Here's an AMAZING story:

I leave work for lunch. Come home. Once inside the house I'm greeted by Bailey and Gunther. A Jack-Russel and a Rat Terrier respectively. I'm the first person they've seen since dawn.
Tails wag, circles are run, barks are barked.
They're excited.
I look in the mirror, stroke my moustache in admiration and say, "Can't blame ya for feelin' that way, fellas."
Bailey's lookin' at me, eyes wide, tail movin' a million miles a minute. I look outside. The sun's shining. It's fifty some-odd degrees. I look back at Bailey. His stare is now joined by Gunther's. Both await anxiously. I look back out the window. Then back at my audience. I nod, saying, "Today's your lucky day, boys."
Tails wag, circles are run, barks are barked.
They're excited.
My backyard is host to a surplus of frisbees and assorted balls. The dogs run off, split up, take their pick. Bailey returns, a mangled yellow disc in his mouth. In his five years, this dog has seen more frisbees than me in my twenty-two. Yet, for some reason his first choice is always the yellow frisbee that no longer flies straight; is no longer circular; just a flat disc with holes on the edge where fangs gnawed plastic. Gunther trots up with a split tennis ball, string dangling from his mouth. Both are looking for action.
Bailey plays wiseguy games. Sets the frisbee down. Beckons you with his eyes. "Come on, get it" he says without saying a word. I reach for the disc. So does he. He's faster. This time.
I turn my attention on Gunther, grab the ball from his mouth, launch it. I no sooner wipe the dirt from my fingers and he's back for another toss. We repeat this a few times while Bailey watches. That's my wiseguy game. He gets the point, finally giving up the frisbee.
I grab it, holding the frisbee perpendicular to the ground, cock my arm back and whip forward. The frisbee spins, turns, flips, rights itself and floats back to Earth, only to find itself in the clutches of Bailey's jaw. Victorious, he throws his head left to right. If that frisbee were a cat it'd be dead. The cycle of throwing frisbee then ball repeats, alternating between dogs.
Then disaster strikes.
I throw the frisbee. A gust of wind catches, lifts, it. The disc is caught, but not by Bailey. It sits flat, cradled by branches. Eyes to the sky, Bailey stops running, begins circling the tree. His glance meets mine. Terror-stricken, he looks back up to the disc now fifteen feet out of reach.
Cold sweat starts on my forehead. I gulp. Close my eyes. Say, just loud enough to be heard by God, "Don't let it phase you, Dragonfly." My eyes open. I know what must be done.
"Gunther, come hither!" I yell and the Rat Terrier's long legs deliver him to me. I look back, check on Bailey. He's almost in a frenzy now. Yipping to the sky, to God, to return him his most prized posession; the yellow frisbee. Meanwhile Gunther's in a frenzy of his own.
I called for him. He came. What would I do now?
I bend down, pry the ball from his mouth amid growls. Watching me toss it gently up and down, Gunther loses his cool. Starts jumping. Christ, I'm 5'8" and that son of a bitch is reaching my shoulders, no problem. I know what must be done. I get in the zone. No. Not Auto Zone. THE zone.
From forty feet back I gotta knock that frisbee down. I gotta or else where will Bailey be? Who will he look up to? I shudder. Close my eyes again. This time, I picture Pamela Anderson. NAKED. She's standing behind a beer pong table, a pyramid of cups before her. She's staring me down, licking her lips, says, "Nail the shot Dragonfly. NAIL IT."
Eyes still closed I nod, this time cracking a smile. After all, collagen, silicone, Hepatitis C; what more could a guy want? I think about the guys lucky enough to have boned her; Tommy Lee, Kid Rock; and wish I was half as cool as them. Then I open my eyes.
Still nodding, I squeeze dirt, saliva, and other juices from the tennis ball. I throw. I watch.
I watch the ball float. I watch the ball hit a branch. I watch the branch shake. I watch the frisbee tilt. I watch the frisbee fall.
FUCKING. AMAZING.
Bailey catches it, snaps his neck back and forth, growling in triumph. He runs toward me, alongside Gunther.
Tails wag, circles are run, barks are barked.
They're excited.
I'm excited.
I return to work content with the knowledge that I'm a winner.

Fresh Meat

"Poetry's like a one way ticket to Bang Town. And by Bang Town I mean Sexville. Where you'll end up being the mayor."

This is Groff's advice regarding my instant attraction to the new English teacher; a full-bodied curvaceous woman with brown hair in ringlets, hazel eyes behind dark, thick rimmed glasses, slim-fit sweaters, skirts, long legs and nylons. Know what I'm sayin? She was, as I told Groff, not only sexy but smart. More than just intellectual, she was inte-sexual. Ya dig?
I explained to him how she seemed to appear from thin air, how one day there was an empty room and the next she was occupying it. An empty room brought to life by the presence of dead authors: Alighieri, Bierce, Carroll, Conrad, Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, London, Melville, Orwell, Poe, Rand; their images, their quotes everywhere. The instant you opened her door you were blasted with the scent of torn covers, yellow pages, and split spines. Still. Where she came from remained a mystery.

"That's why you go in for the kill 'fore anyone else gets the chance. She's fresh meat!"
"I don't know, Groff. I haven't been able to clean her area until I'm certain she's left. That's how shook up she's got me. I need something to impress her. Got any ideas?"
This is where Groff's advice comes in.
The names Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost come to mind. But if I really wanted to knock her off her feet I'd have to be more innovative than that. I'd have to find something more modern. Something she wouldn't expect. Something that would make her run to my arms exclaiming something like, "Oh Rich! You're amazing! Hump me on my desk this instant!"
I had to mull things over a bit.

It wasn't until I was hanging out with Groff and he was listening to MF Doom that the idea came to me. Hip-hop, I thought, is like poetry from the streets. Yeah. I liked the sound of that. Poetry from the streets. A quick Google search led me to a guy named Tupac. Lots of people referred to what he wrote as poetry so I did more searching and found a few suitable lyrics. The difficult part in all this was finding lyrics that weren't riddled with curse words; I couldn't have the English teacher thinking I was some kind of inarticulate oaf or, even worse, a foul mouthed scumbag. Either of these would result in me not humping her on her desk. However, in the end I decided the curse words should stay; after all I wanted some "modern" poetry. What's more modern than spouting off a string of swear words? Damned if I know.

It was settled.

I'd bust into her room after school was over, surprise her, recite poetry Tupac style, give her flowers, and then do something romantic like get on one knee and propose. This plan was foolproof. But there were a few things I'd have to do beforehand. First, I had to memorize the Tupac lyrics. Second, I had to get my bright orange custodial uniform professionally cleaned. Third, I had to buy a bouquet.
The first part was easy; when it comes to lyric memorization I'm a pro. The second task wasn't that difficult either; only problem was, it took a few days to get the turpentine, bleach, and vomit stains out. What annoyed me most about that was the guy at the cleaners not believeing I wasn't an escaped con but, whatever, that's life. As for my third obstacle? Shit, you can steal flowers from just about anyplace, so that was nothing.

My day came. I was pretty nervous considering I'm the shy type but I had determination. Work dragged on forever, as if 2:30 were years away instead of hours. Finally that buzzer rang and the school emptied itself of the lice we call kids. Sweating, I walked up to the second floor, stopping off in a bathroom to compose myself. There, I went over the lyrics in front of a mirror while clipping a bowtie around the collar of my uniform. Groff suggested that one; he said it would make me look more professional. Stealing flowers was harder than I thought so I bought ten dollars worth of fake ones at a dollar store. They were currently crammed in my pocket.
Ready to wow that sexy mama I walked out and down the hall to her classroom.
Remember I wanted to surprise her so in order to make a flashy entrance I kicked the door in, did a cartwheel and, once on my feet began reciting:

"First off, fuck your bitch and the clique you claim/West side when we ride
come equipped with game/You claim to be a player but I fucked your
wife/We bust on Bad Boys/Niggas fuck for life"

Mouth open, eyes wide, she stood silent. Not sure what to do I added, "Biggie Smalls and Jr. Mafia some mark ass bitches."

A simple, "This doesn't impress me" would have sufficed. She didn't have to start screaming, ball up under her desk and cry for help. The cops didn't need to be called.
I mean, how was I supposed to know about her ex-boyfriend's little problem? The restraining order? His conviction? His love for rap? Her being relocated to our area for protective purposes?
That's none of my business!



Lighten up, English teacher.