Living The Dream

As is so typical of these things, we don't know whom to credit the original idea to. But the sheer genius of the idea is sufficient to overwhelm such extraneous details. This idea, like that of the Bulgarian Ass-Inhabiting Hermit Crab, was conceived late one night when my brother and I where driven by our boredom into a strangely euphoric delirium. It had all the trappings, the bizarre comical quality and the existential luster of reckless abandon. Aye, we dreamt of a legion of macho dudes who fit the description of : "ruggedly handsome, balls-to-the-wall genius, all around bad-ass, no-bullshit tough-guys." Every man would be required to train in the art of cowboy-rules no-limit beat-down. We would call each other by our assumed names, names like El Diablo, Buffalo Ted, Ape-Shit Ben-John, Rancid Donkey, Phoenix, and the like. Combat boots and leather chaps, spiked chokers and wrist bands, matte-black spray-painted football shoulder-pads with long spikes, an abundance of dark eye-makeup and chipped ebony nail-polish. We would be the thunder inside a riotous cloud of cigar smoke and maniacal shrieking laughter. The kinds of guys who will cold-cock each other just to see fresh blood. The kinds of guys who will go into a bar and fight each other to the last man if they can't provoke anyone else. The kinds of guys who will break a cue-stick over somebody's head and scream: "This ain't pony-camp anymore! We're going for the throat now, mo#her f$%kers!!!!!" Like a schizo Kiss cover-band who watched Mad Max one-too-many times.

TO BE CONTINUED...

This bellicose band of hellions would meet once or twice a week in the slumbering suburban sprawl of middle-class America, arriving on miniature motorcycles the size of small terriers, their long gangly legs bent double as they cram their slouching frames onto the tiny bikes. They would look like bullfrogs riding on fleas. The little weed-eater engines that propel the bikes would sputter and scream at each other as the hooligans wailed upon one another with baseball bats, clubs, maces, and other unwieldy blunt objects. They would race down the paved nature trails and jogging paths and through the parks, sending soccer-moms scurrying for cover with their wide-eyed offspring in tow. Children, huddling in the bushes with their mothers, would hear strange words and phrases emanating from the raucous tangle of mayhem and would later be prompted to ask profound questions at the dinner table. Questions like: "Mom, what's a felch-pump?" or "Mom, what's a f%&ker?" The grim-faced mother's would stare blankly into space like busts of the blessed virgin and they would pause indefinitely before mumbling things like: "Shut up, Charley, and eat your broccoli or the scary men will get you...don't you think that broccoli sounds like an Italian word?"

TO BE CONTINUED...

Your Attention Please.

Last night, I dreamt that I was attending a big banquet and I had to urinate and the only toilet was up on a stage in front of everyone. I had no choice. And I was emboldened by my indignation at the facility's sparse accommodations. So I unzipped my pants, pulled out my pecker, and laid down on the toilet bowl so that I was slumped across it like an unconscious prisoner thrown over the back of a horse. I then stared peevishly at the crowd as I relieved myself. The clatter of crystal stemware and the din of conversation waned, everyone smiled politely in the gentle sepia glow of chandelier light and looked on attentively as if I were delivering a brief speech or making an announcement. With my cheek smashed against the floor of the stage, I looked at them, rolled my eyes, and said: "Christ! Can't a fellow have any privacy?!"

So It Would Seem.

This morning, while on the way to work, I had this interesting thought. That is: Life is what passes you by as you wait for your situation to improve and death is what happens before it does. Life is measured in pay periods and shortened by tax seasons. Those who know and accept this are what we call "adults." Those who refuse to believe it and can't handle it are put on medication. I'm riding the fence at this point and it's a pain in the ass as you might expect.

And as I was careening through traffic in my little red slice of mid-life crisis, I noticed one of those late model pastel-blue convertible VW bugs. And I was wrenched from my meloncholic stupor by the promise of seeing something beautiful. The movie, The Girl Next Door, forever altered my perception of the little cars. After that, I would see a late model bug and I'd pull along side, expecting warm vivacious flesh with bouncing golden and yellow tresses, big sparkling innocent eyes with a dash of sultriness. In short, I came to expect Elisha Cuthbert behind the wheel of every bug that I passed. And, indeed, I was never disappointed. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, all breathtaking despite the initial and brief disappointment of not seeing Elisha at the wheel. But breathtaking nonetheless and a pleasure to behold. Anymore, the only people driving bugs are old women and gay men. And you cannot imagine how depressing this is for me. And I grieve because I know that I'll die before this changes. Entropy dictates that everything will just get shittier and shittier and if you don't believe it, take a good look in the mirror, or at your account balance, or just go pass a VW bug on the highway.