Marietta.

Marietta with the bright blue eyes. Marietta with the golden hair. Marietta with her aura, glowing faintly, pulsating, humming, enveloping her in soft, white light. Marietta.

This was the name (the woman) that consumed me day in, day out. Marietta. We'd make the perfect couple, her and I. Marietta. The girl of my dreams. Marietta. The name I was carving into my right forearm with an old boxcutter. Marietta.



It was Saturday morning when I found the letter, hours before our big Halloween costume party. Like a sore thumb it stuck out among all the other white, dull, envelopes crowding my mailbox; pastel purple, smelling of lilacs, my name and address written in curley cue letters, covered in gold glitter. For once in my life I received something other than bills, credit card applications, or death threats. Not only that but the Wal*Mart lingerie catalog arrived too which meant I'd have something to look at when no one was around. You could say I was pretty excited.
After running back inside the house, clutching both letter and lingerie catalog to my chest, I slammed the bedroom door, leaned against it, shut my eyes, and breathed a heavy sigh, exhaling both gratitude and jubilance. Like a child on Christmas morning I tore into that envelope sending shards of glitter, confetti, and rose petals in all directions. My pounding heart all but suffocated me, thumping and babumping so hard in my throat it's a wonder I didn't pass out. With eyes hungrier than Anna Nicole Smith I anxiously gobbled up every word, every sentence, every paragraph in that letter until, finally, I found myself lying back on my bed grinning ear to ear, tears streaming down my cheeks.
In short, the letter revealed that a secret admirer had been watching me for some time and that it was no longer possible she keep quiet her undying love; that her loins burned with the same rage and intensity as a California forestfire which only I could put out. Most importantly the letter said that her true identity would be shown to me if, and only if, I went to the costume party dressed as a woman. At midnight the secret admirer would arrive, walk directly up to me (in costume of course), and plant the most stunning of kisses upon my lips.
Now, truth be told, deciding on whether or not I'd show up to the party in a dress was rather tough; how could I be sure this secret admirer would live up to my expectations? What if she ended up having only one boob? I shuddered in cold sweat.
Then I remembered when I was very young and my family took a trip to Las Vegas. Father kicked off the vacation with a five night drinking binge, during which he lost most (if not all) our life savings. Before we knew it we were drowning in debt, and it wasn't long before the repo men showed up. And then there was the day Father went away for a long time. I remembered us sitting in the dining room, eating breakfast, and him explaining this wonderful dream he'd had about a super computer when at the door came a knock. Then another. And another. He had barely made it out his seat when we heard the door smash in, followed by seven burly men asking for their money. Father stood, gritting his teeth, and rolling up the sleeves of his bathrobe muttered, "I got your money right here." Mother screamed. As did I, "Dad! No!" I shrieked. And then he said something I'll never forget. After sizing the men up, he turned to me and said, "Son. This here is an important life lesson. And that lesson is sometimes you gotta take a gamble . . ."
Emerging from my revery I thought how, lying there covered in sweat, tears, and confetti, I wasn't that much different from Father. I mean, yeah, I had no idea who sent that letter but if I didn't take a gamble, if I didn't go out and find the sexiest dress there was, what did I stand to win? NOTHING! From there another astounding thought emerged.
What if Marietta wrote the letter? This wasn't much of a stretch, as I'd been laying it on pretty thick lately, trying to let her know how much she meant to me. The phone calls with the heavy breathing, the dead kittens in her mailbox, the "YOU BELONG TO ME" love notes I'd stick on her front door, and those all night vigils I'd spend making sure no one tried breaking into her house must've finally clicked. Marietta was coming around. I realized even after this epiphany I was still taking a gamble, however that gamble no longer seemed so risky.
Keep in mind all this took place before noon; I had the whole day to scan thrift shops and consignment stores for anything I might need. Fifteen minutes later I was out the door and on my way to becoming a man . . . even if it meant dressing like a woman.

Earl, Groff, and I gathered at my house waiting for Raenisha to pick us up. I had my dress on, along with the makeup and fancy fixins like dangly earrings, stockings, and high heels. Earl, determined not to let his recent disfigurement get the best of him, was dressed as a shop teacher while Groff stood there in a Metallica shirt and jeans. The shirt bearing the cover of Kill 'em All, underneath which the word JEWS had been spray painted. I asked him what exactly he was supposed to be and Groff replied, "Mel Gibson." Wondering further I asked, "But isn't that a waste of money? Aren't you annoyed you ruined that shirt?" He assured me it wasn't a waste of money, that the shirt looked that way when his brother leant it to him.
Shortly after, Raenisha pulled up in her pickup truck; Earl rode in the cab, Groff and I in back. A nerve wracking ride considering how scared I was my wig might blow off but it wasn't a long one, and soon enough we had arrived at the costume party. I had a few hours to go until midnight so I spent them drinking casually, you know, double-fisting brews, doing kegstands, jello shots, stuff like that.
And then, as if I'd time traveled, it was midnight! Earlier on I spotted Marietta in a sort of Victorian costume, complete with curly hair and masquerade mask. Now as I stood in the corner, I waited for her to approach and lay that kiss on me. Standing there in that dress, a bit nervous about the approaching AM, the thought occurred that I was like Cinderella; except in my story this Cinderella would end up getting laid. It was 12:15 when I saw a Victorian woman wearing a masquerade mask approach. I'm not going to lie, all that casual drinking added up and I was smashed. Some people like to refer to alcohol as 'liquid courage' but for me, at that moment, it was anything but. I knew she was approaching, yet I was unable to look in her direction, my eyes were glued on the ground.
A gloved hand reached out, grasped my elbow, and swung me into a soft, warm, body wrapped in a silken dress. With closed eyes I said, "I'll always love you baby" and we kissed.

Pure magic.


It lasted forever that kiss. My heart raced as our tongues danced the dance of love. Our hands groped and caressed the other's back; sliding mine southward I grasped her rock hard buttock. Then I heard a laugh; a familiar laugh at that. Breaking our embrace I opened my eyes and searched for the source of that joyous sound. (How did I know that laugh?)
And that's when I saw, across the room, Marietta wearing the same costume as this woman who I now held in my arms. She was laughing. Well then, I asked myself, who did I just kiss?
Palms slick with sweat I turned my attention on the stranger in my arms.
The woman I held, the woman I kissed, the woman I confessed my love to . . . was Rosco The Local Dragqueen!
I must have lost consciousness because next thing I knew, it was morning and there on the sofa bed lying beside me, was Rosco. An awkward moment to say the least, but after we cuddled a while and I got to know the REAL Rosco things weren't so bad. No I didn't admit to mistaking him for Marietta. My logic being that it would only embarrass us both, I decided some things were best left unsaid. So what did I do?
Well, I've never been one to pass up breakfast in bed nor have I been one to deny another's hospitality. After all, what would be the point in blowing this whole ordeal out of proportion? More embarrassment, more heartbreak. Neither of us needed that; I figured hey, Rosco had some fun and, for that matter, so did I. Besides, I took a gamble assuming Marietta was my secret admirer and this was where it got me. So what did I do? I rolled with the punches.
Things hadn't turned out at all like I'd hoped they would but after a day of baked goods, romantic comedies, and Michael Bolton CD's I was in no mood to be bogged down by disappointment. Not only that, but I was no longer a virgin!
Rosco wasn't such a bad dude. If things got too out of hand I could throw him the line chicks always fed me and say, "I don't want to spoil what we've got here. Let's just be friends.", and we'd go our seperate ways.
Sure I made a mistake and, yeah I now had to deal with a minor setback but, I wasn't about to be deterred from my eventual goal. She may not have been mine at that moment but, looking down at my right forearm, I understood why Rosco kept calling me the wrong name and, more importantly, that there was still a prize to be won. And that prize was Marietta.

The Wisdom Of Children


Every now and then, I'll be working, hear the statement of a passing child and find myself completely dumbfounded by the profundity of what was said. My heart will sink into my stomach, my jaw will drop, as will my mop. Such an instance happened today.
It was the end of sixth period lunch and the garbage had to be emptied before the next lunch began. Just as I entered the cafeteria I caught a young boy with long hair, in a BAM shirt knocking books out of the hands of a scrawny, smaller boy with glasses and highwaters on. Normally I ignore this type of thing and continue with the day's work, but today I felt like being a good semaritan.
I marched right up to that young man and I said, "Excuse me young man, but how would you like it if I knocked the books from your hand or pushed you around? You wouldn't like that at all, would you?"
After a brief pause he said, "No I wouldn't."
"So why do it to him?" I asked.
"Cause he's a geek" was the child's response.
I told him how horribly wrong that was, how incorrect, how inhumane that rationalization was. I said, "That's exactly why you SHOULDN'T make fun of him. See, that geek is going to grow up and own a company, be your boss, your manager,or maybe a millionaire. And he'll remember everytime you ever made fun of him. He'll remember your face, your name, and when you try to find a job that's when he'll strike. No matter how well you perform during your interview, you'll be turned down. Whatever the reason it won't matter. You'll forget all about that geek until one day, many years from now, when he gets his revenge. What have you got to say about that?"
The child shrugged his shoulders and said, "So what? He'll still be a geek."
I gave that a good pondering then said, "You're a genius. I never thought of it like that." How true! A geek is a geek is a geek is a geek! It doesn't matter how many women he pays to have sex with, how much money he has, how fancy his car, or how successful he is! At the end of the day that geek is still a geek! Before letting him on his way I assured the child that if he ever needed a forty or a deuce, I'd be the guy to see.
Soon as I could I got Groff on the horn and told himI had something super sweet planned for after work.
Around five I swung by his house, him asking what exactly the plan was, me relating my lunchtime revelation and where we were now headed. Minutes later I pulled into the parking lot of a huge office building, hoping I'd made it in time.
The crowd of people exiting the building, dispersing as they walked toward their cars had just finished their shift. Groff and I got out of the Honda, I went to the trunk and pulled out the rotten tomatoes.
Then I let out one long bellowing, "GEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKS!" all while hurling those soft, putrid, red stones. Groff did his part by dryhumping the passenger side door, yelling: "Oooooooooh look at me! I'm a geek!"
As my projectiles made contact with windshields, crotches, faces, bellies, cries let out from the geeks' mouths. Some were crying, others swearing, and a few were on cellphones; no doubt talking with police.
To Groff I yelled the codeword, which was "Stop", signalling that if we stayed any longer we'd run the risk of being arrested. We hopped back into the Accord and peeled out, Groff bidding them farewell with a "YOU GUYS SUCK!"
We made it home fine and I gotta say, if tomorrow's mission is as successful as our last, we'll be busy for a long time to come.
God I love kids.

Wines & Fine Dining, a new show focused on elegance, haut couture, and restaurants for those with a discerning taste, recently finished taping its pilot episode for the local television studios and both Groff and I were fortunate enough to be in the audience. How'd we pull that off? Well, sometimes people named Stefan leave things lying around their locker in the breakroom, which occasionally gets kicked open (on accident) during my lunch hour. So I found two tickets and a card that read, "To Brumhilda, with love" with a poem written on the inside. Yeah, it went like this: "I love you more than Summer's breeze/I love you more than Swiss cheese/To you, I pledge my life/Brumhilda, be my wife"
Knowing I could write better poems in my sleep I tore the card up and kept the tickets. You wouldn't think so, but I'm not really one for all that fancy-pants restaurant crap, (serve me up some well made chili in a cowboy hat, or even a boot, and I'm happy) but finding those tickets put me in a good mood; it felt like God was thanking me for being such a fine Christian. With this in mind, I made sure those bathroom stalls would sparkle by the time I'd finished and to actually put up 'Wet Floor' signs when mopping. I was in high spirits as I left work, but on my way out I couldn't help notice Stefan sitting at the table in the breakroom, head in his hands, crying. "Must be getting in the zone for one of his stupid poems" I thought and got the hell out of there.
Fast forward to the day of the taping and you have Groff and I, along with fifty-some odd other people, excited to watch a five star chef cook some five star cuisine. Everyone was lined up in the corridor leading to the set when one of those backstage producer types came in with an announcement; "If I could briefly have your attention please. This will only take a few moments" he said.
Silence.
"Thank you. It seems I have some bad news. The budget initially scheduled for Wines & Fine Dining has been revised and, unfortunately, we are not able to prepare the meal we'd originally planned. I don't wish to name names, but you may notice some staff are taking this worse than others. We don't want a few Negative Nancies spoiling our fun though, do we?"
"NO!!" all the middle aged, middle class couples in their designer clothes yelled, brimming with over enthusiasm.
"Alright, that's the spirit! Now if you'll all begin filing through these doors and taking your seats, we should begin filming in twenty minutes."

We filed through, took our seats, and soon enough the lights dimmed and an announcer's voice was heard.
"Ladies and gentleman, welcome to our first episode of Wines & Fine Dining, where we highlight only the classiest of entrees, hors d'oeuvres, and wines which taste best for people who have the best taste. This is no ordinary cooking show, this is culinary art! So without further adieu, I present, your host, the one, the only, Chef Charmin!
The applause sign blinked on and off, prompting everyone to stand and clap while a spotlight centered on stage left. After a while people's hands were either too tired or sore to continue and again there was silence. Just when things were about to get awkward, a small man in white stumbled into the kitchen set.
When we first entered the room a few couples had been chosen to sit at tables in front, that way they could taste, firsthand, the delicious delicacies Chef Charmin would be serving. Neither Groff nor I were among those couples; I couldn't help but get a bit angry over this since I was so damn hungry. Now with the show starting I realized how much more I'd rather watch it than be a part of it, mainly because I could tell how drunk the chef was. The swagger, the muscatel, one hand down the front of his pants. He was drunk all right and I had this strange sensation I was looking in a mirror. Perhaps it was the hand in the pants that did it, I'm not sure, but the crowd let out a unified "ewwwwwww."
To this Chef Charmin yelled "SHUTUP!"and got what he asked for.
"Welcome to Wines & Fine Dining. I'm your chef, Shane Charmin and" he took a swig of wine, "tonight I'll be preparing some fantastic dishes for you all. Real fucking fantastic" he said, rolling his eyes. "So why don't we kick things off with an appetizer? Maybe some soup?"
Chef Charmin approached one of the tables, placed both his knuckles on the edge, leaned toward the couple and said in the softest, gentlest voice, "You like soup? You want some soup? I'm gonna fix you some soup. Some nice, warm, creamy, tomato soup. How's that sound?"
It was obvious the two had been put off by Charmin's outburst, that combined with his sour breath at such a short distance made them eager to go along with anything he might ask.
Husband looked at wife, wife at husband, then both back to Charmin and nervously the man said, "That sounds terrific. We'd love some tomato soup." Both smiled.
"Well isn't that cute? You hear that folks? They love tomato soup!" he shouted, "Let me tell you something, you folks are in for a real treat, I'm gonna whip this up using an old secret family recipe. Watch this."
Saying this he walked over to the fridge and opened the door; bottles clanged as his hands searched frantically for the right ingredients. "Ahhhhh, here we are" he said, and we knew he'd found what was needed. Pulling his arms back from the fridge only two items were held in his hands: a bottle of milk and a ketchup container.
He placed the two items on the counter and produced a large bowl from the cabinets below saying, "all you gotta do is mix three parts ketchup with one part milk" and poured both ingredients into the bowl. He stirred for a minute and then placed the bowl in this huge industrial sized microwave.
"Now we wait" Charmin said, adding, "and I don't know about you but I'm using this time to take a leak." While the microwave hummed, its contents sizzling and spattering, the chef grabbed a caraffe, turned his back to the crowd and relieved himself; one hand holding the glass bottle, the other scratching his ass. The soup finished just as he did and with a look of relief Charmin placed the half-full caraffe on the counter. Quite satisfied, he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Then he took the soup from the microwave and brought it to the hungry couple, both hands steady under the bowl. Removing a hand, placing it around the woman's shoulder he said, "Smell the soup, it's delicious. " He slowly raised the bowl to accommodate her, repeating, "Smell the soup." The hand which was around her shoulder now stroked her hair; she bent forward to get a good whiff and Charmin made his move. Bringing his hands toward one another, Charmin gently pressed the woman's face into the bowl of soup and vice versa. While she turned back and forth splashing red liquid, Chef Charmin said, "Oooh yeah that's it. Get in there good. Eat that soup, girl." Then he let the bowl drop, shattering on the table, sending soup everywhere.
Unable to withstand any further offenses the husband, outraged, stood up rolling his sleeves. "That's enough" he said, while Charmin threw his head back and filled his mouth with muscatel, cheeks bulging. Meanwhile the wife cried, looking a lot like this kid I once tripped down some stairs. Pretty pathetic indeed. Adrenaline surged through my veins at the prospect of seeing a fistfight yet, at the same time, I was afraid Chef Charmin might get beat up. With every passing second my admiration grew for him more and more; the last thing I wanted was him to be defeated by some shmuck in a Polo sweater.
The man approached Charmin, cheeks still full, and brought his arm back to punch. He had another thing coming though, because in that same instant Charmin spat out wine like a firehose. Overwhelmed with triumph, he proceeded to put his arms behind his back, flapping and dancing like a chicken.
"Booyah bitches!" Groff screamed, along with myself adding, "Yeeeeeah boyyyeeeee!"
Other folks chimed in too, only they gasped and booed while the couple ran off set. Charmin bowed.
When everyone quieted down he spoke to the next couple in line, saying: "I'm feeling ethnic. Let's move on to our entree. I hope you like Southwestern cuisine." They nodded. The chef smiled and shuffled over to the counter where he knelt down a moment. Cans and curse words both flew from underneath while we waited to see what Charmin would cook up next. Finally he emerged with two large cans which, judging from the image on front, looked like they had some sort of processed beef inside. Well I knew what was up an instant later when he placed an old boot next to the cans. Following my genius discovery Charmin announced that he'd be preparing, you guessed it, CHILI.
Oh boy was I red in the face! There I was starving and just mere yards ahead, waiting to be cooked, all hot and delicious, smelling of feet spices, would be some real authentic canned Southwestern style chili. Those few moments of bitter hatred toward the chef didn't last long though; as quickly as the chili had been poured into the boot, it was just as quickly thrown at the faces of the husband and wife, making a gentle thud as heel connected with the man's nose and a soft slosh as its contents splattered onto his adjacent wife. Chef Charmin didn't say anything, he just blew on his index fingers like they were smoking revolvers.
After a record ninety seconds of wine chugging he told the crowd it was time for dessert, a pronounced slur blurring his words. His eyes looked a little sluggish for that matter, his swagger now exaggerated as he went backstage. Assistants rushed on from the sidestage carrying watermelons which they placed on a large, oversized cutting board.
Chef Charmin returned dragging what looked like an enormous baseball bat. From where I was sitting I couldn't make out the whole object, however, it was obvious this was bigger than a bat. It wasn't until he raised the blunt thing above his head that I realized it was a mallot!
And then:

Bam!

Thwack!

Splash!

Watermelon pulp, juice, seeds all over the place!!! Everybody went nuts, screams, shrieks, jeers, you name it. Again Chef Charmin bowed, though I'm sure it didn't matter much as everybody was now leaving, grumbling in disgust. Groff and I weren't interested in taking off just yet so we stuck around until everyone was gone. After ten minutes we approached Charmin, flooding him in adulation. He appreciated our passion for the culinary arts and, although he declined giving his autograph (on account of being unable to hold a pen steady), gave us each three cases of toilet paper!
Groff was excited about that, saying, "Oh man! We can have the shits for a week with a supply like this!" We high fived and left, but not before shaking Chef Charmin's hand.
I wish that feeling of excitement, pure joy, and complete happiness could have lasted forever. Sadly it did not. See, the pilot of Wines & Fine Dining received horrendous reviews, prompting the suits behind its production to fire Charmin, replacing him with some prick who sautees "esscargo" whatever the hell that is.
Now that's just disappointing.
And people wonder why I hate TV so much.

An open letter to ISIS

Dear Aaron Turner and gang,

As I'm sure you already know my birthday is just around the corner (February) and seeing that I'm a fan of your work there is a question I'd like to ask: will you come to my birthday party?
Mom says if I behave well until then, she'll get a pony, a magician, a stripper, and ice cream cake. Festivities will begin promptly at noon, with everyone meeting at the bowling alley for a few games and pitchers. From there we'll head up to my place for the real party and, so you know, it's BYOG (Bring Your Own Gun).
I hope you guys like to drink because my brother and I will be purchasing a few kegs of Natural Ice, even if we have to drive through a state or four to get them. Once our gears are warmed up from the brew, it'll be time for the entertainment. That'll consist of the stripper taking her clothes off and serving ice cream cake to the pony. I'm not sure if horsies are lactose intolerant or not, but if he makes a mess that'll just add to the excitement; for laughs we'll tell the magician to make it disappear. If everyone brings a gun, he'll pretty much have to.
Now, it would be awful naive of me to assume that a fight wouldn't break out. Considering the amount of alcohol we'll be consuming it's to be expected. If, and when, this happens I find it's always best just to back off and let it run its course. Like I always say, "So what if my mom broke your jaw? We had fun, right?"
We should have a pinatta too, only we don't like buying those fancy papier mache donkey ones. Instead we string up a trashbag full of the past week's refuse; aside from being the more economic solution, it has a greater element of surprise since, until it's been opened, you don't even know if there's any candy in it! Again, we won't let a potential mess worry us. As long as that good for nothing magician keeps his word and makes it disappear, he'll keep his life as well.
The last thing I'd want is for there to be an air of discomfort between you guys and my family/friends, so let me lay this out for you. Your attendance at my birthday party doesn't mean I expect you to perform. That being said I really enjoy the folllowing songs: So Did We, False Light, Syndic Calls & Altered Course, Weight, Carry, Maritime, and From Sinking.
On the same note, a gift isn't expected either (unless OMG shows up); a card with some money should be just fine.
Well I think that's about it. I'm excited to hear your response, so please, get back to me by the beginning of February and we'll iron out all the details.

P.S. I can't help but notice you share the same last name as Tina Turner. Any relation?

Keep on keepin on,
Rich.

"Yo dude, meet me at the McDonald's in Wal*Mart at 3! I got great news!"
That's the message Groff left on my answering machine today. Knowing that he should know better than to expect my patronage of that damn restaurant, I almost didn't follow his directions. Memories of that fateful afternoon when he and I had gotten into a fight blossomed in my brain, and those hurtful words I so carelessly threw at Groff seared my eyes; the image burning so bad I shut them. I'd said, "And you know what else? Big Mac's suck! My mom says that only idiots and losers eat those things, and by the looks of you I'd say she's right! Goddamn it Groff, you're crazy if you think I'll step foot into another McDonald's that doesn't have steak on the menu! And that's that!"
I haven't gone back since, but my curiosity began to get the better of me. Why would he have me meet him there? What was the great news? Then, click, it all came together; McDonald's finally sold steak! Man I got so excited thinking about that juicy sirloin, gravy running down my face, my hands full of mashed potatoes, that I ran toward the living room wall full speed. My intentions were to kick off and do a backflip, like I'd seen in a Jackie Chan flick, but things didn't go according to plan and now I have to explain to my mom why there's a hole in the wall. (Not to mention my ass is killing me)
That didn't spoil my buzz one bit. I crashed into my room, loaded my pockets with change, grabbed the keys to my super-fast Honda, and off I went to Wal*Mart.
Once there, I found Groff stuffing his face with french fries among a stack of empty cups, just grinning from ear to ear. "I got your message!" I panted, "So they make steaks now, or what?"
This confused him. "Who said anything about steak?" he asked.
"Didn't you say you had great news? I thought maybe you were referring to that argument we had a few years back..."
He stopped chewing. "Just stop right there. I don't even want to think about that."
Now I was confused. "So they still don't make steak?"
"No dude."
THAT spoiled my buzz. I slunk down in the chair opposite him and asked what the hell he'd called me for.
"I need your help" he said, motioning to all the containers of french fries and empty cups, "See these gamepieces? Every one of them is a potential jackpot, which means if we find the winning one we'll be millionaires! But I can't eat it all myself. That's where you come in. All you have to do is eat these french fries and drink whatever soda of your choice, and sooner or later you'll find that winning gamepiece. Or maybe I'll find it. Whatever, it doesn't matter. What matters is that we out eat our competitors."
I didn't know what he meant by "competitors" but as I looked over the tables around us, I realized soon enough. Obesity surrounded us; folks with red containers in one hand, triple pattied burgers in the other, shoving shovelfuls of food into their mouths with the same expression of an exhausted marathon runner gasping for air. Not just single, solitary individuals either, some people were there with girlfriends, boyfriends, families, fat kids and all. That was a lot of competition. I mulled things over. "My whole life" I thought, "people have been bitching to me about how skinny I am. How they should fatten me up. How unnatural it is that I only weigh one hundred and twenty some-odd pounds. Well you know what? Maybe it's time I showed those bastards what I'm made of. Maybe I should finally grow up and accept my responsibility to be fat just like everyone else. From this day forward, I will no longer be a twenty-two year old boy, but a twenty-two year old MAN."
I cracked my knuckles, bent my neck side to side, cracking that as well, and said to Groff, "Let's fuckin do this." We high-fived and he slid two large fries my way along with a soda. We'd find that winning gamepiece if it was the last thing we'd do. The thought of how great our payoff would be consumed my thoughts, that is, until she showed up. And by she I mean a super-fine Soccer Mom in a long white coat down to her knees. Black leather boots stretched up to her calves and where skin should have been I saw only black nylons. As Groff would say, "Finally. Something worth getting a boner over." The only thing that didn't make sense was why she was sitting on Ronald McDonald's lap, curling his hair around one of her fingers.
"Check out that hot little number" I said to Groff, sending his attention in her direction.
"Ooof. Now that's most definitely a piece of trim worth getting a boner over." was his response.
Adding, "but not now. Now we must focus on finding that winning gamepiece. All the trim in the world can come later."
He was so right. I dove back into my pile of fries but it wasn't long before the two litres of soda caught up with my bladder. Remember we were in Wal*Mart, so I had to leave the McDonalds area, take a quick jaunt past the milk coolers, and then turn a corner before I could release all that pressure.
Nothing beats that feeling you get right after taking a good long piss, and that's exactly what I was thinking about when I heard the bathroom door open; but since I was in the stalls, sitting down, I had no idea who it was. Well, lo and behold, who should I see after opening that stall door but none other than Miss Super-Fine Soccer Mom? A bit embarrassed I told her that she'd stepped into the wrong bathroom. She didn't say anything. She just kept her eyes locked on mine, walking toward me in silence. It wasn't until she stood inches away from me that she spoke. Unbutttoning that long coat of hers she said, "Would you mind doing me a.......favor?"
I couldn't imagine, here in the men's bathroom, what kind of favor she'd need so I told her, "That all depends on the favor m'lady."
Her coat was open now, revealing a black satin nightgown, and her hand reached in one of its many inner pockets. She pulled out a container of yogurt, handed it to me, and said, "Be a doll and smear this on your face for momma." That sounded pretty sexy to me so I shrugged my shoulders and said "OK."
Now, I'm not one to kiss and tell (so I won't go into details) but after we made out, groped each other, and she licked all that yogurt off my face we said our goodbyes, and parted ways. The excitement of the whole moment kept me in a daze; evidentally I forgot to rinse off some remaining yogurt which clung to my ear.
Feeling like I already won that million bucks I strutted back to the McDonalds area, ready to finish eating. Something felt odd though, like I was being stared at. Looking over at Ronald McDonald I saw that I WAS being stared at. By him. He approached me with an odd sort of expression on his face. "Is that, is that yogurt on your ear?" he asked.
"Why yes it is. Good thing you caught that, otherwise I would've walked around with yogurt on me, looking like a dumbass" I replied, still in a fantastic mood.
He just shook his head and called me a piece of shit. Then he lunged, tackled, and started attacking me once I'd been pinned down. You cannot imagine how shocked I was at this, especially after having had such an amazing experience just minutes before. Through it all, I couldn't help but think to myself, "any minute now Groff will come running to my aid and show this clown who's boss!"
Well, three groin kicks, five face punches, one 'you keep your hands off my wife you sonofabitch', and two titty twisters later, Wal*Mart security pried him off my beaten body. It was kind of hard to see, what with my eyes swelling and all, but Groff wasn't anywhere to be found. I called out to him but he wasn't there. Finally, after the paramedics came, stitched me up, and gave me an ice pack I limped to my car.
Who did I see sitting on the hood of my Honda? You guessed it. Groff. I started crying, "where the hell were you man? I just got my ass kicked by Ronald McDonald and you didn't back me up! What kind of friend are you?"
"Whoa, whoa , calm down" he said. "There's a reason I didn't jump in. Listen up, right as I saw that red headed freak tackle you I knew what must be done. With all those chumps distracted by you two I was able to calmly walk to the counter and get all these gamepieces!" From his pockets he pulled his hands, both full with little red squares. "You know what this means?" he asked. "This means we're winners!"
I gave him the keys and told him to drive. We didn't speak for the entire ride which, considering the amount of McDonalds' we stopped at, was pretty long. But sitting here, typing this, I realize there's no reason to be mad at Groff.
I mean, we may not have found the jackpot gamepiece but, goddamn, this McFlurry's delicious!

The Legend Of Mayor McGonnigel

Mayor McGonnigel was elected one May--a most surprising outcome that day.
His name?
Added to the ballot as a joke
As constituents pleaded and hoped,
the man who held office get kicked out by their votes.

His term riddled with flaws, they chose the candidate with paws.
You see, Gunther McGonnigel was no man at all
but really just a dog.
Boisterous laughter filled every booth
Signalling which person the voters did choose.
And they all had a laugh when they fired the man
who made their fair city a wasteland.

At the inaugural ball, they did all but weep
As the announcer called upon Gunther to speak
But they dropped their jaws, their hearts went pause
When words from his snout did creak

His voice was gruff, annunciations rough but what he had to say was clear.
As they listened sweat glistened; joviality gave way to fear.

"It is a must you pour forth your trust
For if this city is to again be attractive
new laws (though drastic) must be enacted.
Like crystal, clear is my vision, not hazy.
Listen closely, don't think me crazy.

"Introductions were once a pain
But with I as your mayor they'll never be again.
Forget the awkward hellos and goodbyes
Along with the discomfort of making eyes.
So I announce this plan
For every woman, child, dog, and man.
Regardless whether you're purebred or mutt
First things first......

SNIFF BUTTS.

At this the crowd shuttered
While some inaudibly uttered
Cries of disgust
For this
Among others
Was the first topic discussed.
They whispered,
"What's next?"
"We're vexed!" and
"Could it get any worse?"
When from the podium came a bark...
Like that
Their lips pursed.

"Silence!" growled Gunther,
"I'm sure your questions are more than a few.
Bear with me. We must continue.
On our list of troubles,
Next in line,
Comes a mandate banishing all felines.
On all fours run them out of doors!
When outside chop down trees where they hide!
Grab by their tail and spin till they wail!
Sneak up from behind and when they meow....1....2....POW!
I assure you
To benefit this city
We must be rid of every single kitty."

Overcome with grief
Not one person managed to speak
In between this pause
But what all had hoped for,
Secretly, silently wished for,
Was some kind of impeachment clause.

"Now that I have your attention
Let us talk about protection.
Around the perimeter of this fine town
Crime is up to the hilt
If you wish for this to go down
A massive fence must be built.
Then, when fiends try sneaking in at night
Their welcome will be quite a fright.
Our posted guards won't say,
'Hark, who goes there?'
Instead they'll bark
Till the intruders need new underwear.
Yes, bark!
Yip, snarl, snap, growl, roar,
Stranger danger stomped out
With the fierce ferocity
Of a wild boar
BUT
If, once in,
You find that stranger's a citizen
Of this here city
drop trow and get your noses shitty.
Only then may you let him pass,
However, if you feel sick after sniffing an ass
Go ahead, sit down,
Eat some grass."

"I will never!" cried the reverend.
"Is this a sick joke?" asked the cop. (Shaking as he spoke)
"This is absurd!" wrote the poet. (Glad he found the right word)

With more and more spectators taking the floor
Mayor McGonnigel found it difficult to be heard.
Wishing to avoid a major incident
Gunther flashed his teeth.
Just like that,
The dissidents found their seats.

"Spare me your quips, complaints, and retorts.
I have one last subject on which to report;
Please be patient, time is short.
I understand
Some may ask
If I think it important
To protect the environment.
My answer?
VERY.
That's why
Our next topic will concern toilets
And all things sanitary.
So. What should you do if,
After one too many sips of Yuengling
You stumble to the bar bathroom
Only to find a row of young saplings?
Well as they say in France,
'Unzip your pants and water the plants!'
In an effort to curb the spread of disease
All urinals shall be replaced with trees.
Thus reducing
The amount of pollutants
Found in our sewage."

And before he could say any more Gunther was interrupted.
(Apparently, his bitch mother had been abducted)
Rushed offstage
His bodyguards
Took him away.
And though his speech had come to an end
There was no closure;
his listeners just sat scratching their heads.

So to this day
The once hallowed city
Falls further into disarray;
Its streets filled with hoodlums
Nose deep in each other's bums;
Overpopulated
By obese rats (fat from a complete lack of cats);
Habitants comment, lament, about how much they pay in tax
Forgetting the tourists they alienate
Afraid of getting attacked;
And the bathrooms?
They stink!
No one pees on the trees but instead in the sink!

What a cruel trick!
Executed, brought about, by that jerk of a dick
Who some call a man;
The ex-mayor
Who made their fair city a wasteland.
Nothing to it,
Just a robotic puppet
With microphone and receiver equipped,
Shaped in the form of a dog
Before an imbecile crowd
Ready to swallow bullshit.

And there you have, in full, the legend of Mayor McGonnigel

PHOTOGRAPHIC PROOF---MONSTERS DO EXIST
October has come and that means all the ghouly goblins have crawled out of the woodwork. But in this day and age with everyone wasting their lives watching trash like CSI no one believes in monsters. Well that's why I'm presenting these pictures to you, so the next time you wake up in the middle of the night and have to pee outside, that shiver running down your spine won't be from the chill of exposing your "Johhny-Come-Lately" to the midnight wind.Enjoy. And remember, these are real.

JC Superstar

The 27th, I saw Jesus Christ Superstar not for any religious reasons but because Ted Neeley was performing and that dude can wail. Remember the band Living Colour, who had that Cult of Personality song? Yeah? Well the singer of that band played Judas. Speaking of Judas, here's a little sidenote.
The only time I ever bring this up is when I'm trying to get laid, but from time to time I do my part to help out the community, and one of those activities is spending time with Born Again Christians who just so happen to be ex-cons. What would be better for my group of ex-con Christians than a bitchin musical about Christ? The four of us dressed to the nines and went out, but during the production they voiced their opinion on Judas snitching out Jesus and it was agreed that we do something about that.
After the show we waited out back for Judas. Eightball fashioned a shivv out of a squashed soda can, Fang sharpened his teeth with a nail file, commenting on how long it had been since he'd had a taste of flesh, and Ski-Ball shat out the pair of brass knuckles he regularly smuggles in his rectal cavity. When Judas arrived we showed him what retribution meant until, out of nowhere, Ted Neeley pulled up in a limo brandishing a bow armed with a flaming arrow, which he shot at the building behind us. Eightball's response summed it up pretty well. He said, "That sonofabitch done lost his mind!" Ted Neeley started laughing hysterically, confusing us even more. Then something happened that I'll never forget: he grasped his neck and started pulling. It soon became clear he was peeling off a latex mask and before we knew what was happening we realized that it wasn't Ted Neeley standing there but in fact Ted Nugent! Everyone started clapping at that point, so Ted Nugent bowed, and on his way up thumped his fist on the roof of the limo, signalling for the driver to peel out. The last thing we heard The Nuge say was, "Siyonara suckers!" As the smoke cleared, we helped Judas to his feet. He told us if we wanted he could take us to some hoppin' parties; we couldn't resist. The five of us were so excited we all ripped our shirts off and sang Herod's Song in the street.
Then we partied and slayed mad tang.