REPORT A PROBLEM
My Panty Of The Month Club has sent me a very official-looking letter today:
We regret to say that we will no longer be requiring your services. It seems that there has been a shift in our demographic, following the horrific acts perpetrated on September 11, 2001, and our demand for “Nut-Sweat Panties” has dropped signifigantly. Please keep the case of fresh white panties we sent you at the beginning of our arrangement with our compliments, and do not hesitate to contact us if you need references in the future.
President, Panty Of The Month Club
Well what the hell am I supposed to do with half a case of fresh white panties? It takes all the fun out of wearing them if I am not getting paid to do so. Not only am I now out of a job, but I also have to re-formulate a budget, one which allows adequate room for proper mens’ underthings. Those bastards! How dare they take the food right out of my mouth! There must be some form of legal recourse I can take against POTMC that can rectify my situation. Note to self: Call lawyer first thing Monday.
I was thinking for a while that I could start my own Panty Of The Month Club, using the half case I have left to serve as finacial springboard. I’m not so sure how well it would work, however. The idea was to go to the grocery store and buy two pounds of sliced american cheese, wrap each slice in a pair of panties, and store them all in a box in the garage for the month of June. By July, I should have a goldmine worth of smelly white panties just waiting to be delivered to anxiously awaiting perverts.
Of course, I’ll set aside a special, “limited edition” set of panties in which not one, but
pieces of sliced American cheese are tightly wrapped. These are guaranteed to sell like smelly little hotcakes, as anybody who is anybody knows that “limited edition” tacked on to any object means that, although the object is undervalued now, it is guaranteed to be of astronomical value in the future. Maybe I should sprinkle in a little romano as well, to give them that special little “kick”. My mind is reeling with the potential for my own Panty Of The Month Club.
OK, the plan is now underway. I went to the supermarket and picked up the following items:
1 roll plastic cling wrap
3 pounds sliced American cheese (it’s both cheap and patriotic)
1 slab Parmesan cheese (it’s more exotic) and
1 pound of broccoli (for my R + D section of the plan. Don’t ask, I just have a feeling about this one)
And I spent the evening making American cheese roll-ups using white cotton panties as bread. I sealed everything up tightly in a box procured from the liquor store, and stowed it in the garage next to my toboggan.
Oh I can’t wait! I just want to rip open that box of cheese-laden panties and inhale that pungent odor of money in the bank! I’d spread them out on my bed and roll on top of them, laughing as I rub them all over my soon-to-be-loaded self. But I can’t, as that would be premature. I have to let these panties ferment for a good long time. Now I know how God must feel when He’s got a box of smelly panties fermenting in the garage. Soon those fatcats at Panty Of The Month Club will know my name!
This is too much for one man to take. I cannot resist the urge to take a box cutter to what will soon be my big fat wad of cash. The urge to move on is unbearable. I must practice the patience and discipline of a monk to keep myself from moving along with my cheesy panties. I cannot tear my mind from those odoriferous underthings. I find myself staying awake late into the night, eyes wide, mind racing along the possibilities for those noxious naughties. I find myself exhausted during waking hours, still unable to think of anything else.
Well thanks, Jeff, for making me feel like an idiot. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do it, but you managed to pull it off anyway. It’s probably for the best, as I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to pull it off for a whole month. Note to self: Don’t do anything. I got caught up in rambling plot lines, unclear resolution, and half-baked conflicts. Who am I trying to kid, huh? Apparently, nobody but me. As usual. So I will resume, due to popular demand, the standard format of the whiny, insular diarist. Enjoy. What? Two more...?
What is this strange sensation? Why do I suddenly feel claustrophobic and smothered and as if I want a knife to swing and jab? Why do I want to smash skulls? Oh.... Wait a minute.... It’s all coming back to me. I had nearly forgotten: I hate humanity! How silly of me! I had spent so much time cooped up and tucked away that I had almost begun to feel as if I need to get out and walk around with people again. Whoo! Boy was I wrong! I must hurry back to home, where the only idiot is me.
Well, if nobody else is going to do it, I suppose it’s up to me. White girls... scratch that. White folks: Please stop sporting dreadlocks. Is it Dred- or -lochs? I don’t know. But there are a few things that I do know, and these be them: It’s disgusting. I want to vomit when I see your.... what do I call this? A “do”? A “style”? Some would say “It’s a lifestyle, dude.” Regardless, it’s vile. Your attempt at seeming relaxed about it (“it just grew in that way dude!”) are poorly camouflaged. Your nappy dreads seldom leave your thoughts.
At a bar, I see one of these guys, he’s sporting one of those
tattoos, a stylized birdy (ain’t never seen one a’ them a’fore) just poking out of the collar of his T-shirt. Text is printed on the shirt, but I can’t quite make it out. Eventually, we get close enough that I can make out the words. They go like this: “JUST BECAUSE I HAVE A TATTOO DOESN’T MEAN YOU CAN TALK TO ME” I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to laugh, vomit, or slap. As if your neck tattoos weren’t enough of a cry for attention...
Another time, I find myself at a party with some friends. I notice that there are quite a few tattoos at this party. Fair enough. I can appreciate the idea of “self-expression”. But something is not quite right... I ponder, look, synthesize... Ah HA! The reason that I see so many tattoos (or “tats”, as they’re called to those in the know) is that everyone has their clothes tailored around their “ink”. Honey: Sweetheart: it’s january in Boston. You really aren’t so stupid as to casually wear a tank-top, are you? Don’t act as if you hadn’t thought about it.
“Hey man... we’re
laws, man. we exist on the Fringe of Society man.”
Uh, no... you’re just like every third person on the street. You’re distilled and homogenized.
“No way man! My ink is a symbol of my individuality and my belief in personal freedom! My tats make me different man!”
You mean different from that guy with the “scratching panther”, or that one with the “tribal band”, or that girl with the butterfly on her ankle?
“Totally man! I’m, like, unique, dude!”
So, you’re an individualist but you feel a kinship with these strangers?
“Right dude! We’re a community!”
LETTER TO THE DRUMMER IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD: With practice, one usually gets better at an activity. Unfortunately, this isn’t the case with you. Oh, I hear you. I hear you pouring your little heart into that kit. I hear you practicing at all hours, day or night. Sometimes friends and loved ones are hesitant to deliver negative criticism, so I’ll do it instead: You suck. You’re bumbling, fumbling wreck of a rhythm section. Think you got that Radiohead intro down? No you don’t. You have trouble keeping the most mundane backbeat. So please, give it up. Before I kill you...
I have reached that point:
I'd said goodbye.
It was something I just had to do.
Transfixed by the shadows, the world was about to be washed away in a new flood.
Ruddy face flushed with pleasure, She closed her eyes, “It’s the big one!” We called them “breeders”.
The department store believed the staff lockers correctly surmised that soon would have to save himself: see his pink snout fat, pink belly.
‘I’m worst at what I do best. I don’t sleep much.’
Trained to deny her instincts, her eyes would meet mine, then glance away anymore.
It’s hard enough not to wake up. I’m considering euthanizing the best birthday gift I’ve ever received.
A fleeting buzz is like a contagion.
A man of god can be so persuasive.
I later realized he may have just had a runny nose.
Crazy piece of work, to fix what has been broken.
You do well with sharp objects.
What a shame:
Everything is an excuse to 12-step. Impossibly clumsy. Maybe I’m just hopelessly wanting to hang it up and walk away.
I have stopped worrying about me – for now, at least
Keep cawing you ebony motherfucker. Enjoy it while you can. I am in the market for a gun, and I am going to shoot you with it. I hope you still enjoy flying to the rooftop and making the ruckus early in the morning. I am going to send a seering projectile ripping through your feathery corpse-to-be. Keep cawing you ebony motherfucker. Perhaps you will suffer for a while before you delve into sleep blacker than yourself. I will enjoy watching it. Honk if you love silence. The crack of my new pistol will be the last thing you hear.
NOTES ON CRITIQUES: If you find, upon suffering a critique, that you are far too fragile to undergo such an ordeal, then you, my friend, have no business putting yourself out for such criticism. I’m sorry to be blunt. I’m sorry I can’t state this within the framework that you are accustomed to [that’s great! you’re super! don’t stop! keep at it! you’re special and unique!].
The sad truth is, you are a customer. A repeat customer, yes. You wouldn’t buy from those who degrade you, would you?
Bimbo At The Gap: “Those khakis look, like,
great on you.”
The bimbo at The Gap would never tell you that you look fat in those khakis. But you do. She’s not thinking about how people will snicker after you’ve left the room: (“Jeez! Where did she get those khakis?! They
makes her look fat!”) That bimbo is thinking about how this one pair of khakis will affect her pittance called a paycheck. Now, change the Gap to your College. Why would you come back if one of your professors told you you looked fat in your major? They’re never gonna say it, of course, but still.... you look fat.
milliej2> hi gla/p
jimboelrod_1> gl....hi from Okla
milliej2> pa here
JGBLONDIE> hello all gl/p
_soaphead_> anybody got a barrell?
_soaphead_> was that me?
JGBLONDIE> could not help
_soaphead_> my bad
milliej2> typ xc
jimboelrod_1> nn millie
milliej2> ty t
jimboelrod_1> try it again
_soaphead_> oops... i did it again
_soaphead_> i soiled myself. again.
jimboelrod_1> wheres every one from?
JGBLONDIE> TN here
_soaphead_> i'll quote:
_soaphead_> hang on
jimboelrod_1> same hand?
JGBLONDIE> dont u just hate that
JGBLONDIE> me 2
_soaphead_> ..." 'Bitch, you are nothing but a funky zero. Before me you had one chili chump with no rep. Nobody except his mother ever heard of the bastard. Yes, Bitch, I'll be back this morning to put your phony ass on the train.'..."
_soaphead_> but wait there's more...
_soaphead_> "...'Bitch, I don't want a whore with rabbit in her. I want a bitch who loves me for life...'..."
by Iceberg Slim:
I said, “Who is that?”
The dwarf said, ‘You gotta be from out of town. That ‘Sweet’ Jones. He’s the greatest Nigger pimp in the world.”
The thin joker said, “That spotted cat, Miss Peaches, is the only bitch he caes lives or croaks. Shit, then whores you ‘pinnin’ ain’t but half the stable. If they got Nigger pimps in outer space, he’s the best of them too. He’s gonna take them whores into the ‘Roost’ and ‘pop’ some. He’s lugging twenty ‘G’s’ in his ‘raise’.”
It was exciting as maybe Christ making his encore.
a and he I in is it of that the to was all are as at be but for had have him his not on one said so they we with you about an back been before big by call came can come could did do down first from get go has her here if into just like little look made make more me much must my no new now off old only or our other out over right she see some their them then there this two up want well went were what when where which who will your
Often one to want
I’m typically unfortunate.
After some free bowling, and an unbalanced budget, I was too aware of all that I wasn’t.
At various passing moments.
I’m going to crawl into my childhood:
a collage of pebbles glued to Styrofoam, my name written backwards
panic if someone has dropped out of sight
I have a history.
It wasn’t good.
I’m back home now.
I feel surrounded.
I have things on my mind that I can’t sort out.
Life has surprised me.
To end a chapter:
some things rapidly sour.
I need to cut things open more promptly.
I was outside in the yard digging a hole. It was not going well. Sweat dribbled from my brow in a near constant stream. The hole was not cooperating. “Goddamn you, Hole!” I yelled as loud as I could, “Get bigger!” The hole had turned a deaf ear. Yelling only served to make my throat itchy and raw. Incensed, I once again threw my spade at the hole. I thought of a riddle and giggled. What gets bigger the more you take away from it? You guessed it. But I had found the exception to the rule. Mother Fucking Hole.
So the country is up in arms about this whole pledge ruling. I feel sick to my stomach. What is this strange club of back-slapping, bible thumping politicoes? Whould it be such a shame for a state rep to admit to even an inkling of a doubt in god? Political suicide, for sure, but really.... I am curious to know how many closet athiests there are working on capitol hill. In considering a career in politics, how many chose their religious affiliation based on demographics? How many Buddhist congressmen are there? Any Quaker state reps? No Islamic incumbents, I’m sure.
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic, for which it stands, one nation, under Allah, indivisible, with liberty, and justice for all.
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic, for which it stands, one nation, under Buddha, indivisible, with liberty, and justice for all.
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic, for which it stands, one nation, under Jesus Christ, indivisible, with liberty, and justice for all.
I give up.
Spending my days thinking about the way things fit into the mouth, I have begun thinking much more about my own. I use my tongue as a probing reference mechanism. It serves as a potent refresher course into cusps, peaks, and reticulated valleys. I know this for sure though, I swear before whatever god may be, I am swearing off Tootsie Rolls and Jolly Ranchers forever. So help me whatever runs this joint called existence. On a daily basis I come into contact with anonymous pain and suffering, and I am building prosthetics to put things right. Happy chewing, you.
I think I’ve done a fairly good job not talking about myself in a journalistic (as in: this is not my diary) fashion this month, and I think it may be time for a refresher course. In a nutshell, here is my life over the past month, for those who may have been worried:
A couple weeks off.
A father in the hospital, serious but stable, and ultimately undiagnosed.
A brief trip out west.
A frantic job hunt.
An untapped resource.
A desperate call to the folks to spring for rent.
Relieved? Good. Me neither. One outta 30 ain’t bad.
I may hang it up for a while. Yes, all you Hay Jumper fans, this may be my last entry. Please, don’t weep, it cheapens us both. Maybe this proclamation will end up being nothing more than yet another Rolling Stones farewell tour, or Ozzy, take your pick. I enjoy the discipline and the dedication, but on those days when I’m strapped, and resort to writing “Dear Diary...” crap I want to vomit. I can’t stand hearing it, and want to avoid being as such myself. But sometimes it’s hard. Maybe I will collect and come back later. Who cares?
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