So, it turns out I’m an idiot.
Of course, I don’t have to tell you people that — you’ve been basking in my lunatic booberedhood for at least two sentences now, and some of you for much, much longer than that. (Poor bastards.) So you know I’m a dumbass. I might as well get a big frickin’ red tattoo, to remove all doubt.
Still, there are times when even I am amazed by the stupid, moronic, assheaded things that I do. (And I live with me! All the time! You’d think nothing would surprise me by now, that I’d have learned something from experience. But sadly, I’m kind of a dumbass. Hey, did I mention that already?)
Anyway, here’s the latest foolhardy, feeble-minded, ‘what brand of crack was I smoking?‘ embarrassment that I’ve committed — I let Amber from Learn to Speak Ebenese ask me interview questions. *groan*
Now, don’t get me wrong — Amber’s the coolest. She even came out to watch me do standup — and still speaks to me! So, clearly, if nothing else, she’s got a superhuman tolerance for bullshit and nonsense. (And probably codswallop and flapdoodle, too, but I keep forgetting to ask Wayne whether she’s stopped by.)
Anyway, I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I’m stalling. See, I knew Amber was baiting me into an interview — that she had all sorts of outlandish, freaktastic, goobery questions lined up (you know, like the crap that I come up with!) — and yet, I agreed, anyway. What a douchebag. I’d go soak my head in a bucket if it weren’t spinning so fast from trying to come up with answers to these sins of nature she calls ‘questions’. Thhhhpppptt!
But never let it be said, friends, that I back down from a challenge such as this. As a matter of fact, I’m going over and above the call of duty here — I have in my inbox no less than eight questions from Amber, with instructions to pick the five I want to answer. Pish tosh, I say! Pish tosh and poppycock! I snort derisively in your general direction!
For you see — being the apparently lobotomized drooling assbag that I am — I’m going to answer all of these crazy little questions, to let it be known that I will not be beaten down and cowed by the type of ridiculous crap that I ask of other people. No, sir! I can dish it out, and yea, so will I take it. It has been written, and so it shall be done.
So, without further ado, here it comes. I’m afraid I won’t be offering to give out interviews this time around — I came up with seventy-five questions last week (and fifteen are still unanswered; what are you people doing to them?!), and I’m just spent. Um, question-giving-wise, that is. Ahem. But, to humor Amber, I’ll take time to answer her twisted little queries. Come on along, folks — it’s gonna be a bumpy ride, I’m afraid. I think I angried her up a bit with my questions; this girl is serious.
1. You are dead and can come back as a poltergeist to one person. As a poltergeist you are obligated to follow this person around from house to house, should they move. Bear in mind that you are obligated to haunt this person until they either A.) die or B.) get a little midget to get rid of you. So you’d better pick someone who won’t bore you, ultimately. Who do you haunt and why him/her?
Ah, now, see, there are a lot of ways to go with this one. I could pick someone really old, and maybe with a heart condition, so I wouldn’t have to do a lot of work. Just one big ‘Boo, ya bitch!‘, and it’s all over. But where’s the fun in that?
I suppose I could also go with some sort of celebrity, to get the fame and notoriety of haunting a ‘beautiful person’. I’d have to pick somebody who’s already a little ‘out there’, so the whole poltergeist thing would stick… Tom Arnold, maybe, or Bjork. Yeah, she’d be interesting for a few decades, I imagine. Or no, wait — Nicole Kidman. Yeah, perfect — she’s half-scrambled as it is, would never get boring, and — as a bonus — I could see her naked any time I wanted. Sweet!
But really, how much fun would it be to haunt someone you don’t even know? I think the whole celebrity thing is out, because it would just be so damned impersonal. I mean, sure, they’d come to fear and hate me, like most of the people I know, but why would I be haunting them for all those years? Where’s the motivation? I can’t work under those conditions.
And besides, I’m a petty, vindictive son of a bitch. If I’m gonna spend the first few decades of my afterlife scaring the piss out of somebody, I want to be able to do it with a self-satisfied, cruel grin on my cold, dead lips. The key is simple: I’ve just got to decide which of the slimy bastard flesh-wastes that I’ve encountered on this planet deserves it most. So many choices, and only one ghost of me. Decisions, decisions…
I’ve got it. Oh, yes. And the best part is, he doesn’t even exactly deserve it — oh, this is just delicious. Yeah, okay — here’s the scoop:
When I first moved to Boston, I worked for a consulting company. I didn’t go on the road myself; I worked on an internal group doing ‘knowledge management’. (Whatever the hell that means — ‘document herding’, it should have been called. But I digress.)
Anyway, when I was hired, I was to be working for one of the women who interviewed me — she was technical, knowledgeable, seemed easy to work with. Fine. But by the time I got to Boston, there’d been a ‘transition’. Poop.
See, what I found out later was this: the office manager — not technical lead, or programmer, or even project manager; office manager — of the office in Brazil, of all places, had so pissed off the locals (by cracking down on nepotism, reportedly) that he was recieving death threats. (I know, I know — I couldn’t make this shit up, believe me.)
So, his good friend and boss-of-my-boss decided to bring him back to the States, all the way up to Boston, and install him as the manager for the group I had just joined. The group doing nothing but programming, software customization, server configuration, web development, and interface design… none of which he knew the first damned thing about. Bee-youtiful.
Anyway, to make a long story slightly less excruciating, I spent six months working for this douchebag — and I mean that in the best possible way, really. He really was a very nice person, if exceptionally naive and way too quick with the ‘Aw, shucks‘ attitude. He even — I shit you not — quit, just before I did, to return to his farm in Virginia and write childrens books. Dead serious. See this face — I’m not lying to you. Serious.
But a month or so into it, I developed this intense, burning, irrepressible hatred for the man. He wasn’t qualified to do his job — which is fine; most of us have been there once or twice — but he wouldn’t delegate, either, and he wouldn’t learn.
The only people he would take advice from, and I mean only people, were software vendor sales reps. And if you know anything about these people, you know that it’s their frigging job to get the software sold, regardless of whether the cost is agreed upon, or the program works, or whether anything actually freakin’ exists or not. Most of ’em are selling snake oil, and the rest are just pulling features out of their ass until something sticks and they can make a sale.
(Honestly, there’s a whole circle of Hell reserved just for these people — they’re gonna be told that they’ll be spoonfed tapioca pudding for all of eternity, and then instead will have white-hot pokers jammed up their tuckuses for the rest of forever.
And if they complain, they’ll be told, ‘Oh, yeah, the spoon thing. That might come in the next version. Just hang on for a few millennia, and we’ll have the developers work on that.‘
And you know, that’s still better than most of them deserve. But I digress.)
Anyway, this man’s brazen, shameless incompetence and denial and wrongheaded direction-changing cost me six months of my life that would have been better spent beating my head against something large, flat, and very, very heavy. At least that would have been less frustrating — I’d wake up and know, ‘Okay, I’m gonna beat my head against that anvil for eight hours. Fine. I have a schedule, and reasonable expectations. Let’s do it.‘
But with this asstard at the helm, you never knew what the hell was gonna happen — do this, don’t do that. Why’d you do that; I didn’t ask for that! Let’s do this; the sales rep says this is what we should do. What? No, no, don’t show me hard physical evidence to the contrary — I don’t want to hear about the laws of physics, man! My mind’s made up! Full speed ahead!
So, yeah, that’s the cluetard I’d haunt, all right. And I would scare the living bejeesus out of him, too, on a daily basis. I think it’d be fun just from a vindication standpoint for the first thirty years or so, and from then on, I’d just get a kick out of his screaming and whimpers and horrified sobbing. Maybe I could even get a sales rep of some kind to convince him that I was ‘all in your head’, so he wouldn’t even try to get rid of me. Oh, yeah — that’d be sweet.
But I’d hate to see the childrens books the fucker would write about that. ‘Where’s Waldo’, you ask? In his basement, with a cross, praying to himself and weeping like a baby, that’s where. Hah!
2. You are being punished by the gods. You’ve been naughty. As a punishment you are forced to become an inanimate object for one year. This means no interaction with the outside world at all, but you are completely aware of your surroundings and can hear, see and think. However, a sympathetic god intervenes and allows you a choice in the what and where you are. What do you decide?
I suppose a stripper’s thong is out of the question, eh?
(And really, I don’t know if I’d be interested in getting all up in that business, anyway. For one thing, there are two ends to a thong, from what I understand. Sure, the elastic bits and the front side might be fun for a while, but there’s still the ‘ass-floss angle’ to consider. Besides, this is a stripper’s thong — or G-string; I’m not picky — that we’re talking about. Regardless of how I felt about the lovely lady herself, I’m gonna spend an awful lot of time on the floor of a strip club. Um, ew! No, really — ew!!
Plus, those things almost certainly wear out inside of a year, with all that gyrating around and pole-rubbing. So I’d likely end up in a dumpster before the year was out, or nailed to some guy’s wall. Yeah, the stripper thing is definitely out. If I’m bein’ punished for ten minutes, maybe. A week — I’d think about it. A lot. But a year… nah. Couldn’t do it.)
So, what would it be, then?
Oh. Yeah, I got it. This one’s easy.
I would spend my year as the right field foul pole at Fenway Park. Absolutely.
Think about it — eighty-one baseball games, plus all the other events and behind-the-scenes stuff that goes on in the park that most people never see. And the view — I’d have a completely unobstructed view of the whole field, and probably even the scoreboard. It’s a baseball fan’s dream!
And just think — what if the Sox won the World Series that year? Think of the stories I could tell my friends when I turned back into a person:
Me: Dude, did you see that Game Seven? What a friggin’ comeback!
Friend: Yeah, yeah — we had a big party to watch it at my place. I called you — where the hell were you?
Me: Dude, I was there! Right there — I saw it all, in person! It was so sweet!
Friend: You went?! Damn! How’d you score tickets? That must’ve cost a fortune!
Me: No, man, it was all free. I had the best seat in the house, too.
Friend: Wha’? Did you get invited to a luxury box or something? How the hell?
Me: No, dude — I was the Pesky Pole for a year! I watched Game Seven from thirty feet over Trot Nixon’s head. It was fuckin’ awesome!
Friend: Um… you know, I don’t know where you really went last year, but it fucked with your head, dude. I can’t even talk to you any more. Damn.
Okay, so that part might not work out so well. Hey, this was supposed to be a punishment, right? Still, I’d know what happened, and it’d be the best damned year a Sox nut like me could spend.
(And hey — I would be a pole, after all. Maybe if we did win the Series, I could get some of those thonged-up strippers to swing on me to celebrate! Bonus!)
3. This one is Being Charlie Malkovich. Sort of. You can have up to 3 people making periodic visits into your brain for the next 5 years, and possibly (if they turn out to be the kind that would…) taking over your body for awhile. They could, if they so choose, take up permanent residence in your brain, and that means they may ALL take up permanent residence in your brain. Therefore, their personalities might involve in-house fighting that you can hear. Who do you choose and what happens? Maybe you should consult your wife and dog before you answer?
And who’s to say I wouldn’t choose my wife and dog to begin with, eh?
(Um, no. That’s creepy on so many levels I don’t know which direction to shudder in first.
Aw, hell, I’ll just pick one at random: *shudder* Ick.
For the record, that was approximately north. Just in case you’re keeping track of such things.)
Damn, I don’t know about this one. Really, I think I have plenty enough voices in my head as it is. Hell, they’ve even started their own dictionary. Now that’s twisted!
I suppose if I had to choose — and you’re gonna make me, aren’t ya, Amber, ya big meanie? — I’d start with someone really, really smart. Hey, how about Stephen Hawking? He hasn’t had a body that works right in years — I bet he’d love the chance to frolic around, skipping naked through buttercups and dousing himself in pancake syrup. And hey, I like those things, too! We’d get along great, and he could teach me all sorts of things, too. Yeah, Hawking’s definitely in.
Lessee, who’s next? Maybe someone to help me with that whole ‘funny’ thing, pull me out of my shell a little bit. Robin Williams? No, too fucked up. Lewis Black? Hmmm… nah, he’s such an angry old man. Ooh, how about his tourmate last year, though — Dave Attell? He’s not my favorite comic in the world, but he’s just the right level of ‘fucked up’ (i.e., only somewhat more than I am), and he’s had that Insomniac show for a while, so I know he could teach me how to talk to strange and unusual people. And he likes to drink, which Hawking would never go for. Okay, that’s it, then — Attell’s on board.
Now, what about the last spot? I should probably pick a woman — you know, for that softer view on things.
(Not too soft, though. Ain’t gonna have Paige frickin’ Davis runnin’ around between my ears, doing jumping jacks and giggling like a crack-snortin’ circus clown, that’s for damned sure. Doesn’t that damned woman have an ‘Off’ switch, already?)
Ooh, how about Tina Fey from Saturday Night Live? She’s cool, I bet — and writes and acts on a major comedy sketch show; what’s not to like? She’s quite the hottie, too. Hey, maybe she’d dream about herself and I could watch — bonus!
Wow. Look at that — I could be smart, funny, and understand women. Well, one woman, anyway, and I’ll take what I can get! Oh, I am so there — gimme a call, Amber. Tell me how we make this thing happen, okay?
Oh, sweet perky puffy pillows of passion, I’d never make it out of the bed…
Okay, okay, so you know how sometimes the truth hurts? Well, in this case, it wouldn’t hurt — oh, no, quite the contrary! — but it’s also not terribly interesting. So let’s just pretend that I could get over the fact that my nipples were suddenly several inches further away, and no longer surrounded by curly little hairs.
(Frankly, I don’t see how the hell I would, but let’s assume for the sake of argument that I could. Somehow.)
Well, the first thing I do when I get up (after checking the overnight blog hit counts, of course) is take a shower. And that’s gonna be one loooooong, steamy shower; there’s simply no way around that. So let’s say I get up around, I dunno, nine. My dance card is gonna be full until eleven, eleven-thirty, at least. No calls, and cancel all my morning appointments, thank you so much.
So, now it’s lunchtime. Where would I go for my only lunch as a woman? Hmmmm… you know, call me perverted (yeah, like that’s a shocker at this point), but I keep coming back to Hooters. A guy in a woman’s body going to Hooters alone, and chatting with the table-waiting chicas who don’t know it’s really a man. Oh, baby… that’s the stuff that really, really good dreams — and really, really bad sitcoms — are made of. Oh, yeah.
So, lunch — check. What’s next? What do women do that men can’t, and that I’d actually enjoy, even a little bit? (You know, other than the shower stuff. I’m still not sure that wouldn’t take me into mid-afternoon, but I’ll try and move on, anyway.)
You know, I’m not sure what I’d do next, so I’ll just give you a few things that I might do, depending on where I was at the time, and what time of year this little metamorphosis occurred:
So, I’m not sure how many of those things I’d actually accomplish, but some combination of those would get me well into the evening, anyway. And then, of course, it’s time for a hot, steamery bubble bath, and a hop into bed. Maybe with some chocolate syrup or honey or something. Oh, sure, it’ll get the body all sticky and stuff, but I’ve only got it for a day — I wanna put some mileage on that puppy. Besides, it’s just a ‘rental’; let whoever gets it next worry about cleanin’ up the mess. I’m on vacation!
Y’know, it’s times like this that I really regret that I don’t watch more porn.
(Fine. So I always regret that I don’t watch more porn. What the hell do you want from me? It comes with the equipment. Deal.)
So which movie, and which character? Hmmm… you know, I’ve given this one a lot of thought. This is a toughie, I have to admit, though probably mainly because I don’t watch a lot of movies.
(See, for instance, I have this nagging feeling that I should want to be one of the guys from Boogie Nights, because, well… Heather Graham’s in it, and she’s naked. So somebody’s doing pretty damned well in that flick. But, I can’t pick anyone from that movie, because I haven’t seen it.
Which is astounding, because, well… Heather Graham’s in it, and she’s naked. Did I mention that? Naked. Full frontal, man. Damn.)
Anyway, after careful consideration, I think I’d have to go with Ricky Roma, Al Pacino’s character in Glengarry, Glen Ross. (Bet you weren’t expecting that, now, were you?)
So why that movie, and that character? Well — as always — there are plenty of reasons.
First, I’m gonna have to take time out of my busy, demanding schedule to live through some film, right? So why not make it a short one, timeline-wise? And Glengarry Glen Ross takes place in under a day, from opening scene to final curtain. I could step into it on Sunday morning, and be back in time to start the week. Sweet.
Also, though it feels a little out of character for me, it’s one of my favorite movies — and it’s got a lot of actors I really like: Kevin Spacey, Pacino, Alec Baldwin, Jonathan Pryce… great cast, good bunch of guys to spend a day with.
Now, if you’ve seen the movie, you know that there’s a lot of pressure — and certainly, Ricky gets his share of that. But he’s on top — the big fish in his little pond. (Sure, a bigger fish in the form of Baldwin swims in and stirs things up, but really, he’s not from their pond. He’s in a much bigger pond; even a lake, perhaps. So that doesn’t really count, frankly.)
I think it’d be a kick to walk around for a day, strutting around town, schmoozing and conning bozos with too much time and money on their hands. Sure, in the end, Ricky loses out on some cash. (I don’t want to give too much away; if you haven’t seen it, then stop reading this drivel and go get it. It’s spectacular.) But he’s still king of the hill in that situation — cocky, aggressive, and hungry. That’s not really me. But for a day? Yeah, that’d be pretty damned sweet. Observe:
‘There’s an absolute morality? Maybe. And then what? If you think there is, then be that thing. Bad people go to hell? I don’t think so. If you think that, act that way. A hell exists on earth? Yes. I won’t live in it. That’s me. You ever take a dump made you feel like you’d just slept for twelve hours?‘
‘What you’re HIRED for, is to help us… does that seem clear to you? To HELP US, not to… FUCK US UP… to help those who are going out there to try to earn a living… You fairy. You company man.‘
Oh, yeah. I could do that. For one day? Lemme at it.
6. You’re in the bathroom, and have just gone #2 (Well, it is your blog, after all…). Unfortunately for you, there is no toilet paper, kleenex, or paper towels in there with you. The ONLY things you have to choose from are:
a) Your only notes for a comedy show that you are performing for HBO that night.
b) Your wife’s towel (no cheating…assume there is no way to wash/replace it)
c) Your dog. (See, it IS possible for others to be as sick as you are…just very few of us are as out of the closet as you.)
Ah, yes. Behold the power of poop. You fondle your mother with the fingers you used to type that, Amber? For shame, girl — for shame!
Well, I already know the (boring) answer to this question, so let’s look at the options one by one, starting from the bottom:
Let’s just imagine for a moment that I decided to use the dog. Frankly, I don’t even know how I’d go about that — think about it. The logistics are staggering.
First of all, there’s the matter of ‘contiguous fur area’. She’s got no fur at all on her undersides to speak of, so that area’s out of play. It also wouldn’t do me much good to wipe my ass with her tail, or a paw, or something spindly like that. That’s not gonna help anybody, and it’s just gonna end up getting on the walls. (I know, I know — ‘Ewwwww!‘ Look, I didn’t ask for this question, people. Let’s just get through this together, okay?)
So, clearly, whole sections of the dog are off-limits from a practical standpoint, right from the start. Next, there’s the question of aesthetics — if you saw the pictures I posted recently, you’ll know that my dog is mainly a dark brindle color. Not entirely unlike the hue of a good healthy turd, as it happens. (And remind me never to show Amber pictures of my precious puppy again.)
But she’s also got some white spots, on her face and chest. And — seeing as how the goal in all of this would be to get away with it — I think plastering poo on the white spots would be a dead giveaway. My options for using the dog are dwindling quickly.
Basically, what I’m left with is finding a way to position the widest part of her back just beneath my ass, and somehow manage to accomplish ‘wiping’ without her moving, me falling, or either of us loudly howling at the horror of it all. Frankly, I don’t see it happening. I’m not nearly smart enough to figure that out, and I know I’m not limber enough. It’d all end with a strained back, and squished dog, and a big long brown streak on the bathroom tile. No dice.
How about the towel, then? I have to admit, I’ve got a bit of a loophole with this option — we really don’t have our own towels that we claim beforehand. It’s just the luck of the draw every morning as to who gets what. So what we’d really be talking about is a used towel, already wet and soggy from her toweling-off routine. And that makes it a much more attractive option.
Still, having said that, there’d really be no place to hide the towel after I ‘used’ it myself. We don’t have a hamper or clothes basket in the bathroom, and damned if I’m gonna carry a shitty towel to my closet and dump it in with my boxers and rugbies. (Okay, let’s all say it together this time: ‘Ewwwww!‘)
My best bet with the towel would be some creative folding to hide the ‘business’ somewhere on the insides. But that would just get sticky and nasty, and then there’s the smell, and the dog would be all interested in it, and… you know, I think I’ve had enough. No towel, either, okay? I just finished lunch here, and I don’t wanna think about the towel any more.
So, the boring answer (which you’re all wishing I’d have started — and ended — with) is that I’d use the notes. For one thing, that’s the closest I could get to my ‘normal’ routine for that sort of activity, and I think the notes would make it down the drain, leaving no evidence of my little doody dilemma.
Plus, if the show was that night, I wouldn’t need notes any more. I tend to prepare well in advance — even for the piddly little shows I’m doing now — so on the day of the show, I’d already be as funny as I was gonna get.
(Well, except that I could then add a joke about wiping my ass with my jokes that day — and bathroom jokes always kill on HBO. They eat that shit up.
Not… not literally, you understand. That wasn’t a bathroom joke itself. I was just saying… you know, can we just move on, and pretend this question never happened? I’m just a little uncomfortable now, and my dog is giving me a really weird, frightened look. Next question!)
Um, I thought my sense of humor was my worst quality. This sounds a lot like killing two birds with one stone. Could you repeat the question?
Okay, never mind. I think I get it now.
I suppose I’d first have to figure out what my absolute worst quality is. And that’s a toughie — I mean, so many vices and faults and shortcomings to choose from! And I love ’em all — don’t make me choose just one!
No, really. Wow. What is my worst quality? That’s a real noggin-licker. But you know what? I’m thinking that whatever I would pull out of the list — cynicism, shyness, chronic tardiness, elitism, low self-esteem, rampant obsessiveness, unruly hair, kinky deviant sexu– *ahem*! That is to say, no matter what I would pull out of the list and raise up as my worst quality, I wouldn’t trade my sense of humor for it.
For one thing, I really like my sense of humor. (Even if no one else does. Bastards.)
And for another, look at that list again — now imagine it with just one thing missing. You think a whacked-out nutjob with all those problems couldn’t use a sense of humor? You bet your rosy-cheeked ass he could! That, and a couple of pitchers of margaritas, just for starters.
So, no dice. As much as I’m sure many of you would like to see my sense of humor magically whisked away, it’s gonna take more than ‘meaningful personal improvement and growth’ to make it happen. Get rid of my worst quality? Harrumph. I might add a few more problems, just out of spite for having had to answer the question. Now how does that grab ya?
Well, clearly, based on these questions, the answer to the second question is obvious: YOU would give me the most crap about whatever I write about. More than Andy, more than nef, more than Shelley, Jeff or Natalie. Even more than TJ. (Hell, both of ’em!) Monkey might give you a run for your money, now that she’s back, but I’d still give you the edge — you’ve got the momentum.
But let’s humor you, and put this little contest to the test, shall we? I’ll just think of the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me in the whole wide world, and just hork it out here on my blog, so you can have a nice little chuckle. That’s your little game, is it? Fine. Strap in, then. We’re goin’ on a little ride.
The year is 1978. I’m in the third grade, and I’m generally pretty bored. Or hyper, or precocious, or whatever you want to call it. In any case, I don’t pay attention much, run my mouth a lot, and tend to spaz out at weird times. (Yeah, yeah, I hear ya — ‘so what’s changed?‘ Regular laugh fucking riot, you are. Har de har, there, spunkycheeks.)
Anyway, if I may continue, I still managed to get my shit together enough to do well in school. So maybe I was bored, after all — I don’t know. I’m no child psychologist. All I know is that the teacher of that class — a Mrs. Stone, I believe it was — did all she could to keep me occupied, so I didn’t disrupt the rest of the students.
(And no, she didn’t ‘occupy’ me that way, you big perv!
You’re thinking of eighth grade. Oh ho ho, Ms. Johnson… clean those erasers, baby. Smack ’em together like a good little educator… mmmm hmmm…
Um. Uh… yeah. Sorry. Back to Mrs. Stone’s class, then. Yes. Ahem.)
So, one of the teach’s main weapons was to let me read to the class. Of course, during reading lessons we’d all have a go, and she’d note the students’ progress. But then there was ‘story time’, where she’d just read to us, and all we had to do was sit and listen and try not to fall asleep. It was a little like being in Congress, actually, only with fewer spitballs and noisy farts.
Anyway, I was a way better reader than anyone else in the class. I mean, I’m not bragging or anything — hey, if you can read at a fifth grade level, you get to strut your stuff around the playground a little bit, you know what I’m saying?
(Come to think of it, if I could still read at a fifth grade level, I might get more strutting done now. I’ve really got to get back to those ‘Hooked on Phonics’ tapes…)
So, it was kind of a big deal when ‘da Stoner’ would ask me to read to the class for her during story time. I got to go up front and sit on her desk while she graded papers or changed clothes or snorted crack or whatever the hell she did instead of reading. I dunno; I never looked back — my audience was in front of me, rapt with attention and hanging on every word. It was heaven, for everyone involved — the kids could just sit there and drool, I could show off my mad readin’ skillz, and the teacher could cool her heels, with me guaranteed to be good, for twenty minutes or so. Perfect. So, she let me read to the class several times.
Until ‘it’ happened, that is. And I think it’s got to be pretty obvious what ‘it’ is likely to be at this point, so I’ll cut right to the chase.
I was reading in front of the class one day — the Hardy Boys, I think it was — merrily skipping along, page after page, when it hit me:
‘I’ve really got to pee.‘
But that’s all right, I told myself. I’m a ‘Big Boy™’ now; I can hold it until story time is over, and then I’ll ask to go. No problem. Read, read, read, read, read…
‘Um, yeah, that’s all well and good… but I’ve really got to go. I’m not kidding.‘
Shit. (Okay, I was eight — I probably said, ‘Poop‘ or something. Fine.) Look, I’ve only got a few more pages to go until the end of the chapter, and then I can go. Just be cool down there, and we’ll get through this.
‘Look — I’m with you and all, but I don’t think you understand. This is gonna happen. Soon.‘
Dammit, I’m busy! Just hold on for —
‘Captain, she canna’ take much more!‘
Would you just be patie–
‘Danger, Will Robinson! Danger! Danger!‘
Oh, damn, damn, damn. Just a page and a half to go. Hold it, hold it…
‘We have a jailbreak situation — the prisoners have breached the inner wall. It won’t be long until they’re free! Guards! Guards!‘
Look, I’m turning the last page! Just… just… uh-oh.
‘Ahhhhhhhhhh…. oh, yeah. That’s the spot… Whoooooo…‘
And that was it. I mistimed my narrative, overestimated my capacity, and piddled my pants in front of twenty people that I’d never be able to look in the face again. I don’t remember ever being asked to read for the class again, either. (Of course, to be fair, I might have just blocked it out — I really don’t care to recall much of the next six or seven years, frankly. Kids can be so cruel when you pee your pants in front of them while sitting on the teacher’s desk. Lousy little bastards.)
So, there you go. My lowest moment, and you slurped it right out of me. I hope to hell you’re happy; I’m shaking my head and wibbling just thinking about it now. I just… I — no, that’s it. No more. I can’t say any more. This interview is over. I’m done, I’m gettin’ drunk. Buh-bye now. Shoo. Whose fuckin’ idea was this, anyway?
Holy mother of Manny Sanguillen, I’m done! Damn, that was a lot of work. And hopefully, I’ve done these questions justice. And ended this thing for a while — these interview things just get weirder and weirder.
Hey, come to think of it, though — I said that I wouldn’t be able to give out any more questions for a while… but Amber certainly seemed to enjoy gettin’ all up in mah bidness with these, didn’t she? Tell you what — if you enjoyed this little trip down ‘Twilight Zone Lane’, go ask her for an interview. Yeah! Let’s see if she’s as brain-fried and slobbery after she thinks of seventy-five of these little puppies. Woot! Yes!
That’s it — everybody over to Amber’s place. Pile the comments onto her answers to my questions, and let’s see if she can deliver! This is a kegger bash, baby, not a ‘I’ll go for one beer’ night. It’s all about the stamina!
(Or the re-revenge. Stamina, revenge… eight of one, half dozen of the other. Just get over there and ask for questions, would ya?
I know, I know — I’m sick of interviews, too, already. But somebody’s gotta teach her a lesson, right? I spilled my guts about the third-grade peepee pants, fer Chrissakes! We can’t let her do this to me!)Permalink | 9 Comments