Friday, January 2, 2009

And Now A Message From My Brother

His account of a good deed on his birthday:



“No good deed goes unpunished”
-Some pessimistic asshole

I was reading that great book by Maddox given to by my brother when I noticed it was 3:15am. I decided to do what any other good birthday boy would do, have a cigar. As I was smoking in the dead of night I heard a noise approaching from the north, on Heath Ave. I did some stealthy maneuvers and spied on an extremely intoxicated man that was yelling at the wind, the cold or an imaginary person. Mixed phrases I caught: “cold” “I didn’t do anything” etcetera, etcetera. I saw a taxi come from the west, but I was too slow to move out of my perch, flag him down and tell him that a stumbling drunk was trying to get home in negative eighteen, CELSIUS. I went inside and got ready for bed. It wasn’t guilt, it was just that I didn’t want to hassle the community with another dead person froze on the sidewalks. Then God butted in. You have to understand, God and I have an understanding with each other. Generally we just stay out of each other’s way, and when we pass, exchange pleasantries and such. It’s a tumultuous but amicable relationship.

God: Hey, Charlie, something wrong?
Charlie: No, just tryin to sleep man.
God: Don’t lie dude, I know.
Charlie: You’re gonna save him right?
God: I dunno, right now I’m talking to you, so at this moment, no. If you make up your mind maybe I could get out of here and do something.
Charlie: Damnit, that’s not fair, you’re putting this on me!
God: What’s fair anyways? Oh, hold on I got a call. Hunter, wasssupp!? Oh yeah, The Duke’s outta hell for a day?! Yah man I’ll be right there, I’m dealing with an indecisive asshole, shouldn’t be much longer.
Charlie: DICK!
God: To me-Sssshhh still on the phone. To Hunter S. Thompsen- ok, ok I’ll be. . . . . .
Charlie: Hey, tell Hunter he’s a fucking loser for shooting himself.
God: To me: My boy here says you’re a loser for shooting yourself. Listening, Uh-huh, yeah ok, right, got it. To me, he says “Go fuck yourself, you Nixon-loving commie-nazi. He’s doesn’t have to be justified to a piece of shit, two-bit, blue writer like you.”
Charlie: Touché, Dr. Gonzo, Touché
God: To Hunter: Okay, be right there. Pe-Ace. God to me: here one last thing, “Do it, you won’t do it” bye Charlie, warm the car first.

(It wasn’t guilt, it was just that I didn’t want to hassle the community with another dead person)

With a puff of smoke that smelled almost, but not quite, somewhat like pot. So with a warmed car and another cigar in mouth I was on my way South on Heath looking for a troubled soul. I found him near Clearview Rd. At first I thought this poor pilgrim was an old man with a white goatee. I stopped the car and asked him if he needed a ride. His intoxication was more than obvious upclose. As it turned out it was not a white goatee at all but snot had frozen in his mustache and flowed down to his chin where it made an inch-long stalactite of mucus ice. I actually checked his hands when he introduced himself. They were cold but not too bad, red and not black. So, no frostbite. He had a heavy pea-coat, a red and black striped wool hat and a fake orange flower lei. Jack, as he was called, told me he was trying to get home by himself for he was ejected from the Low Step for various misbehaviors and gotten angry and decided to walk home. He lived on Francis Street, which I did not know where it was (my inadequacies as an Firetruck Driver suddenly came back) But when he said near Arby’s and a bowling alley, I thought South North street because there is an Arby’s and a bowling alley near each other. Jack was adamant about living off of Heath, this baffled me because South Heath ended quickly without a Francis Street, but he couldn’t mean the other Arby’s roughly 3 miles the other direction, could he? I called 411, which was very unhelpful. They told me that I could not get street addresses like that from them and told me that I should have called *611. That number was a customer service for my cellie, I could add another phone to my plan but that would have to wait till later. Jack was able to pull it together and get his phone to act as a GPS locator and give us directions. It was the most high-tech piece of equipment in my car ever! Jack made some dry heaving noises but mostly repeated a few phrases “I didn’t hurt no one, they kicked me out for nothin!” “I don’t want to hurt anyone” “I was grabbin asses!” “COLD” He was able to tell me that he called a hook up, she told him he was crazy and that he was going to die in the cold. That must have been the ranting I heard when he went by. I didn’t want to explain that God conned me into going to get him so, I told him I was driving around on my birthday smoking a cigar and happened upon him, fortuitously. So for the rest of the drive I entertained Jack with a lie about how I hooked up the previous night with a Korean girl that does tae-kwon-do and how we played rough. He loved the story. Laughter physiologically warms you. So, after a while I delivered Jack to his gated community. I took his number but also told him to call me to make sure he was inside and ok. I received no call, so I texted him. He sent me one back “Yeah m so cold” Jack’s gonna be fine. Thanks to me for deciding to do the right thing.
After he left I noticed the snot-ice goatee had thawed off his face and was on the seat next to me. I threw it out the window, no sense in keeping souvenirs of memories like these. My good deeds were punished by having to throw a snotcicle out the car. I was so tired that I didn’t put a glove on before doing this, so my germ phobia is decreased.

UPDATE: Jack just texted me, 2pm the next day.
Jack: “Hey. We txtd last night and I’m don’t know this is.” I texted him back that I found him walking around and gave him a ride. I also added that I mapquested his walk from the Low Step to Clearview, yeah 3 miles in the ice. The following text he sent me said what I did was “top-shelf.” I’ve never heard a drinking reference be used on a person. Awesome. I decided to have a lil fun and texted him back “any time and the head was pretty good too for being half frozen.”

For the Paris Hilton in Your Life

Is your pusspuss stretched out? Is it sick and tired of having so many visitors? Do babies just fall right out of your vajayjay? When guys bone you, do they tell you it's like sticking their dick in a bowl of oatmeal? Worry no more! This is the miracle product for you!

I got to work this morning and found that my boss had done a lot of cleaning of the random crap we have lying around. Among this crap, I noticed this box:

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Here's a close-up of the text:

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While it's not entirely inappropriate to have in our office, it's not every day one sees such a gem.

Yes, that's right! "Training weights" as in your vag is going to participate in the Iron Man triathlon. Like it really needs to bulk up in preparation. I HAD to inspect, so I threw on a pair of gloves. The small box was accompanied by several larger packages that I found were kegel kits. This small box must be the floor model so to speak. Each kit also comes with a VHS tape to show you how to use the cones. What cones, you say? These cones:

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I put a pen cap down to give you an idea of the size, CSI forensic-style. I couldn't find a ruler. Each cone has a plastic string attached, I assume to ensure it doesn't get lost forever in the black hole that is your loose meat wallet.

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(imagine viewing it closed from the top)

The individual weights really are each a different weight! So you can work your way up to the hardcore levels. Go for the gold! Get your personal best. Once you've mastered the hardest level, I suggest attaching other things to the end of the string and lifting objects of varying weights: cutlery, blocks of cheese, precious moments curios, puppies, the neighbor's child. Go for it! Your goal should be to be able to squeeze off the penis of any intruder. It will render rape whistles unnecessary. This will be *rape surprise*! Twat of steel.