Weber's Front Row Grill.
All You Can Eat Chicken Wings for $5
Have you ever been to an all you can eat wing night? It's like going to a strip club. The lights are dim, men are huddled in dionysian absorption. No one makes eye-contact. The servers are robotic in their movements and affect. They have been over-exposed to the ultimate baseness of human nature.
The air is moist from the hot, breathless chewing of a hundred mouths.
Don't go in the back room. It's like walking in on a hoard of rats feasting on a baby. It smells of greasy flesh and sweat. The back room is for serious patrons only.
After finding a place to sit, my friends and I began our digestive journey after our waitress (who was surprisingly adept at operating a fork lift) dumps a steaming mass of hot-sauced chicken parts on our table. Our pupils dilate in the first thrill of glut.
Five or forty minutes later (space-time has been rendered meaningless at this point) we awake from a shared blackout. What's left of the wings is tangle of chicken bones. The terrifying gleam in our eyes coupled with the piles of skeletal remains frighten guests that have just walked through the door.
But they can't turn back now.
The waitress tells us that the kitchen is backed up and we might have to wait for our next batch of wings.
We stared like zombies at her.
"It'll be just a few minutes," she said.
My friends and I stared at our empty plates.
"Wings gone," I said.
"No like," they said.
"No like at all."
The waitress walked by. We looked at her hopefully, "More wings?"
We held up our plates, expecting them to be filled with delicious carcass. The waitress sprayed us with mace and ran toward the kitchen.
We eyed those who surrounded us, cramming their maws with juicy, juicy chicken.
"What animals," we said.
Finally our waitress came back and cracked the door to our cage. She hid behind it and tossed handful of wings in. I ran toward her to the giant bowl of chicken she had resting on her hip but she cracked me with a whip and I stumbled back. She tossed the rest of the wings in and before long, we had blacked out again.
"Would you like more wings?" She asked us, poking us with a stick between the bars of our cage, after we had came to.
Our bellies distended and aching on pounds of flesh, our tongues burning from gallons of hot sauce, "Yes," We said. "We want MOAR."
Sorry I haven’t updated this thing in a while. I know you’ve probably been sitting at your computer for the last two months refreshing my page every few seconds, living on the dust in between the computer keys, but your time has come, so straighten up, wipe that drool off that dirty mug of yours and get ready to haveyour mind blown read my thing.
You might be wondering what I’ve been doing lately. Two words: bath salts. Spent about a month in Reno with a man named Jesus. Not Jesús, mind you, Jesus. He claimed to be my spirit guide, wore women’s jewelry and drank Boone’s Farm constantly. We spent the nights getting high and picking fights. During the day we slept in his mother’s van and hunted for scrap metal in the junkyards. After Jesus got arrested for loitering, I hitched back to St. Louis with a nice lady named Chan- juan. She bought me a Pepsi and a properly fitting bra. My boyfriend didn’t seem to notice my absence. When I walked through the front door, he was playing Xbox in the same clothes I left him in. Without glancing up at me he asked me to pass the ashtray, and my life has continued on as normal.
But what this post is really about is this float trip I went on. One day in late May, when I was young and naïve, I decided that I wanted to be a part of nature and to enjoy the company of good friends. When I look back on that stupid idealistic dribble, I want to punch myself in the thigh. This is hard for me to talk about, but it’s a lesson everyone should learn: your friends are just enemies in disguise and nature is a cold-hearted bitch.
The float trip was June 17th. I remember it like it was yesterday.
It started out fine. We drove about 3 hours south, listening to campy country music and singing along. Yay! We were gonna have fun!! We were happier than CGI penguins.
There were closer places to float and camp but I picked this one because it was the cheapest. Trying to find a place to set up camp was hard. The campgrounds were swimming with bare-chested teenage drunks and flattened Miller Lite cans. The sounds of Aerosmith and Lynyrd Skynyrd wafted throughout the area like a long, loose fart. We got the car stuck in a stream but luckily some fellow campers helped us push it out.
We set up the tents with relative ease and drank 7 & 7s, as the friends with the beer hadn’t arrived yet. The guys wandered into the woods with an axe to get firewood. One of the fellows- I’ll call him Blondie (Full name Blondiforous Buttersfield III) refused bug spray, mistakenly believing the sheer amount of throbbing testosterone in his sweat would be more than enough to ward off any woodland insects.
When he reemerged from a copse of trees and bushes, he was wearing a sad face and a fine suit of ticks. This is not the bad part (for us anyway). We relaxed in our lawnchairs and said, “Oh Blondie!” while he disappeared into a tent with a pair of tweezers.
The next day was the float trip. We waited in line under the hot Missouri sun in an ocean of fleshy artwork—it was Comicon for bad back tattoos. We finally got our rafts, two of them; there were 7 of us all together.
It was a redneck mardi gras on the water- boobs and beads flying everywhere, waterguns filled with 151, classic rock blasting from old radios, the music growing and fading as we passed various rafts. Fat ladies in innertubes. Canoes tipping over. It was all right after a few beers, a kind of loose rhythm you could slip into, a drunken rhythm. We had fun the first half.
Here was the thing, if you finished the first seven miles by 2pm, you get another 7 for free. We were determined to take on that challenge.
And we did, successfully.
I forgot to mention that the only food we’d brought with us was a smushed bag of powdered donuts and some sort of meat substance- ham, salami? I don’t know. Also we’d forgotten the sunblock. We did have, however between 2 and 4 cases of Busch Light.
The second half marked the beginning of our demise. Somehow, someway, the topic of religion came up. I think I may be to blame for this, but I’m not sure. The whole thing is hazy. Someone threw a cigarette butt in the water and I fished it out drunkenly, saying it was a sin to litter. Then I think someone said, I thought you don’t believe I sins? And then I said something like, I don’t believe in [insert insult about organized religion] but I believe [insert self-righteous secular stance of morality].
More things were said. More beer was drunk. More brain cells died and mutated from the sun and the beer.
Someone said, “Jesus is a myth perpetuated by brain washed masses..” Someone told another someone they would pray for his soul. Screams were screamed. Yells were yelled. Beers were consumed.
I think someone said, “I believe Jesus is a prophet, nothing more.”
I think someone said, “I don’t think Jesus even existed.”
I think someone said, "Jesus is the son of God and He died for our sins."
I think someone said, “Jesus is nature. Jesus is Buddha.”
I think someone said, “Jesus is the guy I did bath salts with in Reno.”
I think someone said, “Religion is for people who can’t think for themselves.”
I think someone said, “God makes me feel bad when I touch myself.”
I think someone said, “I hate Jesus.”
I think everyone said, “Why are you judging me for what I believe?”
I think someone said, “Why the fuck am I friends with you?”
I think someone said, “Come on. Let’s get off this boat.”
I think some people left and marched onto a bank, behind some rocks. I think someone tried to get them to come back. I think someone was called an asshole. I think someone almost got slapped.
I think it was a bad idea.
That night, two of the friends left. The remaining five sat around like zombies, eating smores and hamburgers. We went to bed early. In the middle of the night, it started to thunder. Then it started to rain. Then pour. The walls of the tent rippled in the wind. Flashes of lightning illuminated the world for half-seconds at a time. The pillows were getting wet. The thunder clapped louder.
We made a mad dash to the car leaving everything outside to get drenched. The next day we woke early and heaved soaking wet blankets into trunk. The tents were full of moths. Clothes were scattered everywhere.
The ride home was sad.
But for those first few glorious hours, the float trip was everything I’d hoped for and more.
Happily we’ve all made up. It’s what Jesus would have wanted.
My friend asked me to go to a spinning class. Contrary to what you might believe, spinning class is not where you spin around in circles repeatedly until you throw up, which seems to me likethe most effective way to lose weight. Rather, it’s where you go to town on a stationary bike. And when I say go to town, I mean go to town.
Those spinning bikes are not like the regular exercise bikes. Fucking exercise bikes are chaise longues compared to spinning bikes. Spinning bikes are basically misshapen jungle gyms you have to straddle like a mechanical bull.
The worst part is the seat. It’s basically a shark tooth. There is no large flat surface area- which is universally agreed upon as the prerequisite for a seat. It’s a T-shaped hunk of hard plastic; there is no place for your butt cheeks to go so they flop to either side and what you’re left with is a penis shaped piece of plastic grating against your foul line. Which, actually does explain why spinning is so popular. Apparently I haven’t broken in my shoes, so to speak.
What my friend and I were discussing later, in serious tones as we skipped out of class early, was how men are able to do it. Where do the balls go? Where? Or the peen itself? My vag felt like I had just left a 3-day pap smear orgy by the time we were done. I don’t even want to know what it would be like if you had a penis. Ok, maybe for a day…
At certain points, the instructor asks you to stand up on your bike and you basically put your weight on the handlebars, which feel like sweaty dildos. When you stand up and pump your legs, the inevitable happens: your fine, soft butt meat slams against the point of the seat.
Imagine getting ass raped by a jackhammer. Or, that Woody Woodpecker lives in your pants and your butthole is made of wood.
By the way, the instructor is a fine Italian leather handbag with amazing legs and fake boobs. Her job is to spin like a fucking badass while blasting rap songs from the early 2000’s and yelling things through her microphone that you can’t hear over the music.
*Note. This is an artistic interpretation. The instructor did not have four fingers on one hand and seven on the other. Drawing is not my strong suit.
Spin class was supposed to last for an hour. There were no clocks. We didn’t have our phones with us- even if we did, it would be impossible to check without falling off the bike. We exited the world of time. We were in an infinite dimension of spinning. I found myself silently praying to make it through. I admonished myself for being such a wimp and thought about how awful it must’ve been to live through the Holocaust. My fallback on comparison of human suffering is always the Holocaust. Whenever I experience pain or sadness, like a killer hangover or I missed 30 Rock, I say to myself, “Think of the Holocaust!” And I carry on.
Alas my poor friend was only probably thinking about her husband’s reaction if he found out a spinning bike took her anal virginity before he did, and she looked at me with a face of a woman who was told to pick which of her children be sent to the gas chamber. She was in agony.
I tried a half-assed fake smile as encouragement. For some reason, this didn’t work.
“Caaait,” she moaned. “We need…to…go.”
“Pick Elda,” I hissed. “She has that awful gas problem. She’s not meant for this world.”
I was dizzy and tired and mesmerized by the Cheeto with boobs. She was yelling things. We couldn’t leave. She was yelling!
“Caaait,” my friend whispered like people do in war movies when they’re dying. She was wilting like a Peep in the sun.
“Ok,” I said, “We’ll leave.” We stumbled off the bikes and tried to sneak out, drawing as little attention to ourselves as possible.
That’s when the instructor said into her microphone, “Girls, can you please raise your seats before you go?”
Crap. We fumbled with the “seats” for about a minute, obviously clueless.
“If you can’t figure it out, don’t worry about it,” she said into the microphone.
Oh, God. Please stop saying things to us. We’re scared!
We walk-ran out of there and caught our breath in the locker room. After that we went out for Gyros. They were awesome.
Any suggestions? Something that doesn't sound graphically sexual without meaning to be, perhaps? Naming things isn't my strong suit. My dog's named Marge for Chrissakes. It's time for a change.
Good news. Tooty’s transplant was successful! With my laptop restored, I can tell you my story without having to sit in a chair like a human, which is annoying and frankly a little hoity toity for my taste. I prefer to sink into my couch like a sloth on a benzo binge --perfectfor my indolent finger tapping.
Blah, blah, blah, transition.
On Tuesday, I went on a juice fast where I consumed nothing but fresh vegetable juice, vegetable broth, water, and tea. A lot people do it for days or even months!!! at a time. I however, as a rule, tend to be very weak- physically and emotionally. I’m pretty much constantly on the verge of tears and shitting my pants. So I figured 24 hours would be good enough to flush out whatever toxins have set up shop in my fat cells. If there are some left afterward, fine. I want them there. I’ll personally hand out t-shirts to them that say “I Survived the Fast.”
But anyway in the morn’ I used my juicer to turn carrots and celery into an umber sludge. Sucked it down like a motherfuckin’ Dyson and lazed in front of the wonderbox to watch a comely little wood sprite play doctor. Little known fact about Dr. Oz:On weekends he flies home on the back of a ladybug to a hollowed out stump in the bosom of the Turkish forests, where he lives with his life-partner, Temel, an overly- emotional, sometimes jealous, but really very giving cricket who wears a bowler hat and plays the mandolin.
After Dr. Oz, I finished up the editing I needed to do without further injury to the computer. I was sort of sluggish and thinking a lot about food, but that’s me every day.
I took my dog for a walk, which was fine at first, but when I got home I felt like I had power-squatted around the block, instead milling around with my shih-poo. When I got home I flopped on the couch, sort of like a dying fish, except one that’s given up. One that knows deep in its gills that life is ultimately meaningless, especially for a fish whose lot in life is to be processed and reformed, along with its brothers and sisters, into a perfectly square Filet O’ Fish patty. Where’s the Fishenstein family reunion this year? In my belly! Haha!
Ok so I flopped on the couch like I was about to be made into crispy golden fish-toast.I then closed my eyes and well, I don’t want to call it napped. It was more straddled the line between life and death. I mean dumpster babies get better naps. Let me explain, babies are notoriously bad at staying asleep. It would be like times a thousand if said baby was in a dumpster.
No. I’m not being dramatic. Seriously, withdrawing from delicious processed food (eg Toaster Strudels) is nearly as bad as withdrawing from heroin. Side note: I don’t know what eg stands for but I’m pretty sure I always use it correctly. Points for me!
I had so many aches and pains, I felt like I was a used Toaster Strudel icing packet. Get it? You have to squeeze the shit of those things. It would hurt. C’mon I know you know.
So I was all achy plus I was starving. And I was sort of delirious and Oprah was on and she was shouting about Australia and so I decided to go to Whole Foods to buy veggies for vegetable broth. It turned out to be a mistake. I’d never been to Whole Foods but I shouldn’t have been surprised to find it full of yuppies staring at me with their slightly concave, overly white eyes that they have, whiffing past me with a self-satisfaction one can achieve only with producing shit that’s 100% organic, stiff anglo hands white-clenching their baskets, bird bones flush against sallow skin. Yeah I know I get angry when I’m hungry, but apparently also a little paranoid. I swear to Flax Seed that everyone was giving me frackin’ googoo eye. She’s not one of usssss. They were all whispering it like the healthy, judgmental snakes they are.
Also. They had free samples. Every where. Creamy goat cheese. Crunchy whole wheat crackers. I wanted to smash that shit like it was Rihanna’s face. Aw shit- little dated I know. I’m going to give Whole Foods another chance. I’m a lot more accepting towards humanity with some food my belly.
I was hungry and scared so I grabbed some vegetables and got out of there. I don’t exactly remember what I bought, but I wouldn’t be surprised if in reality I just went out into the alleyway and grabbed some old tires to throw in a pot.
I let it simmer for an hour, falling asleep again for a bit. Anyway the broth was fantastic. Glorious even.The best thing I’d tasted all year (besides toaster strudels). And so I was all sort of full of energy. I went to go pick up a friend and we watched movies and then that’s when it started. The coughing. Could not stop.
Awful bone-rattling tuburculer nonsense. Ridiculous. Phlegm everywhere.And there was heinous pressure on my chest. It was incredibly difficult to breathe and when I did, it sounded like someone opening the screen door to an abandoned farmhouse.
Good thing the movie we were watching was Stomp the Yard 2: Homecoming. I managed to get the gist of it over my body imploding upon itself.
I’m pretty sure I got bronchitis. I could hardly breathe the next day and the coughing continued for a bit. The moral of the story is this: Don’t stop eating Toaster Strudels.You might die.
Oh phuck I am so sad. So sad I can't propery curse in my own blog. If I could slit my wrists and have them heal right away, I'd do it as an illustration of just how sad I am. Actually, no. I'm not that sad yet. I'll save that for when Taco Bell forgets to give my drunk ass the right amount of mild packets. I'm not drunk right now, I'm just usually drunk when I go through Taco Bell. Not like I drive drunk or anything, someone else drives drunk for me. Anyway I'm sad and now I want Taco Bell. And to be drunk. But I can't because I'm at work and I'm not sure what their policies are on drinking in the work place. They probably don't have a policy against blogging on the job but since I have access to a computer it's happening. If I had access to a bottle of Jack, well I just might brush my teeth with it- as part of my goal of being more like Ke$ha, which ironically forces me also to be more like P. Diddy. This is stupid. What you're reading is stupid. Written by a stupid, stupid person who is literally fantasizing about a baja beef gordita. Apparently I want to eat my sadness. I think it would be good with extra sour cream. Ok so this is what I did: I broke my computer. My new, clean white shiny Vaio. I broke it.
Let me explain. I don't want to spend nine milllion dollars on Micorsoft Word so I'm using the "free" version my laptop came with. Looking back, I should've just jacked it off the internets like I did with my Compaq. Anyway I was doing some editing for a friend and I was on the last page of the chapter, ok? The Last Page, when there was an error- an error that erased half of my changes.
So I did what any normal person would do, I strangled my screen. Not very hard. I just twisted it a little. I swear to the Laptop Gods that it was barely anything. It was like tearing a piece of paper in two. That's the amount of force I used. And then the screen made a gut wrenching cracking sound, like bones breaking and then the colors of my background image started to like, liquefy and run together and oh it was awful. My laptop was bleeding. There's no other way to describe it.
Why in the hell would you sell someone an extremely fragile device that makes them extremely angry? Is it like the gum manufacturers who make their gum to lose flavor so customers keep buying more? I know gum does not need to lose flavor that fast. It's a marketing scheme. You're telling me we can build rocket ships and MRI machines but we can't chew a stick of Big Red for more than 30 seconds without having to pop another one back in?
Sorry for the rant but this just happened. I'm still in shock. What should I do? Do I bury the remains in the backyard? Tie a brick to it and toss it in the Mississippi? I'm scared, guys. And I feel awful. I loved little Tooty so much. I just named him that. Oh no, the name makes it worse! Why Tooty? Why?!!!!
I took a pic with my phone of the carnage. But I can't upload it onto this computer and the mobile blogging thing isn't working. I like to have a picture in all my posts so.... here's this.
Yes, this is her back.
UPDATE
I have to use a monitor from the 1800s and connect it to the laptop
This post was originally going to be about my pets, luckily for you the pictures I need for it are stuck on my phone and I can't get them onto my computer. So... instead I'm pretty much just gonna write about not being able to put pictures on my computer. I know, it's like the cafeteria is out of corndogs so instead you get fish sticks.
Just call me FS, yo.
I got a new laptop a couple weeks ago. I like it. It's sleek, white and small: how I like my men. It's a Sony Vaio, the poor man's Mac. It's a lot less bulky than my old Compaq. It's faster and more efficient. It doesn't have a thick red line running vertically down the middle of the screen, and it operates for more than two minutes in a row without the charger plugged in. In a word, it's better. Yet it will not recognize my android when I plug it in. I admit I'm not tectch savvy. That's how you spell it, right? All I know is that I need to put my pictures that are on my phone onto my computer. I plugged the phone into my Vaio just like I did with my Compaq, but nothing. I did some research and was told to check to see if USB debugging was turned on and that it was "mounted." Indeed it was debugged and ready for action, so what's the deal? There needs to be some sort electrical juices exchanged here. Do I need to play some Barry White? Toss some roses around the room? Is my computer a prude or maybe just thrown off by the fact that my phone has had prior experience with a big black Compaq?
What if I'm at a bar and I see fat, drunk guy dancing? I need to be able tape it so I can transfer it to my computer to watch it full screen when I get home. Or what if I think I see Kelsey Grammer at a Quiznos? I will need to put that on a hard drive so I can share it with my grandchildren years from now.
I've been on some of the forums but it says stuff like this:
You’ll notice while USB debug mode is off that you can easily mount your phone as an external drive, enable (built-in subscription based) tethering, or just have it charge. With Debug mode on, you usually need to download/install an additional driver on your computer if you want to retain the same features.
Can't I just bang my phone against the screen a few times? Maybe some atoms or something will transfer. Something needs to happen soon. This is is important!
Shits ahoy am I in a Funk. Capital F, Funk. Motherfunkers. Literally and figuratively. My last shower, I'm pretty sure was over 48 hours ago. My last coherent, intelligent, happy normal person thought maybe six years ago or so. Time means nothing to me anymore. I've been living off of canned soups and peanut shells. My funkiness has been stewing over a low flame for quite some time until yesterday when it culminated on an excrutiatingly bland mid-March Monday, gray with heavy wet snow and needle thin ice pellets. I slept until 2, took a nap, and woke up 10 minutes before I had to leave for work at 3:40. I didn't change, bathe, or brush my teeth. My eyes were crusty and yellow and my teeth, they were mossier than the north side of a tree... (that's a thing, right?) I think I put on fresh underwear at least, but I'm too weak for a smell test. The thing that bothers me most is my hair It's so greasy that it seems I have no more singular, individual strands so much as a giant protein based grease ball atop my head. Anyway this post is sort of an explanation for my lack of fresh material. I think I'm finally on the other side of the Funk Hill, (ew) So if you don't hear from me soon, please pray to Saint Dawn, patron saint of oil covered birds for my recovery.
Here's what needs to be done to keep the award: 1. Thank the person who gave you the award, and link to them.
2. List 7 things about yourself.
3. Pass the award on to 15 newly discovered bloggers that you think deserve it.
4. Contact them, and tell them about the award
So seven things about myself:
1. I battle rap babies.
2. I steal fries.
3. I have a Garfield fetish. (both president and cartoon cat)
4. I smell like money.
5. I spy on my neighbors.
6. I throw up in cars.
7. I do squats.
15 blogs I like. A number of them wouldn't give two soggy shits if I gave them a stylish blogger award so I'll contact who I want. It's not like you can take my award back. You wouldn't want it anyway, I took it into the bathroom with me.
Sorry I haven't updated lately. I've spent the last few days feverish, drunk and lacking internet. Plus the fascists at Google shut down my blog, presumably for speaking the truth. I don't sugar coat shit, yo. But I repealed it so it's here again. You're welcome. I'm still sick so this post might even be worse than my last. My brain feels like it's floating, like it's on a raft maybe with a margarita, skimming its crinkled, gray, brain- fingers delicately into my skull juice. Get your fingers outta my skull juice, brain!
*******
Let's see. I have a lot of things to say. First off, I am officially a columnist! I get paid in admiration, not money so I still have to keep my day job. I'm writing for buenojoe.com. It's based out of St. Louis, you know the place in the midwest with the giant bent slab of metal...
This is where I'm from. I live in the very top of the arch. If you look closely you can see me in a window flipping of the camera. But Bueno Joe isn't just for St. Louisans, it's for everybody. Even someone in Des Moines might enjoy it.
Another thing I wanted to say is that I had deep- fried bacon. With a side of country gravy.
Probably didn't help me, health wise.
********
Ok, it's the next day now. I feel better. Still a little coughy but out of the sick hole. Ew. Sick hole.
I spent the night at my parents the other night. Their idea of medicine is a steady stream of hot toddies. I love them.
********
I went to what is supposedly the world's largest pub crawl. It's at the Lake of the Ozarks. If you don't know what that is, think of Cancun for Missourians. I saw this guy there.
*********
Remember my Chicago posts? No? Well, fuck you! Anyway when I was in Chicago I got my boyfriend this ocarina from the Field Museum gift shop.
Cute, right? I thought so too. I figured my boyfriend would play it a few times and forget about it. Like he did with his harmonicas and his jaw harp
Jaw Harp
But for some reason, he has a sick addiction to this ocarina. He won't stop playing it. And there's not really much you can do musically with the thing. Or at least he can't. .... Actually he's an extremely talented musician.
On guitar....
Here he is playing the ocarina
In the beginning you can hear him say "I don't want this on your blog." Well too bad. Payback for making me hear this soul withering tune day in and day out. It is truly haunting, isn't it? In a really awful way.
And it is the only. thing. he. plays.
Don't judge him on his ocarina skills alone. Go here and listen to his band, Damned Holy Rollers. He plays guitar.
********
I have to go to work now so I will stop typing. Sorry I'm really bad at transitions.
So you know that weird, hallucinogenic pre-dream phase-- when you're just on the verge of sleep, slipping into a hazy, distant slumber? You experience those semi-dreams where you're balancing somewhat precariously on the tip of consciousness. Well, recently mine have been lasting longer and longer. I think it's mostly because I've learned how to determine that what I think is true and am experiencing, ie the semi-dream, is actually not reality and *poof* I'm awake. Like for instance, I find myself hanging out with the guy from Cake Boss smoking a jay in my high school cafeteria. It's over when I reflect for a second and think, hey this is odd... Shit.
A dead give away is when your friends or family are your friends or family, but not really. You know? Or when it's your house, but it's a different house. Same old shit, Dreams. You know I'm onto you.
That must be why last night, as I was falling asleep, Dreams thought it could trick me by making me think I was eating chips and dip. It didn't work, did it Dreams? I actually woke up, chewing. Chewing nothing. Chewing air! Do you know how disappointing that was for me, Dreams? To think that I was eating chips and dip but then to be slapped by cold hard hand of reality... not cool.
You need to try harder, Dreams. I am obviously too smart to fall for your little pre-sleep trickery. I don't know what to tell you, but I'm tired of waking up five times before I fall fully asleep. Maybe I could dream that I'm dreaming? I can't tell you how to do your job though. Just get your shit together!
Lately I've found myself wishing ski masks were acceptable cold weather wear.
When I take my dog on a walk, I'm completely bundled up: coat, scarf, hat, gloves. Everything is warm except for my face, one of the most sensitive and important parts of the human body. The treasure of the temple, if you will....you will, won't you?
The problem is this: ski masks are terrifying. Anybody who wears one is automatically either a rapist or a scoundrel. Sometimes both.
In college, I worked at a video rental/music/book store, and once someone came in wearing a ski mask. My coworkers and I watched, mouths agape, hearts racing. Yes, mouths were agape, my friends.The masked man wandered into the cd section and browsed for about ten or twenty minutes. This is about the time when my life flashed before my eyes: Sunday dinners at my grandma's, summertime barbeques, me peeing my pants in second grade, the time I played Amped so long, my thumbs bled, etc. This lasted about a minute, as my life had been pretty uneventful.
When my life flash ended, I realized my coworkers had mysteriously vanished to the back of the store. I was working the register and was under no circumstance to abandon my post. If the store sinks to an apocalyptic watery depth, I would go down too. I would make sure you were able to rent the 5th season of Grey's Anatomy one last time before Jesus sends you to hell.
So I was alone, waiting for the murderer to work up enough guts to come and blow my precious face skin to smithereens. Like any good minimum wage worker, I kept working: organizing returned movies into different stacks of Norbit. (Norbit was very popular at the time.) I figured this would be the last thing I ever did on earth. I was resigned to my fate.
After a couple minutes of absorbed Norbit organizing, I looked up to see the masked man looking at me. There were several other people in line behind him--like it was completely normal for a ski masked man to be in a public retail setting with cash registers. He placed like five used cds on the counter. I rang them up without saying anything. My hands were shaking. He pulled out a crumpled wad of cash and when I handed him back his change, he said thank you. How polite of him.
I, and the line of customers watched him leave, after which they started observing how odd it was that a man dressed in a ski mask came into a store.
Yes, how odd. Because, usually when a man in ski mask comes into a store, it's not to purchase a pre-owned Pixies album. It's to steal all the money in the register and sometimes it's to kill you.
So even though I do wish ski masks would come back in style, I really don't, because like I said, they are terrifying.
So I have some propositions. What about a clear ski mask?
It's still creepy, but maybe a little less. No?
What about ski masks that look like your face?
The hair would be a wig attached to the rubbery face mask. Or cloth. I haven't decided yet. But there is a problem with this. If someone were to get a hold of your face mask, (which was custom -made to resemble the specific arrangement of molecules that form your special, special face) they could put it on and people would think it was you! They could go around doing a bunch of horrible things in your face mask, like walking around with no pants or offering to squeegee strangers' windshields.
So really, I don't know if there are any viable options at this point. Are we are destined to a lifetime of frozen cheeks and stiff, runny noses? It's 2011, people, let's get this figured out.
I went to the gym yesterday in high spirits. I hadn't gone for a couple weeks, but I was gonna make up for that with single heart-bursting cardio blowout. I was gonna do more than burn calories, I was gonna do degrading things to them in front of their children. My blood was swirling with caffeine and blood-lust. I was on top of the world.
Oh, the foolhardy ego of youth...
It wasn't until I was leaving the ladies locker room that I noticed the sweat pants I was wearing were the ones that were covered in oil paints from the "brown period" of my artistic phase. My pants were adorned with careless fecal-colored smudges, namely around the thigh and ass region.
But that was okay. Surely everyone would assume it was paint and not poop. I hopped on a treadmill to kick start my caloric genocide. Nearly a minute in, red-faced and wheezing, I shifted my gaze to my feet and noticed an inordinately long string hanging from my pants. It dangled freely below my knee, taunting me, daring me to trip over it. I tried to stuff it back in, even though I was acting directly against the law of physics that says a drawstring (x), pulled past a certain point (y), cannot return to any previous position.
I glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching. I pulled the string.
I heard the mumblings of a conversation behind me.
I pulled the string more
And more. And more. And more.
AND MORE.
The voices grew louder, and the string grew longer.
Just as I was about to surrender to an eternity of frantic string pulling, it came out.
The string had an end after all!
Next up were the weight machines.
This was the first time I had actually ventured toward the weight machines by myself. I really had no idea what to do. At first it went well. I successfully tried two leg machines and a shoulder machine. I was getting pretty good at this. So naturally I thought, hmm...why not try the scariest one of all?
It was a back machine. I had no idea how it worked. I don't want to talk about it.
Oh yeah, and when I was leaving to get my sweatshirt and keys, I walked into the men's lockeroom.
