On the Dodgers Impending World Series Title

1 Aug
Miguel Brown

A rally cap with a bill bent forward are as rare as Halley’s Comet.

I was ten in 1988, the last time the Dodgers won the world series. I cried tears of joy.

The 2017 version of the boys in blue are currently threatening the all-time national league record for regular season victories. I’m going to start doing box jumps to train for the actual world series last-out moment when the team rushes the field, creating a dog-pile of millionaires on top of the mound. This will happen just moments before the championship hats and t-shirts are passed out, and a few hours before the equivalent hats and t-shirts for the losing team are shipped to the Ivory Coast. When players leap from the dugout I will jump up from the couch (or love seat) with such explosive intensity my head will leave a dent in the ceiling. I will have someone ready with their iphone to record my new PR in the vertical leap. Stayed tuned for the evidence.

Sax Rookie

Steve Sax rookie $117? Ebay is fucking high. Click on pic.

The very first pitch of that 1988 championship season was hit for a home run by my boyhood favorite, 2nd baseman Steve Sax. I recall attending games where young women held signs aloft that read “Sexy Sax”. I envied Sax for his athletic abilities, and he sort of reminded me of  “face man” on the A-Team, who of course was also irresistible to all the foxy ladies. All the while I was a ten-year-old who couldn’t hit a curveball and had anxiety about dying a virgin.

Kirk Gibson HR

All the hope and promise of a turd’s youth personified in one swing of the bat.

In 1988 when Kirk Gibson took Eckersley deep in game one of the series my father jumped so high he hit his head on our living room ceiling. Our ceiling wasn’t abnormally low, but my father had zero hops, which proves that the adrenaline needed to jump that high was a once in a lifetime moment for him. This is what concerns me.

I myself don’t need the dramatic wins to enjoy the thrill of victory, but recent precedent has me concerned that the Dodgers could fall flat in the post-season for a fifth straight year. I’m too jaded by the Frank McCourt (parking-lot attendant) years, and the Guggenheim Partners pulling broadcasts off of KCAL 9 and KTLA 5 to slap any stickers on my car, to fly a Dodgers flag on my porch, or to get a tattoo of their iconic LA logo on my taint. However, I’m not above a good rally cap from now until the last strike of the season. Some hope and optimism from my youth still springs eternal. I’m looking for one last gravity defying leap in my life.

 

Plus, I wish once again to cry tears of joy.  Sure, everyone may be moved to tears by the birth of their children or winning a cheap domestic sedan from a fly-by-night drawing at the mall. Nevertheless, unbridled, vicarious joy is quite rare in my opinion. There’s something about that Gibson home run that does it for me. Perhaps it’s the reminder of childhood, when anything was possible. That bottom of the ninth game winner is still a catalyst for my emotions. As the Big Lebowski himself said, “Are you surprised by my tears, sir? Strong men also cry. Strong men also cry.”

 

And to make things perfectly clear, I am not one of those delusional fans who secretly hopes for the beginning of a dynasty that starts with a title run this season. I hoped for that back in 1989 when my dad took me to Chavez Ravine for a game against the Expos. We sat right behind the home dugout. Mike Scioscia charged the mound after getting beaned in the head by the famously jerri-curled Pascual Perez. The Blue Crew won that day 9-4, on their way to a 77-83 record. I can wait another twenty-nine years if they get it done this year. My tear ducts are slow to replenish.

Pascual Perez

Despite Scioscia’s titles as a player and manager, Perez’s curl-swag (and chin music) tips the scale in his favor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Eagle Rock Man Sues Papa John’s for Cock Blocking

28 Dec
Please allow for a substantial cooling period before mounting pizza.

Papa John’s Pizza, voted number one in every taste test tallied in reverse order.

Eagle Rock, CA–A Local man retained legal counsel and filed suit against Papa John’s Pizza LLC for preventing him from consummating a sexual rendezvous at his home a month ago last Wednesday night.

The twenty-six year old was more than agitated when relating his side of the fornication near miss.

“It’s been three years since I’ve had sex, and there I am in the heat of the moment, ripping open the Durex when the doorbell rings!” said Nicolas Santos of Eagle Rock. “I placed the order for a large Hawaiian with extra cheese only fifteen minutes before, and they said it would take a minimum of forty-five minutes to be delivered. I’m no casanova, this was a huge moment for me!”

The owner of the Eagle Rock Papa John’s location in question was puzzled as to why a customer would be upset that a large Hawaiian pizza with extra cheese arrived thirty minutes early.

“We’ve always received compliments on our quick delivery in the past. I really can’t relate to the guy filing a lawsuit over not being able to close the deal in his own bedroom,” said Papa John’s franchise owner Dominic Bautista. “I can offer him a free large Hawaiian next time he orders from us, but not getting laid is his own issue. No one forced him to answer the door . . . You gonna order something or what?”

By Santos’s own admission, his date for the night, who only wishes to be identified as “Emily,” did seem to be more into the pizza than the idea of sex once the delivery driver arrived, and was initially reluctant to visit Nicholas’s apartment.

iggy-azalea-papa-johns

Pizza + an ass-centric female rapper on repeat= Nicolas blew a legitimate home field advantage.

“We met for coffee a couple of times, and she seemed to like me. Touched my left arm throughout the first and second coffee dates. I had the whole night planned out, I was going to order her favorite pizza and we would watch whatever she wanted on Netflix. I finally got her to accept my invitation, but she seemed sort of distant, maybe upset about something. She started kissing me out of nowhere after I placed the order for the large Hawaiian . . . the stage was set, I cranked up the Iggy Azalea and we both got naked,” said Nick giving a large box of neon Durex condoms on his kitchen counter the thousand yard stare.

An independent computer repair specialist by trade, Nicolas claimed that his last sexual encounter was with a flight attendant he met while flying to a “computer convention” in San Diego. When pressed as to why he flew to San Diego when it’s only a ninety minute drive from L.A., he replied that his Chevy Corsica had been stolen the night before the event. Without being asked, Nick insisted he used to be connected to the woman on Facebook, but that she had deleted her account and he couldn’t recall her name or what airline employed her.

Reporter played keep away from Nick using this photo as bait.

Reporter played keep away from Nick for ten minutes using this stewardess photo as bait.

“I’m serious, she was beautiful. I was tempted to move to Albuquerque, just for the chance that she might sleep with me a couple more times,” Nicolas said. “She kept saying she wished I could take a look at her Dell laptop. It really happened, stop laughing!”

“This is a unique case,” said Montrose attorney Tomas Mendoza, “My client was given a minimum arrival time for his pizza order. Papa John’s broke this verbal contract by arriving more than thirty minutes early, thus interrupting a very rare occasion for my client, the sensual act of physical love. After consuming more than half the pizza, his date felt bloated and the mood was completely ruined for her. Essentially, we have a solid case for this merchant unrepentantly cockblocking my client. We’re asking for pain and suffering and punitive damages, as my client let more than one potential job go by the wayside during the ensuing depression he went through. He has not found any potential sex partners since, and his date on the night in question has not returned his phone calls.”

The jpeg Nick Juarez recently uploaded to several online dating sites.

The jpeg Nicolas Santos recently uploaded to several online dating sites for virgins.

Just before press time “Emily” offered her take on the whole matter.

“That night I was going through a phase where I decided I wasn’t going to sleep with men I was attracted to on account of them always turning out to be flaky bastards. Nicolas seems like a nice guy, but I would definitely like to thank Papa John’s for showing up when they did. I ended up getting dressed and scarfing down six slices of the Hawaiian and bailing on Nick when he was in the bathroom. The last thing I need is a clingy guy who I just devirginized stalking me, especially a guy who has “White Peach Chardonnay” hand soap on his bathroom sink  . . . Think you can convince him to lose my number?”

Because everyone needs hands that smell of Skittles whilst masturbating.

Because everyone needs hands that smell of Skittles whilst masturbating.

 

 

 

English Professor Arrested at Bar for Breaking and Entering

25 Jun
BB

Late afternoon mating rituals abound on Colorado Boulevard during happy hour.

PASADENA, CA─A Pasadena City College professor was arrested on Tuesday morning for breaking and entering at Barney’s Beanery on Colorado Boulevard. Pasadena PD reported that Juan Ureno drilled through the lock of a rear entrance, and was found passed out behind the bar in a large pile of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. Ureno had been ejected from Barney’s the previous evening for harassing other patrons with unwanted conversation and grandiose braggadocio.

“Professor Ureno usually comes in on Monday nights and mostly keeps to himself,” said Barney’s manager Lawrence Morris. “Something was up with him last night. He kept waving a paperback around insisting that other customers read passages from it. It was just weird. We had to get his ass out of here before he started a fight. I made sure he did not reenter the premises, despite the sorry-ass spin moves he used out on the sidewalk. Grandiose mother fucker.”

A Harvard man of letters not once meets a locked door as long as he lives.

A Harvard man of letters knows only unlocked doors the world over.

A staffer in the PCC English Department went on the record anonymously to shed some light on the previous night’s events, “Monday afternoon he was passed over for the department chair position. He went ballistic at our department meeting saying that he was ‘the only Harvard man on campus,’ and that his penis was the biggest in the building. He said that his publication record spoke for itself. Though he does have an extensive publication record with Mad Magazine, it’s not enough, not exactly department chair material, unfortunately. He spoke passionately of his lofty position in the Pasadena Grammarian Society and how his students ate out of his hand every semester, but it was all in vain. Someone once told me that Ureno wallpapered his bathroom with his own Mad Magazine cover art, glad I never saw that firsthand.”

Police confirmed that the paperback Ureno was waving around at the bar Monday night was found on his person Tuesday morning. The Professor’s love of literature seemed to have gotten the best of him during the early morning incident as he was found with his pants around his ankles.

“Mr. Ureno appears to have enjoyed coitus with his book. The book was sent to the crime lab for confirmation, but conventional wisdom says this is a case of a middle-aged man fornicating with a paperback copy of A Confederacy of Dunces, until completion,” said Pasadena Police Department spokesperson Calvin Gleason.

Fornicating with literature is akin to thrusting ones schlong into hot lava.

Fornicating with literature is akin to thrusting ones schlong into hot lava, homes.

Barney’s busboy Rogelio Montalban of Altadena was cleaning tables Monday night when the commotion began at the main bar near his section. “He was telling people their perversions were exposed in the pages of his book, and that’s why he wanted them to read it out loud. He walked around saying that Brooke Shields was going to meet him that night, and that Harvard men always get the finest women. As we threw him out he was screaming something about apostrophes and commas. And now he breaks in and pipes his book on the floor I have to mop. What a fucking guy, right?”

Barney’s patron Rod Belding of Pasadena took offense to Ureno’s boasting. “It was funny at first, he boasted that he was going to meet Brooke Shields for a rendezvous, but it got old after he started going into detail about how the novel he had with him was worth more than anything I’d ever accomplish in my entire lifetime.”

Lots of free time afforded us the opportunity to look into Ureno’s academic past, which revealed he was indeed a Harvard graduate, earning a B.A. in English Lit. His lengthy senior thesis was titled “Brooke Shields: the allegorical embodiment of Western female sexuality.” Though his paper set him apart from his peers, the thesis was initially rejected by the English department’s review committee as “lewd grandstanding.” Ultimately the paper was approved due to strong chapters concerning an international spike in onanism inspired by love scenes in The Blue Lagoon. He later earned a master’s degree in American Literature from Stanford, where his thesis was titled “Brooke Shields: the saucy heroine postmodern literature lacked.” Click on the photo below to enjoy Ureno’s thirty second “music video” tribute to his favorite actress.

Brooke Shields is Aphrodite

The legs that launched a billion 7th grade length showers.–Juan Ureno, Harvard

 

Once he posted bond Tuesday afternoon, Juan Ureno began the long walk back to his two bedroom walk-up on California BLVD near Caltech.

“Barney’s Beanery: Pasadena, CA is written above the bar on the mirror in gold paint. But there’s no apostrophe after the Y in Barney’s and no comma after Pasadena,” said Ureno. “I pay for my drinks and tip very well on Monday nights. While doing so I have to stare at that lazy, ignorant bullshit up on the mirror. In America, the consumer is king, and I expect Barney’s to implement proper punctuation at once!”

Ureno scoffed when asked about Brooke Shields, “Who do you think wired me the money for bail, comrade? She owes me big time. Critical theory about jerking off to that New York debutante was non-existent before I came along!”

“Professor Ureno will have his day in court, charges have been pressed, and hopefully next time he’ll think twice before masturbating on private property, especially using a Pulitzer Prize winning paperback and a publicity photo of Brooke Shields as inspiration,” said Gleason. “For the record, the Professor was also in possession of two over-sized golden commas, or two apostrophes, either way. If anyone witnesses any more lewd behavior from Juan Ureno please call me in the basement evidence room of the Pasadena Police Department.”

Grammarian patrons should be given editorial freedom at local tavernas.

Headed by Juan Ureno, the Pasadena Grammarian Society has offered a reward for installing punctuation on this mirror.

Dinner Party Guest Takes Shower During Main Course

11 May

PASADENA, CA─Hosts of a local dinner party were surprised to find one of their guests taking a shower without asking during the main course. The faux pas was not immediately discovered as there were more than twenty guests in attendance, and conversation at the large dining table was not without raucous laughter and animated stories about inner tubing the sand dunes of Idaho.

Shower Mon

The freedom of showering with the curtain pulled back is beyond orgasmic.

“I think like fifteen minutes went by after he left the table. I was worried the hor d’oeuvres had made him sick,” said hostess Nicole Chandler. “So I went upstairs to check and I heard him cursing in the shower. I came back to the table and everyone already heard the water running, people were in disbelief. Total weirdo move, right? Complete idiot. We’re not in college anymore, grow up and stop playing the stooge.”

In actuality the hostess had descended her staircase, interrupted someone’s story about trying three-card-monte in London, and announced that Darby was showering upstairs. This news was met with a mixture of blank stares and a few others saying “what the fuck” in unison.

On Arroyo just in case you want a diuretic right before a crowded dinner party.

On Arroyo just in case you want a diuretic right before a crowded dinner party.

Before excusing himself, local entrepreneur Braberius Darby 32, was embroiled in a debate about whether or not USC would return to the Rose Bowl game during the next half-decade, and was heard muttering something about UC Berkeley grads being “god-damned snobs” as he excused himself from the table by saying “the john” out loud to no one in particular.

Host Stephen Carlson claimed he was not surprised, despite the strong sense of surprise in his home. “We went to college together. He did random shit all the time. Whatever, he’s a strange dude. He used to blow off class to plan campus pranks. Total lightweight drinker and smoker, too.”

The man in question, Darby of South Pasadena, seemed to regret showering upstairs and feared his future social calendar might suffer because of the incident. “I totally wasn’t fucking around this time,” he whispered sheepishly, standing next to the mantel and peering over the top of a whisky  tumbler. “Susan is a sub-par cook, so I devoured some King Taco before I arrived. I had no clue Chandler had catered in Italian tonight. The burrito was a big mistake, mon.”

Maserati: for the mid-six figures earner who happens to have an inverted penis.

Maserati: for the mid-six figures earner who happens to have an inverted penis.

Guest Claire Van Owen, a San Pedro veterinarian, offered her opinion, “Darby’s a jackass. He took me to dinner once during our mid-twenties. I reserved a table while he went to find parking because he wouldn’t valet his precious El Camino. I’m waiting with my menu for like 30 minutes, of course I had left my phone in his car. I go outside and he’s hiding across the street in some bushes waving at me. He hit a parked Maserati and drove off like an idiot ’cause he didn’t want his insurance to go up. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to sneak back into the restaurant to get me. Not a terrible guy, just sort of an idiot. Glad it happened, if the date had gone well I might have slept with him.”

Before everyone gathered around the table to eat, Darby was also said to be acting bizarre and taking impromptu polls about who might want to dance if the hostess could be coerced into playing some “proper jams.” He even asked one guest if they wanted to invest in his latest business venture, renting sets of theme costumes to people throwing “Who Dunnit Orgies.”

“I told him to shut up and have a drink. Talk business with the men, meet one of the single girls, stop bothering me–I’m throwing a party here. He even wanted to log onto his Spotify account and play songs over the surround sound system so people would dance. I told him no,” said Nicole the hostess. She added “I kept dreading he was going to go start taking shots and try to do the worm on the carpet. That was my new year’s party four years ago. Totally mortifying,” said Nicole Chandler.

 

The upstairs bathroom appears to be an alternate dimension. A dimension where taking an

The upstairs bathroom is a dimension where taking an “upper deck” is nearly impossible.

Despite everyone at the party knowing about his shower, Darby continually denied that anything took place in the upstairs bathroom with the chain-pull toilet. Fellow guests politely avoided him during a post dinner billiards game, and an impromptu wine tasting in the study’s fully restored conversation pit.

Darby then loitered by the mantel just off the main foyer, trying to subtly rejoin the group, first by chatting up an available paralegal from Alhambra about his personal record for consecutive free-throws made. And then by mistiming his canned laughter trying to blend in with the outskirts of the crowd. He didn’t make a splash liked he had planned to earlier in the evening, when he plotted his moves whilst taking a shower at his own home.

“Totally unplanned, that burrito was coming out no matter what, and I had to bolt upstairs through the kitchen. It was so bad TP wasn’t going to cut it. I realized that pretty quickly. If I didn’t shower I would have just ghosted out the back door. Without the shower there’s no way I’m salvaging the night. Now everyone’s acting like I’m screwing around. The universe avoids my advances tonight, mon. I should probably run out and grab the Chandlers a bottle of wine as a secret apology.”

At press time Darby had not yet managed to get any phone numbers, business cards, or even affirmative responses to his conversational offerings on sports, barbecue, investing, or his medieval puns.

“Showering without saying something is just the way Darby rolls. As long as he didn’t mess with the toilet up there, it’s all good,” said Stephen Chandler. “I like having wild card/borderline idiot friends around sometimes. It keeps things loose.”

Mantel

The mantel, where off-the-charts charisma has been ignored for centuries.

The hostess had tried to leave Darby off the invite list, but her husband insisted he be included. She then conceded that he would probably be invited to their next dinner party as well. And that in the last year Darby had at least departed when the crowd started to thin out, as opposed to his old tradition of having Last Guy to Leave the Party syndrome.

 

Local Toddler only Suspect in Duplo Slayings

28 Apr

FOXBOROUGH, MASS─A local toddler is under investigation for the possible murder of an entire Lego Duplo family. The Foxborough twenty-month old had been seen with the Duplo family on multiple occasions recently, though they had not all traveled together outside the home since the time the child threw up at the Trader Joe’s. Early interviews with the child have proved to be inconclusive at best, and the investigation is “semi-ongoing” according to Foxborough PD representatives.

An entire Duplo “Caucasian Fam-bam,” by Lego, has not been seen since last week.

“When asked about the Duplo family’s whereabouts since last Tuesday, the suspect in question usually responded with “Where they go?” holding her arms to the side in the universal symbol for uncertainty. We asked her about the Duplo children and she responded with “they’re two. Two babies,” when it’s clear from the picture on the Lego box there’s only one Duplo baby and two older children. We found some severed limbs. The Duplo grandfather’s limbs. The Duplo grandmother’s hair. Things are not promising for the rest of the Duplo family as more time continues to pass. Our suspect has at times avoided our questions and began referring to her father as the cookie monster, and then laughing uncontrollably for minutes at a time. However, this wasn’t an incoherent statement as her father was in fact eating Mother’s circus animal cookies at the time.

Later I nearly had to un-holster my tazer when I suggested to the mother that we continue the questioning down at the station. She went ballistic, so maybe we should start looking at this situation from different angles, I haven’t decided. I clearly heard the mother say something to the effect of ‘”I’m sick of stepping on those fucking things in the dark anyhow. Get out of my house, you jack asses!”‘ Several times we had to reassure the parents that we were in fact with the Foxborough PD. They were finally convinced when the father was able to compare our badges to a plastic one he had used last Halloween,” said Foxborough PD spokesperson Calvin Gleason in an official statement.

The actual police SUV that was on the scene first, but also left first before the others.

Not the actual police vehicle that visited the Lane family. But it’s driven by their home before on the way to a bust.

“There’s got to be some explanation; the Duplo father always looked sort of unhinged to me. Wearing a tie, shoes that are molded into his legs,” said Barnett Lane, the toddler’s father. “Maybe he’s the one to look at in this whole scenario. My daughter seemed to favor the Duplo farm animals from the beginning, but I don’t think she’s directly responsible here. Doesn’t make sense that the police have come around for missing toys that we own, but I don’t want to cause a scene. We’ve only lived on this street a year and the neighbors are already standoffish for no reason. I made the mistake of wearing a Steelers t-shirt to do yard work last summer, big deal, right?

If she’s guilty I don’t think she’d have to do a work camp or anything. Though if she did it might give the wife and I a chance to catch up, so to speak. Being new parents cuts into the carnal side of life, big time.”

The toddler’s mother refused to go on the record, but was certainly against the child leaving the premises “over my dead-fucking-body.” When asked if she would retain legal counsel, she responded with “What paper are you from? Get the fuck off our property!”

Reports say the Lane’s daughter had been seen at a neighbor’s house acting suspicious around their Duplo toys, but nothing had been confirmed at press time. Gleason went on about the serious responsibility the public has in such cases.

Bashful baby girl

Cute? Perhaps. Calculating and sinister? Exact-a-mundo, playa!

“As law enforcement, our job is to make sure criminals are off the street, but maybe we can also identify future homicidal maniacs and get them the help they need before childhood curiosities became full-blown rampages. At this time we ask the public to keep an eye out for this little girl if she’s snooping around Duplo toys of any kind, and pay close attention if she ever happens to have any pieces from a “Caucasian Fam-bam” Duplo set on her person for any reason. Obviously she’s a minor, we won’t be releasing the child’s name, but this photo should help the public keep an eye out at their homes, yards, and of course public parks and toy stores. Contact me directly at the evidence desk in the basement of the Foxborough department. ”

All leads or hearsay should be forwarded to Calvin Gleason at the station on Chestnut Street. Gleason would appreciate the opportunity to show his superiors any and all initiative/progress, that he can use to bolster what he expects to be his middling score on the upcoming detective exam.

“I still don’t understand what the big deal is,” said Lane. “When I was a kid I used to melt my toys with a magnifying glass while chanting phrases I memorized from a library book on the occult . . . And I grew up to be a CPA! I mean the police drop by unannounced right before we’re headed out the door for dinner, that’s effing entrapment! I stand by my daughter, though I can’t seem to find my magnifying glass anywhere.”

Black-belt in Creepy Laughter!

27 Nov
Miyagi Karate

“I know Elisabeth went down on you, Zabka. This kick to your face will echo through eternity!”

In 1984 Daniel LaRusso crane-kicked Johnny Lawrence in the face to win the All Valley Karate Championship. An entire world of moviegoers cheered; I pointed and laughed at the blonde, starch-collared children of privilege known as the Cobra Kai. It was a perfect moment in cinema history. On the drive home from the theater, I had my father stop at half-a-dozen neighborhood dojos. I wanted to assess the suburban Sonny Chibas who instructed countless kids kicking their way from white belt to yellow in the span of 18 months. I scoffed at their modest goals and howled when they failed to break paper-thin boards with awkward round house kicks. One collapsed to the floor yelling, “Ah, shit! You didn’t hold it right! My left foot is shattered! Mom!” It was a perfect moment. Those chumps weren’t going anywhere–not one of them would be a tournament champion, to say nothing of becoming a ninja one day.

GI-Ninjas

Ninja. It’s the new “I sing in a band . . . and live in my car.”

My dad was going to sign me up on the spot, but I balked, wanting to practice some moves at home first. My NES seemed like the perfect place to start–but for months I got nowhere in Ninja Gaiden, and did even worse at my neighbor’s house while trying my hand at Shinobi (he had a Sega). My lone successful combat versus a ninja was when my neighbor’s younger brother entered the room in a Toys R Us ninja costume to demand his turn at Shinobi. He threatened me with rubber throwing stars and plastic nunchucks wrapped in foam. Rather than give up the game controller, I kicked him in the sac and ran home with it. It was a perfect escape, I laughed.

Later that week I negotiated a delicate truce with the neighbors. Their game controller was returned and I was allowed to borrow a game called Kung-Fu in the negotiation. Kung-Fu was a two-dimensional 8-bit video game which challenged the sole player to traverse five levels filled with knife throwing goons, dwarfs who did flips for the sole purpose of landing on your head, snakes that fall from the ceiling, fire breathing dragons that appear and disappear with a puff of smoke, and naturally, as in life–the killer bees, acrobat dwarfs, and knife throwing goons are more persistent as the whole brouhaha goes on.

Few realize that in the early ’80s the Nintendo corporation was at the forefront of CGI technology.

Kung-Fu taught me that I could sit on my ass for hours at a time with only minimal thumb cramping. It also taught me that I too could actually conquer a video game. After I defeated its boss, MR. X, for the first time and saved the beautiful Sylvia, who happened to closely resemble Thomas, the hero of the game, except she was wearing an 8-bit dress, I knew anything was possible. Though schoolmates taunted me when I boasted of my great victory, their triumphs in Super Mario Bros 2, Duck Hunt, Castlevania, Zelda, and Mega Man, didn’t net them any skills that might brand them a creep or social pariah later in life–their loss. You see, when I was learning the game and taking my lumps, I started mimicking the laughter emitted from the game’s bosses after they had vanquished me. Their laughter I can only describe as a maniacally digitized version of what the Count Von Count used to do on Sesame Street (RIP).

“Do you have any idea what the street value of this mountain is? AH HA HA HA!”

Everywhere I would throw my voice and put the Kung-Fu laugh out into the world–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! Throughout middle-school, high school, and college I perfected my skill. My NES was long gone, but I paid homage to my great accomplishment by continuing to preach its figurative gospel–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! To this day in the back of theaters, in crowded elevators, when conversation momentarily dies out in a small room full of people–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! I sometimes block my phone number and call numbers on my contact list knowing full well the blocked call will be sent straight to voicemail–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! Right after a premature finish to lovemaking–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! While sitting in the studio audience of horrid sitcoms for extra cash. Out in traffic when my car’s horn is on the fritz. If you don’t believe me, try it on for size yourself–MaHaHa-Ho-Ho-Ho-Ho! It’s just perfect.

I’m Ninth on the List for a Crotch Transplant

15 Nov

My alma mater was notorious for horny pinup girls and American football worship. A decade ago I graduated from a college in a state known as the penis of America. Shortly thereafter I felt the need to detox in a solitary and profound way, so I decided to live in the unfinished basement of a Midwestern duplex. My family begged me not to do it, they knew how intensely boring middle-America was and thought it might be contagious. Despite their concerns, I was very happy with my decision as I had the basement all to myself–except for a water heater that I festooned in tin foil to make it look like one of the robots from the vintage Battle Star Galactica.

“I’m leaking retromutagen ooze!”

The basement wasn’t quite as nice as my college apartment, which overlooked a swimming pool filled with buxom, unattainable coeds, but it cost me $200 dollars a month and included my very own phone-booth sized bathroom/standup shower, a laundry room about three steps from my door (rarely used), and a full kitchenette just upstairs. The allegorical symbolism of living in an unfinished basement perfectly represented my humble station in life at that time. A subterranean dwelling made sense. It served as a reminder of how much work I had to do if I hoped to live above ground one day on the steam of my own lower-middle-management salary. It was a time when the future was as vast as any distant galaxy and as promising as any hair-brained idea hatched while chugging a bottle of bottom-shelf mescal.

Late one night after a shift as a saucier at the local BBQ shack, I sought refuge on a plaid recliner in front of the tube, which was playing (on a loop) a suggestive infomercial about a high-suction hand-held vacuum. Pondering a late night phone purchase, I sipped water from an over-sized Hurricane glass that I stole from the local TGIF. After deciding I needed some rest, I tried to take one last sip from the Hurricane glass, but stopped short when I felt a small bug tap dancing on the tip of my tongue. Though not fully awake above the waist, I spit the water back into the glass. I then placed it on the windowsill next to the recliner before stumbling down the steps into the darkness, tripping over my own feet and cursing the fact that I had to work late into the night as an apprentice saucier in a neighborhood where elderly church-going women packed heat whenever they left their homes. That night I muttered in my sleep about quitting my job at the BBQ shack, and opening a pool hall/bordello in the basement.

“Hey, break it up! I’m not paying you ladies to play pool.”

In the morning I heard the effeminate cries of one of my neat freak roommates upstairs, “Who left their glass on the sill? Not cool, man. How about showing some consideration for others!” I recoiled into my dreams of wearing a top hat while being the most pleasured john in my own basement bordello, but knew I had to clear up my mess in the living room if I was to keep the precarious peace in our duplex chateau. Upstairs I examined the Hurricane glass in the sunlight and saw a small brown spider suspended in the water, tumbling end-over-end. I watched it spin like a slot machine reel, exposing the yellow violin shaped mark on its belly again and again. I waited a few minutes until the crying roommate left for work, then went to use his computer–he had banned me from doing so earlier that week because I had spilled an entire can of corn onto his keyboard. My suspicions about the spider were confirmed on Altavista (it was 2002 after all).

Though the Midwest is home to many arachnids, one of the region’s most feared and poisonous is the brown recluse–easily identifiable because of its color and the violin like birth mark. This attic and basement dweller had enough venom to kill children and the elderly. Just a year before, when moving into my last college apartment, a one-footed painter was putting the finishing touches on my room, “I got bit by a brown recluse,” he said scratching his mullet, “If they didn’t take the foot, it would’ve spread to my leg and I would have lost that too!” An online gallery showed pics that looked less like spider bites and more like the festering sores of those who had been mauled by a zombie. Huge, flesh rotting bites! Disgusting necrosis fused lesions!

“Doctor, am I going to have to skip Tough Mudder this year?”

I thought of the painter’s amputated foot, and wondered if I would still be a prize among women and a chum among men if I was missing my chin and tongue. What if the little recluse had bit my esophagus on the way down? Might I have had a neck amputation or better yet, a neck transplant? How long would it take to see the light of day on one of those transplant lists? What if it had bit my hand as I took hold of the glass? Would I have ended up with a hook, or one of those over-sized wooden hands with non-pliable fingers? I probably would have opted for birch or cotton wood if that was the case. A Terminator hand would have been out of the question as the BBQ shack only provided a PPO. Looking back on that night I’m not sure I realized at the time how close I had come to serious disfigurement. Later that week, before jumping into my murphy bed, I shook out my sheets and another recluse fell to the floor and scurried off into the shadows. Naturally, I assumed this one had been sent on a revenge mission to bite my crotch. Again, a narrow escape! Life as a eunuch would have been unpleasant. There are really very few harems to guard in the western world, and I heard those that are hiring may be going to a voucher system for their healthcare benefits, making success unlikely buried at the bottom of a crotch transplant list.

“You would look much better without a left hand, or with only half a face. I can help you with that.”