The airport security officer gave me a sideways glance as he rifled through my duffel bag. His paws were oversized and meaty, like bricks of spam with fingernails jammed in. I couldn't help but imagine they were probably covered in the residue of something - mustard, maybe, or vaseline. Picturing his greasy meat-fingers leaving a trail across all of my belongings made me want to puke blood. I resolved to dump the entire contents of the bag into a fire as soon as I reached my destination, and never look back. I would abandon the life they had represented, and realize my dream of becoming a swami firefighter.
I stopped to think if there might be anything I needed. Family photos: no, no longer meaningful. My only family now was the kiss of fire on my cheek, a love for danger, and the lotus position. My identification papers and passport? Forget it. I would be adopting a new, self-styled name, just like all men who answered the call of the fireman - Flex Fireaxe. My forearms would be the size of cannons.
No, there was nothing in there, nothing whatsoe-
"Sir, can you please explain this to me?"
What?
Oh.
The security officer.
I looked up. The officer had switched from sideways to full-on glancing maneuvers. From his finger, hanging with ironic delicacy, was what was unconcealably the dried skin of a Taiwanese hooker. My face turned white, then red. Behind me I could hear coughs and murmurs of disapproval. My lips parted and the corners of my mouth dragged them across my face into a liar's grin. It was time for my famous charm to get me out of the situation. I raised a finger, coughed *ahem* and began.
"Fuck."
"Sir?"
Fuck!
So much for first impressions. I was up Shit River without a paddle. The only way out now was to lean in and use my hands.
I stopped to analyze the situation. First: the problem. This was simple enough. The establishment's faux-cop had discovered the dried epidermis of a dead Taiwanese prostitute in my duffel bag. I would not be able to burn it, as it was now evidence, and I would probably go to jail.
I stared into the eyes of my accuser. What are your weaknesses, little man? How can I destroy you? I placed him at about five-ten, two hundred pounds. Irish-Italian with a hint of Portuguese, with an accent suggesting a Hawaiian upbringing and education at one of this country's famous Ivy Leagues. His nose had the tell-tale indentations of spectacles, suggesting that I could evade him by standing either very close or very far away. And, in his eyes, I could detect the glint of a broken heart. I took my chances and struck!
"Sir," I said, moving to within a few inches of his face, "do not let your crushing loneliness and feelings of inadequacy bias you in this matter. A learned man with such a rich culture of luaus and pizzerias such as yourself should be able to see the truth: that this is no hooker skin at all. No," I said, backing away as far as possible, "that would be illegal. What you hold in your hands is merely faux hooker skin - an incredible simulation! It is a gift for my fiancee, who loves me more than you could ever imagine...or experience."
I could tell I had pierced his heart. He hid it well, though, and kept a stiff upper lip as he called over a military man armed with an automatic rifle. I quickly assessed him as a ophidophobian clubfoot with epilepsy. Bingo. Hissing like a snake and spitting wildly, I waved my flashlight at the man as I made a break for the baggage conveyor. I curled into the perfect shape of a box and made my exit through the curtain - stage flight. Hahaha!
Suddenly I found myself face-to-face with a short Indian man in a beige jumpsuit who I placed as a secret cultist of Bael with an addiction to frozen snack foods. Clearly, he was confused by my situation. Undaunted, I sat up straight and raised a finger. "Please, sir," I said, my mind snapping into action once more, "things are not as they seem..." I closed my eyes, and dreamed of dalmatians.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Piss Up a Rope
The following is a "short short" (less than 1000 words) I wrote for my Fiction Writing 2 class. Enjoy.
My alarm went off at seven-thirty a.m., like any other work day. I hadn’t even been able to close my eyes once during the night, which I guess wasn’t surprising considering that I hadn’t peed in seventy-six hours. Holding it in was just one of those things for me, I guess. A lark. Now I’m sure you want to say to me, “God damn, Jack, how did you deal with the pain?”
And my reply?
“Well, first off, it hurts even more than you think it does. It feels like King Kong is playing pattycake with your balls. But pain is part of life, man. Hell, I’d say it is life. Real, physical pain is the strongest feeling you’ll ever have. Sometimes you just have to sit back and say, ‘Man, this is fucking intense.’”
The previous evening was nothing if not intense. I cried, I moaned, I whimpered. I didn’t once let a drop spill into my underwear. I’m not a masochist, it wasn’t a sexual thing, I just got a kick out of my own audacity. But as soon as my iHome began playing “As Long As You Love Me” that fateful morning, I knew I’d gone too far.
I first attempted to swing my legs out of bed and walk to the toilet. I crumpled to the ground, unable to concentrate my muscles on standing. The metaphor I find most apt to describe my pain is the image of my kidneys surrounded on either side by two magnets, magnets compelled together by God. Yet even with the earth’s natural forces trying with all their might to compress my bladder system into nothingness, my body held out. I almost wished that it wouldn’t. I hoped for a sudden explosion, some cataclysmic lower-body event that would signal the end of my pain. Face down on the floor, I managed to unbutton my pants and take out my penis. I braced myself for the feeling of sweet warmth on my leg. But nothing came out. It was as if my urine, having crouched at the end of my penis for so long, waiting for that reassuring cold flush, had turned away with a resigned sigh and retreated back to its smoky lair. A flash of understanding gripped me and I knew I would only be able to relieve myself in front of a toilet. Oh, mental blocks, how you torment me!
Had I been in a mental state more active than ‘semi-conscious’, I would have regretted ever letting my mother convince me to put an extra addition on my house. She said it would clear up the main living space for guests while keeping my “private areas” secluded. (She had of course, referred to my living quarters as “private areas” ever since she walked in on fourteen-year-old me simulating anal sex with a blow-up Antonio Banderas doll. What can I say, I was curious.) The unfortunate thing about this floor plan at the present moment was that it left the nearest bathroom some seventy-five feet from where I was currently lying motionless on the carpet. Normally, I would have relished the challenge, but everything was starting to go black.
One burst of energy was all I thought I could muster.
Out of sheer willpower, I managed to prop myself into a standing position, using my desk as support. Propelling myself from the desk as if I were about to swim laps, I dashed out of my bedroom, taking a hard left after the doorway. Yet as I stumbled down the hall, I heard a very clear sound, impossibly full, not even loud really, just omnipresent. It was something like the retort of a starter’s pistol. I began to pee all over myself. It was terribly unpleasant. As it turned out, the damage to my kidneys had already been done. It was not the sort of end to my life I’d ever envisioned, but at least I was a shoo-in for the Darwin Awards.
My alarm went off at seven-thirty a.m., like any other work day. I hadn’t even been able to close my eyes once during the night, which I guess wasn’t surprising considering that I hadn’t peed in seventy-six hours. Holding it in was just one of those things for me, I guess. A lark. Now I’m sure you want to say to me, “God damn, Jack, how did you deal with the pain?”
And my reply?
“Well, first off, it hurts even more than you think it does. It feels like King Kong is playing pattycake with your balls. But pain is part of life, man. Hell, I’d say it is life. Real, physical pain is the strongest feeling you’ll ever have. Sometimes you just have to sit back and say, ‘Man, this is fucking intense.’”
The previous evening was nothing if not intense. I cried, I moaned, I whimpered. I didn’t once let a drop spill into my underwear. I’m not a masochist, it wasn’t a sexual thing, I just got a kick out of my own audacity. But as soon as my iHome began playing “As Long As You Love Me” that fateful morning, I knew I’d gone too far.
I first attempted to swing my legs out of bed and walk to the toilet. I crumpled to the ground, unable to concentrate my muscles on standing. The metaphor I find most apt to describe my pain is the image of my kidneys surrounded on either side by two magnets, magnets compelled together by God. Yet even with the earth’s natural forces trying with all their might to compress my bladder system into nothingness, my body held out. I almost wished that it wouldn’t. I hoped for a sudden explosion, some cataclysmic lower-body event that would signal the end of my pain. Face down on the floor, I managed to unbutton my pants and take out my penis. I braced myself for the feeling of sweet warmth on my leg. But nothing came out. It was as if my urine, having crouched at the end of my penis for so long, waiting for that reassuring cold flush, had turned away with a resigned sigh and retreated back to its smoky lair. A flash of understanding gripped me and I knew I would only be able to relieve myself in front of a toilet. Oh, mental blocks, how you torment me!
Had I been in a mental state more active than ‘semi-conscious’, I would have regretted ever letting my mother convince me to put an extra addition on my house. She said it would clear up the main living space for guests while keeping my “private areas” secluded. (She had of course, referred to my living quarters as “private areas” ever since she walked in on fourteen-year-old me simulating anal sex with a blow-up Antonio Banderas doll. What can I say, I was curious.) The unfortunate thing about this floor plan at the present moment was that it left the nearest bathroom some seventy-five feet from where I was currently lying motionless on the carpet. Normally, I would have relished the challenge, but everything was starting to go black.
One burst of energy was all I thought I could muster.
Out of sheer willpower, I managed to prop myself into a standing position, using my desk as support. Propelling myself from the desk as if I were about to swim laps, I dashed out of my bedroom, taking a hard left after the doorway. Yet as I stumbled down the hall, I heard a very clear sound, impossibly full, not even loud really, just omnipresent. It was something like the retort of a starter’s pistol. I began to pee all over myself. It was terribly unpleasant. As it turned out, the damage to my kidneys had already been done. It was not the sort of end to my life I’d ever envisioned, but at least I was a shoo-in for the Darwin Awards.
Rebirth?
I must admit, the prospect of a revived group blog greatly excites me. I have a certain fondness for them, even if they can sometimes be little more than dark and foul passageways for our politically incorrect ideas to scurry through and thrive. Having an audience you can be completely unrestrained with has been satisfying, ever since my forays with a certain fellow philosophe at Grainger.
I must also confess that my writing is not as sharp as it once was: two years of only writing last-minute essays on mundane drivel was enough to do in my muse. Hopefully by applying myself to createmore gay baby episodes new and fascinating short short stories I can bring her back.
Another thing that recently came to mind (see "Ready to Rock'n'Pre-Enroll," "Valedictorian of the Year" from HB): I find that I am still not over my graduation speech. I had a chance there and I think I really squandered it. Recently my mom approached me with the task of somehow getting the video of the entire ceremony to my grandparents (who don't speak english, so I'm not sure what they would think), and I popped the dvd in. I couldn't bring myself to watch my own speech. The video segment was fun to watch again, but every time I imagine the time I spent up at that podium I cringe. What was I thinking? Even with the encouragement I received from my peers I didn't even bring something halfway congratulatory or critical together. It was injected with a false sentimentalism that reeked of self-doubt. And to think, when I was called up, applause erupted from the front rows.
It sounds like I'm clinging onto something really old and forgotten, I know. It's just unsettling. I know we've taken shots at Henry's, spelling bee yada yada... I wonder what's been said about mine outside of our circle. The fact that I need wonder at all reinforces most of the things I should have been talking about, but I digress. Did people just let that shit slide? I know Mr. Rayburn basically made up for it, but honestly. I feel as if in your shoes I would have at least dealt me some criticism for it, even if I wasn't in the Posse. Are they all that polite, so as to conceal their disdain?
I'm cutting that shit right there. I've said too much about it already. Long segment short, it's another reason I'd like our blogging tradition to stay alive.
All that said, I don't have any good ideas for a name. "Horse Bordello 2: The Final Black Stallion Chapter" briefly came to mind, but it passed. I'm not sure derivatives of our previous handle would pass muster.
How about "Horse Bordello: Equine Hostel-ities?"
I must also confess that my writing is not as sharp as it once was: two years of only writing last-minute essays on mundane drivel was enough to do in my muse. Hopefully by applying myself to create
Another thing that recently came to mind (see "Ready to Rock'n'Pre-Enroll," "Valedictorian of the Year" from HB): I find that I am still not over my graduation speech. I had a chance there and I think I really squandered it. Recently my mom approached me with the task of somehow getting the video of the entire ceremony to my grandparents (who don't speak english, so I'm not sure what they would think), and I popped the dvd in. I couldn't bring myself to watch my own speech. The video segment was fun to watch again, but every time I imagine the time I spent up at that podium I cringe. What was I thinking? Even with the encouragement I received from my peers I didn't even bring something halfway congratulatory or critical together. It was injected with a false sentimentalism that reeked of self-doubt. And to think, when I was called up, applause erupted from the front rows.
It sounds like I'm clinging onto something really old and forgotten, I know. It's just unsettling. I know we've taken shots at Henry's, spelling bee yada yada... I wonder what's been said about mine outside of our circle. The fact that I need wonder at all reinforces most of the things I should have been talking about, but I digress. Did people just let that shit slide? I know Mr. Rayburn basically made up for it, but honestly. I feel as if in your shoes I would have at least dealt me some criticism for it, even if I wasn't in the Posse. Are they all that polite, so as to conceal their disdain?
I'm cutting that shit right there. I've said too much about it already. Long segment short, it's another reason I'd like our blogging tradition to stay alive.
All that said, I don't have any good ideas for a name. "Horse Bordello 2: The Final Black Stallion Chapter" briefly came to mind, but it passed. I'm not sure derivatives of our previous handle would pass muster.
How about "Horse Bordello: Equine Hostel-ities?"
Salutations
Greetings and welcome to the founding of Further Investigation, a tentatively named collaborative blog christened by the unqualified without help from the uninterested. After Horse Bordello cooled and shrank like a used-up star, I felt that we needed a new blog to maintain our cross-country connections to one-another and also to further improve our skills as writers, being the sole profession I believe myself fit for despite, again, my complete lack of qualification.
The founding of this blog with a likely soon- and possibly perpetually-to-changed name represents the genesis of a new and burgeoning star that threatens to engulf whole planets in its clumsy optimism. When I reviewed Horse Bordello, a blog that started practically as an accident, I was surprised and completely impressed with what we'd pulled off. Since its collapse I have started two blogs, one of which nobody ever knew about and the second nobody ever read. The latter also contains maybe ten unfinished posts that never survived until delivery. But I have always wanted to start a real blog up again, and working together again will push us to write and to experiment. Plenty of you have agreed with me and hopefully are reading this right now, maybe waiting for the pay-off. There is none.
This post really is nothing more than the preface to a dubious renaissance of strange premises, beautiful executions, and dirty jokes. Before this I began yet another unposted post, this time a planned warm-up that I would then leave unpublished but on the blog for a frank under-the-hood view of my writing style, in case it helped somehow. After finishing and reviewing it I was about to immediately destroy it, but I decided to leave it anyway as a putrid warning to the unwise. You will find it under Edit Posts. Nod solemnly, and pass on by.
That said, I will be taking suggestions for new titles for the blog if so desired. The description will also be changed on occasion. In the meantime, post shit. The blog has no purpose and, thus, infinite value. No submission will be in any way denied, from fictional accounts of the reading habits of jellyfish to a free-form poem describing the writer's bowl movement(s). In fact, I know that a certain contributor already has upwards of three years' worth of the latter. Get to it!
The founding of this blog with a likely soon- and possibly perpetually-to-changed name represents the genesis of a new and burgeoning star that threatens to engulf whole planets in its clumsy optimism. When I reviewed Horse Bordello, a blog that started practically as an accident, I was surprised and completely impressed with what we'd pulled off. Since its collapse I have started two blogs, one of which nobody ever knew about and the second nobody ever read. The latter also contains maybe ten unfinished posts that never survived until delivery. But I have always wanted to start a real blog up again, and working together again will push us to write and to experiment. Plenty of you have agreed with me and hopefully are reading this right now, maybe waiting for the pay-off. There is none.
This post really is nothing more than the preface to a dubious renaissance of strange premises, beautiful executions, and dirty jokes. Before this I began yet another unposted post, this time a planned warm-up that I would then leave unpublished but on the blog for a frank under-the-hood view of my writing style, in case it helped somehow. After finishing and reviewing it I was about to immediately destroy it, but I decided to leave it anyway as a putrid warning to the unwise. You will find it under Edit Posts. Nod solemnly, and pass on by.
That said, I will be taking suggestions for new titles for the blog if so desired. The description will also be changed on occasion. In the meantime, post shit. The blog has no purpose and, thus, infinite value. No submission will be in any way denied, from fictional accounts of the reading habits of jellyfish to a free-form poem describing the writer's bowl movement(s). In fact, I know that a certain contributor already has upwards of three years' worth of the latter. Get to it!
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