a problem unless you idetify with it and confuse it for your real self. Then it piles higher and higher until the river gets choked out and dammed up…..a stagnant pool…..

What you are is something different than anything it is possible for you to even think about. More on that later…

I lied eariler this post. I said you must destroy yourself. Actually, you really aren’t required to do anything. Most of you will never destroy yourselves in the ways described in this article. This offering goes out to the handful of people who will try the experiments they are about to read. Thank you.

In an earlier article for 30pov.com, which you can read by clicking here, I encouraged the suicide of all false ideas and false selves. False selves arise from ideas and beliefs. Ideas and beliefs arise from one’s assignment of meaning to organic, dynamic, and otherwise meaningless experiences.

Do you remember each morning that you are a creature, an animal among other animals, creating meaning where there is none? Do you know in your body that you are not a sinner, and you never could be? Do you remember that the sun never sets? Do you remember the possibility that you could enjoy everything you experience, even the really difficult stuff? Does that piss you off?

The meanings we give to our experiences then inform our beliefs. The beliefs inform our actions, thoughts, and interpretations of new experiences.

Do you have a friend who has strong political beliefs? Have you ever noticed that you can predict that friend’s reaction to events and certain experiences before the event takes place? The reason for this is simple. Your friend with the powerful political beliefs has a set of prepackaged conclusions and reactions to events. All events will be interpreted through the political beliefs to arrive at the conclusions demanded by the political beliefs.

Imagine a science experiment in which the end result was known ahead of time, and the experiment was designed to arrive at the preconceived result. That would not be much of an experiment; it would be a total farce. The personalities weighing most humans down are equally total farces.

We humans often seek out people and information that reaffirm our conclusions and beliefs about life. You want others to reinforce the beliefs you hold. It feels good. It takes less effort than actually thinking and experiencing the uncertainty underneath every experience. It seems much easier to pretend you know what’s going on all the time than to face the deep uncertainties underpinning most experiences in life.

It might help to think of the beliefs and ideas you hold about yourself as the backdrop, background, or props behind all of your actions and experiences. Though they might hide out of your awareness, they inform and color everything else you experience.

If you believe that you are a bad person, you will interpret other people’s actions in ways that reinforce your belief. If someone you know walks into the room and doesn’t notice you, you will automatically take it personally and imagine you have done something wrong, or that the person is mad at you for some reason. You will not even consider other interpretations and other possibilities.

Robert Anton Wilson wrote in Prometheus Rising, “The prover proves what the thinker thinks.” Wilson’s assertion can also be understood in this manner: the meaning you assign to your experiences–while forgetting that the meaning originated with you–will reinforce the beliefs you hold about yourself.

The less beliefs and ideas you hold about yourself, the more free you will be to experience events as organic, dynamic, and

—:::NEW:::—

Your experiences can never be new to you if you enter them with preconceived ideas and conclusions about yourself.

“How can I break free?”

By ruthlessly seeking out and destroying every idea you have about yourself, you will begin to remember an old and forgotten part of yourself. Underneath all the concrete and asphalt¾all the ways you were taught to think of yourself and interpret your experiences¾there is another part of yourself. That part of you has clarity.

I have lied again—–::::::::What I write of here is not a part of anything. There is a whole creature under the dross of the personality. Your personality was just a tool you created to help you get by while you learned about and experienced your life up to now. Perhaps you have confused your personality with the real You? …..Did you?….

Do you always know what you are going to do next? Do you ever surprise yourself or your friends?

If, and this is a very big –IF–   ?you? find yourself longing to escape from your own personality…..if you long to break free from your prepackaged reactions to life, other people, and yourself……take action….

Open a new word document or get out a piece of paper and a pen.

Make a list of all the personality traits you can identify about yourself. Write your common behaviors and reactions. Make the list as long as you want, you can always add more later on. Add some descriptions of yourself other people have shared with you. Include any descriptions your parents and teachers gave you.

Think of what other people expect of you. Do they expect you to always be happy? Do they expect you to be angry? Late? Early? Identify what you think of yourself.

After you make the list, pick out one item on it and do the opposite. Do anything but live up to that trait. Remove the trait from your life and try a new strategy. It won’t necessarily feel good. When you begin making mischief with your own personality, you may feel like you are dying, or overwhelmed with anxiety.

Let the anxiety and fear remind you that :::You are changing and growing:::::

I would say that the real you holds tremendous beauty, but I would be lying to you again.

The real you is the creator and beholder of all beauty.

By beauty I mean life, and by life I mean everything. This does not mean things always have to go well, and it also does not mean that everything has to be pretty, easy, and simple. Figure it out for yourself.

Do this every day, and add to the list as you identify more and more traits you think are your own.

The real you is what remains after you have destroyed all the traits you once let define you. Your personality is nothing more than a game. If you must have a personality, and it seems we must, create one deliberately that gets you more of what you want. When it does not serve you, scrap it and create a new one.

Remember not to forget that this process may disturb you and your friends and family. Many people expect and demand consistency. Do you want to keep living the life everyone else has imagined for you?

To get in touch with yourself, you can try one or more of the many experiments I have tried and suggested on my blog, Escape Plans Unlimited. If you want personalized training and a helpful hand through some of these processes, check out Creative Deconstruction for a list of options.

A quick way to get in touch with a more real YOU is to ask yourself the following questions as many times a day as you can remember:

1. Who would I be without my memories?

2. What the Hell is Going on Here?

What are you waiting for? Get Free. Make mischief within yourself.

There are things you can accomplish in one single minute that will

…blow…your…mind…

You really can let go of all definitions and conclusions you have ever had about life, the universe, and yourself.

What remains after you let go is……….::::::::::::::——–>>>>>>>?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Did you know I was going to say that?

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Growing up, my folks often likened me to “Dennis the Menace.”  That’s cool, I liked Dennis; he seemed like a fun kid that I definitely could see myself hanging around with.  Personally, though, I always felt a stronger bond to Beaver Cleaver…the Beav, from TV’s Leave it to Beaver.  [I also thought that Eddie Haskell was one cool mofo.]  But, hey, both characters were always filthy dirty, reeking of guilt and up to their ears in mischief, so I can’t say my parents were terribly off the mark with their choice.  Except that Dennis always seemed to be lighting a fire under his neighbor Mr. Wilson’s ass, and like the Beav, I was a thorn in the ass of our entire neighborhood.  Regardless, this was the image my parents pegged me with from the time I was five or so…

See, it just seems weird, right?

From an early age, I always seemed to be somewhere or doing something that I really shouldn’t have been.  [I think you can tell from my first two posts here on 30POV that this trend hasn’t really trailed off in my adulthood.]  And as such, I found myself struggling with this month’s topic of “Making Mischief,” because what would I write about exactly?  Should I share another personal story?  If so, which one?  After all, there are a lot to choose from.  And if not share a story, what insightful advice might I offer to the readers?  [Ugh…who am I kidding, nobody wants my advice on this.]

I’ve decided to share another personal story for this month’s topic of “Making Mischief.”  Okay, a few stories.  Fuck…fine!  I’m going to share a lot of personal stories, a greatest hits selection, if you will.  [Greatest Hits, Vol. I, we’ll call it, because there may be an opportunity to expand on this in the future.]  And what better way to present one’s greatest hits than in the style of a kickass “greatest hits” album [complete with sweetass liner notes, obviously], right?  So without further adieu, here we go…

TRACKS:

1. Fruits of War

(Circa ’82)  One hot summer day, a childhood friend and I spent the afternoon playing “war.”  Not in a makeshift fort built from couch cushions in one of our apartments, or even on the sprawling perfect-for-playing-war-grounds of our own apartment complex.  No, we chose the backyard of a home that ran along the side of our building, just beyond a Great Wall of thick brush and thorny bushes, in a beautiful, lush vegetable garden belonging to […if memory serves me right…] an elderly woman whose days revolved around the upkeep of her own private Eden.  And there, we unmercifully kicked in the heads of our enemies (i.e., squash and melons), bravely sacrificed our bodies diving on top of IEDs (i.e., lettuce and spinach), crawled on our bellies through what felt like miles of barbwire (i.e., cucumber vines), and made use of our vast supply of grenades (i.e., tomatoes, bell peppers, peaches and figs).  That afternoon, we won the battle.  But that evening, when our parents learned of what  went down, we lost the war.

2. The Fuck Heard Around the World
(Circa ’81) My mother had just returned home from a trip to the supermarket and I insisted on helping her bring the bags in from the car.  She walked them into our building, two at a time, and set them at the bottom of a looong staircase up to our second floor apartment.  Bag after bag, she’d set them down and say “Joseph, leave ‘em.  I’ll do it.  Go upstairs.”  And, like I always did, I disregard my mother’s wishes, picked up a bag and struggled mightily to the summit.  On one trip [my last trip that day], I picked up a watermelon the size and weight of my torso.  Bumping and banging it up each and every step, I had almost made it to the top…just one more…uh oh.  There it went, through the air, down the steps, as if I had launched it with a catapult.  [It had such impressive velocity.]  I reached out in a half-assed attempt to catch it, but it was gone.  And that’s when it happened.  I let loose my first, and perhaps most appropriately used, “FUCK!”s to date.  And as I followed the zeppmelon’s flight path down the steps, it landed at my mother’s feet.  Even from that distance, in that poor hallway lighting, through the tears that immediately began to well up in my own eyes, I could actually see her blood boiling.

3. Washing Prepubescent Pussy (Out of your Mouth)

(Circa ’84)  One day, while messing around on the monkey bars during recess, a friend tried talking a bunch of us into doing some completely asinine flip maneuver from atop its highest peak.  [If you’ve never met me, I assure you that at no point in my life have I ever had the…um, physique?…for such an acrobatic maneuver.  Let alone as a ~7-year-old.]  I stalled, letting others attempt it, knowing that all it would take was for one kid to get hurt, or chicken out, and I’d be off the hook.  As the first kid climbed up to the top, he turned to us and started whimpering some sadsack excuse.  Obviously we mocked him quite a bit, urging him to keep going.  It was then that I hollered, [something very close to this…] “Just do it, you fuckin’ pussy!”  Before I even had a chance to enjoy the hilarity of the over-my-7-year-old-head “pussy” taunt, Mrs. Manzi [a nasty bitch of a teacher…and still teaching today!] had grabbed me by the back of my collar and was dragging me off the playground.  As I watched through glass as my mother, teacher and principal discussed my “foul mouth,” I knew this was the worst thing I’d done to date.  And later that night, as my mother washed my mouth out with a big, fat bar of brown soap, I sobbed and promised never to curse again.

4. What?

(Circa ’86)  Every 4^th of July, my father would take a ride down to NYC’s Chinatown to get a huge box of fireworks – “Whistlers”, Jumpin’ Jacks, Roman Candles, bricks and belts of Black Cats, M-80s, etc.  This one year, during a family bbq, my cousin and I snuck away with a handful of packs of Black Cats [You know these, they’re the small firecrackers about half the size of a cigarette.]  We thought it would be fun to deconstruct a pack or two of these firecrackers, emptying all of the gun powder in a new larger firecracker made of toilet paper.  [It looked like a giant thumb-size joint.]  My cousin had reservations about this plan that I had masterminded, but I assured him “We’ll be fine.”  [As I’ve said before, more often than not anyone who’s uttered the words ‘I’ll/We’ll be fine’ usually regrets it for one reason or another.]  We had strung together three or four of the deconstructed firecrackers’ wicks for this Frankencracker, but it didn’t work as we’d hoped.  Almost instantaneously as the match I was holding touched the wick the firecracker exploded with exactly the bombastic result we’d hoped for.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear a thing.  Well, except for that high pitch whistling in my ears.  My cousin was talking to me, but I could barely make out his words.  I avoided my family members for the rest of the night, as I hoped, wished and prayed that my hearing would return.  Honestly, when I fell asleep, I still couldn’t hear.  Luckily, today it’s fine.

5. Regurgitating dinner
(Circa ’86)  I didn’t like school as a kid.  In fact, I hated it, what with all that sitting quietly, behaving, doing homework, learning and whatnot. Blegh!  [Yeah, I know, what a unique kid.]  Unfortunately, the only chance I had of not going on a particular day was if I were sick – and I wasn’t sick very often.  But I figured out a way around it.  Sure a fever would keep me home, but I couldn’t fake a fever.  Vomiting would keep me home too.  But I couldn’t fake vomiting.  Or could I?  I woke up before my parents on this morning, snuck down into the kitchen and scooped a few heaping spoonfuls of the previous night’s pasta and some veggies into a big glass.  [You see where this is going yet?]  I went back to my bedroom and sat on my bed chewing on this cold, grimy food, spitting each mouthful onto the floor.  After I had finished it all, and had formed a nice vomit-like pile, I began gagging myself and making vile sounds.  With my eyes watering and nose running, my mother came running to the rescue.  “Oh, you poor thing! Shhh…it’ll be okay.”  I think I then took a nap so I’d have my energy for a full day of playing Zelda.  [I know, in hindsight, that it would’ve been much easier to simply scarf down the grub and pull the trigger for some authentic vomit, but I wasn’t a smaht kid.

6. Urine in trouble now

(Circa ’86)  He’d sit there in the cafeteria each day, eating his peanut butter and caviar sandwiches or herring filets in cream sauce.  [I mean, c’mon! Who sends their kid to grammar school with such lunches?]  Leor was one weird kid; and not just weird, but a fucking dick.  He was also the class bully.  He fancied your traditional bully antics – knocking books out of your hands, sticking shit on your back, jamming your locker with gum, whipping you with towels in the locker room, etc.  One day in gym class, before we even got started, Leor whipped a dodgeball into the back of my head, knocking me to the ground and leaving me teary-eyed.  While kids laughed, and he was being reprimanded by a teacher, I ran off  to the locker room to get myself together.  I was fuming.  But what could I do?  I should’ve gone right back out there and punched him the throat and pulled out his eyeballs!  That would have shown him!  [Thinking back to this day still gets my heart racing.]  At that moment, I made a decision that I still can’t fully explain.  I threw open Leore’s gym locker, pulled his school clothes out onto the floor, and I let loose with what felt like the longest piss that had ever been released – ALL. OVER. HIS CLOTHES.  Leore wore his gym clothes for the rest of the day and I was blamed for “wetting” his clothes, though urine was never entered the discussion/accusation.  We had to serve detention together that afternoon – cleaning the boys’ locker room.  It was worth it.

7. Schedule Payment
(Circa ’87)  I was once the paperboy in my neighborhood.  The long, hilly route had nearly 70 customers and would earn me some pretty sweet tips each week.  After I had quit, I returned from time to time to those houses that left their weekly (cash) payments/tips under their doormat or mailbox, and I’d take it.  And then I’d go to the baseball card shop and hope to get a McGwire “Rated Rookie” card in a wax pack of Donruss.

8. Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Living Daylights
(Circa ’88)  I loved James Bond movies as a kid.  My dad and I watched the Sean Connery and Roger Moore Bond films over and over and over again.  But when the franchise was turned over to Timothy Daulton in The Living Daylights, I jumped ship.  And when I was introduced to the awesomeness that is Indiana Jones, shortly thereafter, I had found my action movie replacement.  In fact, after renting Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, I declared it the best movie ever made.  [I was ten years old, so please forgive me.  I’ve since realized that title belongs to The Empire Strikes Back.]  I loved Temple so much – and hated Timothy Daulton so vehemently – that shoddily swapped the VHS tape labels and returned the shitty Bond movie to the movie rental shop.  A few days later the jig was up.  They called my house, my mother chased me with a broom, and the rest is history.

9. Silly

(Circa ’89)  The very first time my parents allowed me to go “hang out” at the mall with my friends, I was in sixth grade.  [It turned out to be the last time they let me do so for quite a few years afterward.]  While I would have rather spent a couple of hours in Record Town, my friends wanted to go to Spencer Gifts instead.  So off we went, perusing all the titty beer koozies, inflatable dolls and lava lamps.  But as we were leaving, one of my friends had a brilliant idea – “let’s buy silly string!” Fast forward an hour, when the three of us were on the floor of the women’s department in Jordan Marsh, in the middle of a moist, hot pink stringy battlefield, surrounded by mall security and the store’s employees.  [Clearly not the best decision given my newfound independence.]  My father had to leave work to come and “claim me” from the security office.  That was not a fun night in the Poopoopachu household.  [It’s worth mentioning that my hole was dug even deeper by my purchase of a “Kill a Commie for your Mommy” t-shirt earlier in my mall adventure.]

10. Breaking and Enter(tain)ing

(Circa ’92)  Shortly into the summer before my freshman year in high school a new kid arrived on the scene; his family rented a house in my neighborhood directly behind mine.  He was cool and fun, and he fit right into the gang from day one.  But two things in particular made him the new kingpin on the block, 1) his parents hardly did any “parenting,” [...yes, I know this sounds completely fuckin ridiculous coming from me, as I sit here sharing story after story of my mischievous acts from childhood…] so all the no soda, candy or chips rules, curfews, homework before watching TV…those didn’t exist at 265 Tulip Road – not for him, and not for the kids hanging out there everyday, and 2) he had the all-new Super Nintendo game system.  [Ho-ly-shit wasn’t it mind-blowing to go from 8- to 16-bit graphics!?]  Obviously, when my friends and I learned that our new pal was going on vacation for a few weeks with his family, our spirits were crushed.  We were lost and desperately searched for things to occupy our summer days.  But just a few days into his absence, we realized that the answer was right in front of us – he went on vacation, not his house.  And, after all, it was his house that we really enjoyed, not him per se.  So one morning, we went around back onto his deck, gently cut the screen and shimmied the kitchen window open.  Viola!  For the next week, we spent countless hours playing TMNT and Tecmo Bowl on Super Nintendo, eating every bit of food they’d left behind, including frozen Omaha Steaks pork chops, rifling through their belongings, and even selling some of some old coin collection to the antique shop so that we could buy […you may have guessed it…] baseball cards.  While we thought we were being very conscious of our activities (e.g., packing out any trash we accumulated, keeping everything as we found it, etc.), we did some awfully fucking stupid things that could have gotten us caught, such as making hundreds of prank phone calls and messing around with his sister’s birth control pills.  But we never did get caught.  So we enjoyed another week in his house later that year, when they went to Florida for the holidays.

11. The Good Ones Swallow

(Circa ’95)  Shortly after high school, one of my friends got his own apartment.  He was by far the most “mature” of my friends; he went into business with his brother, fully supported himself, and he had an apartment that didn’t look like it had just been the scene of a 24-hour kegger, but rather an actual home.  In said home, he had a big fish tank in the living room.  It was his prize possession.  On the night of his house warming party, he was running around entertaining guests, giving them the tour from room to room, etc.  While he was doing that, the drunkards and I sharing space in the living room thought it would be hysterical if each time he came in to show people the aquarium there were less and less fish in it.  [Yeah, okay, it was my idea.]  A friend quickly reached in, grabbed a fish and tossed it in a cup on the table.  That wasn’t going to work.  I raised the bar, declaring “Ok, we’re going to eat all the fish!  We can’t just hide them in cups of beer.”  So one by one, we’d wait for an opportunity, reach in and grab a fish, and then…GULP!  Swallowed ‘em down alive.  Honestly, each of us must have gobbled down 7, 8, 9 fish, until there was one remaining, a massive goldfish the size of a pack of cigarettes.  By the time our host realized the fish were gone, we had to come clean with what had happened, because everyone at the party was in the know and in tears […and some were dry-heaving].  Was he angry?  Upset?  Nope, he reached in and grabbed that big ol’ sumabitch of a fish and tossed it in his mouth.  Unfortunately for him, it was too big to swallow.  He tried multiple times, spitting it out onto the carpet, putting it back in his mouth with its tail flapping through his lips.  Then, as a last resort, he chewed it up, took a BIG swig of beer, and it was over.  And the partying began.

12. Canon Ball!

(Circa ’97)  I was visiting some friends at the University of Albany one weekend when all the morning drinking caught up with me real quickly and I was in dire need of a lunchtime nap.  When I woke up on the couch a couple of hours later, everyone was hootin’ and hollerin’ out on the front porch.  I peeked through the blinds and saw a friend jumping up and down on the hood of a car parked out in front of the house.  Without thinking for even a split second, I ran out the front door, hopped the porch railing and hit the sidewalk in stride, took a few galloping steps, and with my toes planted on the car’s bumper, I leapt through the air, tucked my knees to my chest and went ass/back first through the windshield.  Why?  I have no fucking idea.  But here’s a photo of the damage:

The bitch of it was that the car was my friend’s.  I paid for the windshield.  You know, because that’s what friends do.

13. Meat!
(Circa ’97)  Some buddies and I headed to Vassar College one weekend to visit my girlfriend and partake in their annual Founder’s Day festivities [read: drunken debauchery].  During a late night, campus-wide “keg hunt,” [think: Easter egg hunt] we joined hordes of students who were roaming the darkest corners of the school’s grounds in search of the next hidden keg from which to drink to our liver’s content.  We were along for the hunt, but lingering outside of the pack, hoping to find it first […and keep it to ourselves].  As the masses descended on an area of campus townhouses, my friends and I were walking through the little front yards in hope of finding a house party that may offer up some booze to a few thirsty journeymen.  I came upon an open cellar door.  The lights were on, so I peered down the steps and saw…WHOA!  FUCK!  There was something…skinned…in a big garbage pail filled with ice.  I bolted.  While everyone had settled around the keg that they’d finally found, I grabbed my friends and we went back to the cellar.  Sure enough, two SKINNED LEGS were sticking up out of this ice-filled bin.  We were all drunk and fucked up and this had us FREAKING out!  I needed to get a closer look, so my friend and snuck down the steps and as I was creeping closer my buddy dumped over the bin, spilling all the ice and this carcass out in my direction.  I don’t know why, but I grabbed it by a leg and took off running up the cellar steps.  BA DUMP! BA DUMP! BA DUMP! I dragged it up the steps, running full tilt, across the yard and into the parking lot, about fifty yards from where a few hundred (drunk) kids were getting drunk(er).  I took it by two (of its four, skinned) legs and started spinning around, whipping this giant meaty beast above my head and screaming “CREATURE!  CREATURE!  CREATURE!”  And on one final spin, I let it go, like an Olympic hammer thrower, and it sailed about thirty feet, skipped off someone’s car and onto the gravely pavement.  Me and my friends took off running as if we were being chased by the undead.  The next morning at breakfast in the cafeteria, we all sat down with some of my girlfriend’s friends; none of us uttering a word of what had happened last night.  Just then, this girl looks up and asks, “Did you guys hear what happened last night?  Some guys stole the lamb that so-and-so bought for the field hockey team’s barbecue today, and she found it in the parking lot this morning.”

14. Lost

(Circa ’95)  I was driving home with a friend following an afternoon of pickup baseball.  On the way, we stopped by 7-Eleven to pick up Slurpees – Big Gulp size, of course.  Up ahead, on the shoulder, a guy was waiving us down.  I slowed up and rolled down my window.  He was lost and asking for directions.  [I heard him clearly.]  “Excuse me, what?,” I shouted.  He came closer and repeated himself.  “Sorry, what?,” I said again.  Now he’s just a few feet from my window.  I popped the top off my Slurpee and fired the remaining few dozen ounces of icy slop right into his face and sped off.  The End.

15. Just Do It
(Circa ’96) Like many teenagers, when my folks went away, I’d throw a house party.  I learned my lesson early on not to have an all out, balls to the wall, “everyone’s invited!” bash.  [I’m still paying for those.]  But from time to time, I would still invite 20-30 of my closest friends to partake in some swimming and keg stands […in whichever order they preferred, of course].  In an effort to spice things up a bit […and because, lets face it, I was/am a young horny man], I introduced my guests to a game, appropriately called The Balloon Game.  Think of it as Truth or Dare without the truths.  Like fortune cookies, I’d slip a little ticket inside each of the balloons before blowing them up.  The tickets would direct the holder to do this or that to the person to the left, right, three people over, etc.  The actions were crude, no question.  But I explained to players that no matter how terrible or embarrassing they feel their action is, just do it, because everyone else has an equally awful ticket in their balloon.  [The sales pitch always worked, the game was a huge success party after party, and it became a calling card of sorts for me.]  Some of the acts called on for players to do included the following:

• Drop your pants and undies, bend over, and get spanked with a fish by ___
• Take off your shirt and bra and have a stick of butter rubbed all over your breasts by ___, who will be holding it in their mouth
• Eat a slice of bread that has been rubbed on the underarms, ass crack and crotch of ___
• Perform a (clothed) “69” with ___ with whipped cream covering your dick/pussy
• Drink a full beer as it’s poured down the back of ___, trough their ass crack and into your mouth
• Go in the bathroom, strip down, and replace your undies with nothing but plastic wrap
• Suck peanut butter off the toes of ____ (pictured below)

Is that smooth or chunky? Definitely chunky. Ewwww!

16. On the Lamb

(Circa ’99) For the most part, my mischievous behavior has been free and clear of police activity.  Except for this one time… http://30pov.com/2009/08/28/on-the-lamb/

17. Mean Green Unethical Machine

(Circa ’03)  Everyone has that one friend who always seems to be the butt of the joke.  Thankfully, I’m not that guy in my circle of friends… http://30pov.com/2009/09/27/mean-green-unethical-machine/

BONUS TRACK: Antique Road Show

(Circa ’03)  During the same road trip that gave us the hilarious dyeing of “Chubby’s” mouth, teeth and face green, we also “antiqued” him.  For those of you unfamiliar with antiquing, it’s the act of throwing a handful of flour into someone’s face.  Poor Chubby.

And here’s a video if you’re interested in how it all went down:

[vodpod id=Groupvideo.3714947&w=425&h=350&fv=%26rel%3D0%26border%3D0%26]

BONUS TRACK: Skin to Win!
(Circa ’05)  [I can’t explain this any better than 30POV’s “jasonleary” did in a write-up a few years back for a now defunct, though supremely fantastic, outlet called Some Other Magazine.  I apologize for not simply providing a link, but this piece of brilliance no longer resides online, so consider yourself lucky to have an opportunity and enjoy!]

I should have seen it coming, really.  The signs were in front of me the entire time.  The evocative shape and sensuousness of the pears and plums I ate for breakfast.  The throbbing dance music I heard in my typically quiet neighborhood.  The random panties that emerged from the snow pile in my front yard (actually, that’s probably a sign for a number of bad things).

Beyond these, I should have known that fate was dragging me to this fantasy baseball draft on a Saturday afternoon for reasons other than fantasy baseball.  On a scale of 1 to 5, where 1 is “poor” and 5 is “superior,” I suck shit at fantasy baseball.  I used to do decently for four months of the season; sadly, it’s a six-month season.  But at least I had some months of enjoyment.  Now I start off horribly and get worse as the season goes on.  Do I suddenly not understand baseball?  Is my mind so weak that I lose mental battle after mental battle to men who know more characters in EuroTrip than members of Congress?  Am I accidentally drafting hockey players?  Hell, even Radek Bonk could get more RBIs than some of the human waste that I end up picking for my team.

(Quick note: For those of you who don’t know much about fantasy baseball or sports, don’t worry—that part of the story is about to end.  For those of you who do know a lot about fantasy baseball, I hate you.  And if you haven’t heard of fantasy baseball at all, how did you find yourself online at this magazine?  Have you ever watched TV or a read a newspaper?  Do you have electricity in your home?  Surely you live in a cave in the ocean.)

But just like that time I went to see Daredevil in the theaters, I ignore my better judgment and take part.  Maybe I just hate having $40 in my pocket—“get it out of my wallet, it burns!”  The draft is at my buddy Green’s house.  Our old friend Ravioli, who lives in New York, is the commissioner this year, so he’s driving up to oversee the day and then “score some Boston trim” that night. (I declined his offer to be his wingman for the evening.)  Old friends arrive and new guys show up, and we banter like it’s the Gilligan’s Island reunion special.  Beyond Green and Ravioli, attendance comprises Mark, Luke, Marcel, Darnelle, Sully, Pokey, Weebs, and Squeeze Box.  (If you find these names unlikely, that’s true, I made them up.  Keep reading to see why.)

And it starts.  The eating of pizzas and drinking of beers, I mean.  The draft part of the draft is delayed a bit as we try to get Green’s roommate Dwight on the phone.  Dwight is to fantasy sports as Dennis Hopper is to cocaine, so the thought of him missing the draft—even though he’s vacationing in Vegas—is impossible.  We laugh as we picture him outside of his hotel trying to get a cell signal, blinded by the sun after days in the casinos, carrying his laptop with his color-coded Excel spreadsheets of whom to draft, all while nursing a hangover the size of the stage at the Elton John show.  (Note to self…Elton John is to a fantasy baseball story as water is to Natalie Wood.)

Dwight finally gets situated, and the draft begins.  I have the first pick—talk about a friggin’ waste of good fortune.  I take Albert Pujols, yadda yadda yadda, 90 minutes go by, and there’s a knock at the door.  Ravioli jumps up to answer it, and it’s the boyfriend of the neighbor downstairs.  Their exchange, may it never be forgotten:

Boyfriend: I’m almost sure the answer is no, but did you guys order strippers?
Ravioli: Yeah, that’s for us.  Thanks.  You want to join us?
Boyfriend: [leaves]

Ravioli, in his quest to be the best commissioner ever, actually ordered strippers for the fantasy baseball draft.  Yes, plural.  Yes, strippers.  The reactions varied quite a bit, as this was a surprise for all of us.  Some laugh nervously.  Some high-five.  Weebs actually leaves.  Ravioli bellows in excitement.  Meanwhile, poor Dwight has no idea what’s going on.  He’s out in Vegas, and there are strippers in his house in Boston.  As Bart Simpson once said, the ironing is delicious. Then we hang up on him.

What a scene, friends, as this nasty, smoke-reeking old dude named Mike busts into the place, saying “we’re going to put on a show for you today, fellas!”  He can’t weigh more than 110 pounds—how this pipsqueak got a job working with strippers I’ll never know.  I’m sure he thinks his job is sweet, and that is so sad.  But he’s not the attraction: Right behind his wretched body comes two lithe women, one really attractive and one with a butter face (i.e., everything’s nice but her face…), saying hi to everyone like they are waiting our table at Bonanza.  “Can we go upstairs to change?” they ask.  Green sends them to Dwight’s room, probably because if strangers are going to steal CDs and do lines of coke, you don’t want them in your room.

Ravioli, Mark, and Luke work to convert the living room into a dance club.  Chairs are moved, floor space is created.  I see Luke look at the open space quietly, as if to think “why didn’t I bring a pole?”  Green, meanwhile, is shutting his curtains, lest sweet old Mrs. McGillicuddy across the street look in and see the foul company with which he is cavorting.

This bizarre scene is so typical of Ravioli, one of the most inspired men I’ve ever met.  Think how many times in your life you’ve said “wouldn’t it be funny if…” or “wouldn’t it be great if…”  It never leads to anything for any of us…except Ravioli.  When he says something, he not only believes it can happen, but he makes it happen.  I’m sure he was talking with someone about the draft, saying “it would be great if we got some strippers to come!”  I’m also sure that within 30 minutes he had the strippers booked and a wad of $1s ready to go.  I expect nothing less from a man who, on a roadtrip with friends, took a shit in the back of a van in a garbage bag because, and I quote, “it’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”  I wasn’t there and I still gag thinking of the atrocious affront to all of the senses for those unfortunate enough to be trapped inside that Ford Aerostar.

Back to Boston.  Dirty Old Mike thoughtfully brought tons of $1 bills to make change with since, as he says for the first of 500 times, “the girls work for tips” (like we thought they worked for the sense of fulfillment).  As this is happening, the room splits into two: those who are going to participate, and those who are going to eat pizza in the kitchen.  I could tell you who was in which group, but then I’d be breaking a code that pre-dates Hammurabi’s.  As your narrator, though, I must be honest, so I will tell you my choice: I stayed away from those gaping snatches like they had fangs, smelled of week-old egg salad, and emitted carbon monoxide.

Speaking of snatches, it didn’t take long for the girls to expose theirs.  They came down in a way most un-prom-like, stepped into the room, and 30 seconds later they were completely naked.  So, maybe stripper isn’t the right word.  Dancer?  Nudist gone wrong?  Efficiency experts?

The participants didn’t seem to mind the rapid loss of clothes.  What we did mind was when they start to partake in their version of sexy conversation, which was so horrible to behold.  “So yeah, you guys like fantasy footb—baseball, huh?”  Like a geek with a naked woman writhing in his lap wants to discuss his draft strategy.  We soon realize why this banter is occurring: there’s no music.  The strippers didn’t bring their own (nice going, Dirty Old Mike—surely this is your job?), and our host, somehow, has no CDs.  We flip on the music stations available through the cable TV, which went as badly as you might imagine.  Every time a good stripping song like Warrant’s Cherry Pie or Nelly’s…well, anything by Nelly, it’s followed by something terrible.  I’m talking stop-the-dancing, this-music-sucks terrible.  This is followed by a desperate scramble to find something better, and the hilarious process repeats itself.  When Rick Astley came on—“Never gonna give you up, Never gonna let you down, Never gonna run around and desert you”—things hit their low point.  I took over the remote to make sure “Butterfly Kisses” didn’t start playing and ruin the mood permanently.

Folks, I’ve been remiss in painting a clear picture of the day.  Let me crystallize this for you.  Two girls working five guys in a room, each of whom is draping his own body with $1s.  I’ve seen some funny stuff in my life, but watching men lounging on a chair perfectly still so they don’t tip the $13 they’ve positioned on their legs, chest, and collars is unbelievable.  Then the guys start bantering with the girls. “Ahhhh, you never get tired of the smell of strippers—I mean dancers,” someone says.  The girls talk back not at all in kind.  Rather than tell the recipients of their dancing how sexy or hot they are, they try to talk cool. “So, you’re really into fantasy baseball?” one says to a clearly uncomfortable fellow. “I think baseball is hot.”  I wish I were making this up.

So ended Act I, the lap dance portion of the agenda.  Dirty Old Mike counted the ill-gotten $1s, which the strippers would funnel over to him in between lap dances.  As he waited for the next batch of money, he would speak to those in the kitchen about baseball, or Boston, or anything else on his mind.  Truly painful it is to engage this crusty bastard in inane conversation as naked women work the next room.

In normal circumstances, the entertainment portion of the day would have ended, and we’d be back to our draft (we were only halfway done). For most functions—particularly a fantasy draft—30 minutes of lap dances would have sufficed.  Not for Ravioli.  No, he had to go out and get the “Lesbian Love” package.  As the women return from upstairs, probably to finish their coke lines, they hop right on the floor and start in with the cunnilingus—yeah, just another normal Saturday afternoon.  Everyone gathers around like they’re looking for a set of keys in some tall grass, angling their heads and staring without blinking.  I imagine what the other neighbors are doing in their living rooms.  Watching TV, perhaps, or taking a nap.  Not here.  Nope, we have two women tonguing each other amid a rainfall of dollar bills, taking a break once in awhile only to say “this hardwood floor hurts.”

Then the 69 began.  Then the whipped cream came out, which the fellows ate of the women, and one woman ate off the other one (The second woman was a vegan, you see.  Funny, Marcel remarked, that this didn’t stop her from eating roast beef earlier.)  Finally was the finale for Ravioli, where the pelvises of both women came together and perched molecules away from his face until he couldn’t breathe.  The girls kissed during this time—the most unconvincing kiss, by the way, since Rock Hudson and Doris Day—but Ravioli was wearing cooch glasses and could see nothing but the canal from which he was born.  Then like that, it was over, and everyone went to eat pizza, just like after a Little League game.  Go team!

Dirty Old Mike informed us that we were “alright guys.”  The girls told us “we were fun.”  Ravioli told us that “I smell like strippers!”  As soon as the strippers left, we returned to the draft like none of this happened.  In a matter of five minutes, we went from “do you like my pussy in your face” to “I select Craig Biggio, outfield.”  Too weird.

Time flew by as we finished the draft.  A few of us left immediately, somewhat dazed, somewhat disbelieving this had just happened.  Worst part about it: I’m sure that my fantasy performance this year will be the most offensive display of the season.  Sorry girls, but you just can’t sink as low as me.

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