I went out to din-din with this new bird last week. It wasn’t a date, even though she proclaimed it was on The Book. If I was an honest man I would tell you that all I wanted to do was eat a carb-rich meal, drive her home, use the energy from my carb-loading to crush, and then make up a reason why she had to leave asap. My plans were thwarted when the USDA forced my resignation and the NAACP distanced themselves from me because I chose vanilla ice cream over chocolate for dessert. For realsies though, I had the bird in the palm of my hand until she brought up my ex-factor. She didn’t think I was far enough removed to start a new relationship. I told her that I never wanted a relationship, but that I was removed enough. I told her that I used to have this sick ass white Looney Toons t-shirt that I wore the shit out of. The shirt made me look jacked, it smelled of rich mahogany, it went with every outfit, and the pic on the shirt was Bugs Bunny grabbing his cock. But over time the shirt’s pits yellowed, the collar stretched out a bit, and Bugs’ cock grew faded; and while I adored the shirt, and would always cherish our time together, I had to drop it off at the Goodwill and let some other guy have sex with it. And that is how I described my ex. Needless to say it did not go over too well, so I went from having a bird in my hand to having my… in my hand.
In 5th grade we had to research our lineage and create a family tree. I was jealous as fuck of all the kids and their lavish expansive over-branched nature-saving hippie-hugging family trees. I earned a shit grade on that project because my tree was branchless on account of my adoption agency burning to the ground and taking my heritage with it. I mean what the fuck was I to do. I realize my single branch tree looked pathetic and the fact that I drew a rain cloud above it named God failed to endear me to the faculty at St. Francis. If Henry Louis Gates wasn’t so busy breaking into things he owned I would have commissioned his services.
I don’t mean to tread on Paul Shirley’s lawn, because I don’t really know shit about music – but I do want to waste a couple hundred words on a band. I saw The Yeah Yeah Yeahs in concert last year, and I loved them. Karen O spit her Corona onto the crowd and some went in my mouth – it was great. I’m fairly straight edged, but I wanted to Lambert it up for the show – so my Phillipino neighbor painted my nails, threw on some eyeliner, and the gay instructor at my interpretive dance class picked out my outfit. My BFF Phil and I were up close to the stage and all these weasely fucks kept trying to nudge between us and get to the front claiming “their friends were up there,” or “I dropped my contact and it rolled up here somewhere,” assholes. I was taking blunts to the head with this group of hippies that consisted of one gay, one ugly, and one hot girl aka the reason I was talking to this motley crew. Hot Girl and I were turning back asshole’s trying to sneak up the front with a Black Water level of precision and disdain for human life. We entered into a non-binding agreement; I would turn away all the guys and she would turn away all the girls. In case you begin to inaccurately perceive my toughness-level, let me clarify, I am a pussy, but I was at a Yeah Yeah Yeahs concert, meaning that I was still the toughest person, save for a few butch lesbians, at this emo extravaganza. Hot Girl and I formed an impenetrable human shield between us and the stage. Then this man attempted to swim move past me to the front; but I didn’t budge while I politely told him to go have premarital sex with himself. As he walked away Hot Girl asked sarcastically if she had been fired from our team; and I shot her a confused look, which differs slightly from the usual confusion I have when talking to women. Hot Girl told me that I had just gotten tough with a girl. But I knew she was lying, the dude had facial hair and a deep voice; and right when I was about the slap Hot Girl for her stupidity she pointed to the man’s boobs – I had out-muscled a tranny. I didn’t know how to feel, did I just go Chris Brown on a bitch, or was it a hate crime… so I turned to The Gay hanging with Hot Girl and asked for a ruling. I received a high pitched consent from The Gay and I proceeded getting spit on by Karen O.
One more concert story – sorry Paul. I was at a Ray Lamontagne concert last fall with the ex-factor. We were there early and heavily posted up close to the stage. Ray’s beard sweat trickled from follicle to floor less than five feet from me. The opening act had just completed their uninspired set when the crowd began to part making way for a guy in a wheel chair being pushed by wheel chair guy’s friend. They rolled up to me and the ex-factor and asked us to move, while wheel chair McGee looked up with his sad paraplegic eyes. The guy pushing Wheely said that he couldn’t see from behind people – and I told him that they should have shown up sooner. I didn’t budge, and they rolled away to find an idiot who would move for them. I was booed and given dirty looks. So I booed back. It’s not like the fuck lost his ability to walk on the way to the show. He shoulda planned better. My ex was chronically late to everything, which is why I solved my problem by lying about the show’s start time. Wheel chair guy and his friend had just as much opportunity to get to the show on time as I did. I was really pissed that other people moved for the fuck, and felt compassion – he even gets to park closer to the venue than us, he really had no excuse.
