A Car with Horse Power

"Horsepower" has been an enduring term in vehicle conversations since the early 1800's but for the advances made in this new age it is a painfully out dated term. It may have been appropriate when carriages were drawn by horses and an automobile of that era possibly matched their speeds.

Currently, however, any number of horses you acquire cannot possibly match the switfness of your 21st century automobile. Imagine if you will, a vehicle that boasts of it's 200 mile per hour top speed, and imagine the 400 horsepower literally.

The power of 400 horses would certainly not be able to carry you at this speed. Should your vehicle reach this speed, you would have 400 dead horses dragging behind you. And with that sort of (literal) dead weight, you likely would not be reaching speeds of 200 miles per hour. In my experience, anything more than 5 dead horses is a pretty efficient anchor.

It is with this information in mind that I suggest the typical measurement of "horsepower" be replaced with a new unit of "rocket power" or "robot power". We are living in the 21st century after all, why shouldn't we drive vehicles with engine strengths that truly describe our advancement in the mechanical field.

Besides, imagine how much easier it will be when you pick up your date while mentioning your 300
rocketpower engine. Romantic outings or not, I'm sure I would scream this information from my car window at stop lights. No one could stop me or my 300 rocketpower engine...

An Embarrassing Collection of Adult Films

 When I came of the year 17 I learned that I was of the appropriate age to buy and rent NC-17 films from the neighborhood film rental establishment. The building was closing out of business, and recognizing this could be my last chance, I bought several films from their discount adult section.

Upon arriving home with my stash I took a moment to read through the descriptions on the backs of these films. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting. Perhaps I believed that my age would open a gateway to a new world of filmography that would open my mind, expand my thoughts and excite me on primal levels.

Instead, I found that this neighborhood film establishment was a family friendly business and had a very different understanding of adult entertainment than what I had been lead to believe.

Billy Elliot – I collected this film after a brief glance at the name. I have heard of both the esteemed auto-racer Bill Elliot as well as the rock musician Bill Elliot and I was certain this film, in the adult section, would have some form of explosions or terrific death. Instead it had dancing. Billy Elliot is the story of a young boy who wished to become a ballerina.

 He and I shared the same expression...

Cowboys & Angels – Yet another title that pulled me in only to surprise me when the film featured neither cowboys nor angels, at least, not in a literal sense. The film takes place in Ireland, a straight man and a homosexual man begin living with each other. Things become "complicated" when the straight mate begins dealing drugs for the money to impress his room mate.

The homosexual fellow engages in unwilling coitus with a Lesbian and the "heterosexual" fellow above receives fellatio from a homosexual drug dealer. We learn that the moral of the story is that whatever it is you want in life, you actually want a partner with a penis.

Wilde – This film pertains in no way to the Wild West or the dirty scoundrels that once ruled that frontier, or the ruthless men in polished coats that used sharp pens and minds to claim the land and rule with their money. The lead himself is not a wild man either in any way, flamboyant perhaps, but indeed not wild. This story follows the literary artist Oscar Wilde and his homosexual affair which leads to his imprisonment and exile making this undoubtedly the most depressing and the most homosexual of the films I picked up.

 There was a lot of these tender bits going on, and I do believe I have never seen Jude Law so convincingly homosexual. Even in his role as Doctor John Watson in the latest Sherlock film... Hold on, Stephen Fry (Oscar Wilde) portrayed Mycroft holmes in that film, did he not? Is this screen capture above from Wilde or Sherlock? Oh perhaps it's neither and this is an intimate glimpse of these actors from behind the scenes.

I should stop here, as it is commonly believed that if someone makes the same mistake 3 times, it is likely not a mistake. It is best that you believe the peculiar films of my collection ends with this. 

Needless to say, these films still sit on my shelf, if for no reason other than my own stubborn nature. They are trophies of my 17^th year and my freedom to purchase whichever films I desire! But it is difficult to explain that reasoning while sounding honest, when a mate pulls the film from the shelf and sends me a questioning look.

Legalized/Mandatory Gay Marriage

The marriage of homosexuals has recently become legal in four additional states of America. Washington, Main, Maryland and Minnesota have all passed the bill and though I’m sure there was much support, the ones responding the loudest were the hundreds of citizens labeled ‘homophobes’ on twitter.

Here are the prime examples of the digital generation expressing distaste:

Sir "Stress and Rage" is a modern man of morals and values disheartened by his brother's disgraces.


Mister Omar knows what it is like to be an unappreciated minority. He is a middle-easterner and a straight man in a country where only gay whites are valued.

Poor Shelby found sanctuary in a state that would allow her to marry her first cousin. She is not about to let that be tarnished by homosexuals being wed.

I am concerned now that the public has become misinformed. Due to the sheer volume of resistance and resentment in these messages one can only theorize that this stems from confusion. I worry that these 'defenders of integrity' have fallen under the false impression that homosexual marriage has become mandatory.

The people may have come to understand that in Maine, Maryland, Minnesota and Washington it is not mandatory to be homosexual and to be married to a person of the same sex. I admit, if such a bill had been passed that ordered everyone to pair up with their unfavored gender and express common stereotypes, perhaps I too would be concerned and cautious.

"They might not seem like much one at a time, but in a group, all riled up and hungry? Man you watch your ass."
-Morgan, The Walking Dead, Regarding Gays
(or zombies?)

To be fair, it is difficult to appreciate any sexuality's public displays of affection when social ignorance has lead to a life of celibacy.

 Regardless of the twitter-opinions of these obviously very (un)informed individuals, gay marriage is legal in four additional states this year and there is no sign of a reprieve. As the acceptance of homosexuality continues to gain a foothold in America, these people have limited choices.

They can learn to be tolerant and only hate (be annoyed by) homosexuals that are out of the closet.

Only holding bias against homosexuals that he can identify as homosexuals must have sounded like a far more generous compromise in his mind.

Alternatively, they can fight back by investigating the source of homosexuality that scientists have been seeking for years. The question as to whether it is in our genes or in our upbringing remained a mystery until the young up and coming Sir DrugLane discovered the source of homosexuality.

Whether you identified as homosexual or not your familure to "re-tweet" this post has made you susceptible to homosexuality, inform your partners and have them tested immediately.

With the source of homosexuality discovered, they can now seek the cure. Miss Haley (a.k.a. hugs and kisses²) suggests to cure men from literally "loving your fellow man" by means of excessive violence.

Homophobics of America cut spending in the "logic" department and hoped unemployed mothers would figure out a cure.

These people will likely forget their cause soon and go back to their lives with little more resistance than a sulky countenance. However, with 20% of the "United" States supporting homosexual marriage and 80% of the states yet to be claimed by the gay agenda, there will undoubtedly be many more of these short lived and sour uprisings of the uninformed.

To those concerned about how to these rights may affect your life and marriage simply remember, gay marriage is now legal, not mandatory.

Tolerating the Vegetarian

I have decided to teach my people  to grant more tolerance towards vegetarians. With the New Year around the corner I use this time of the year to gather up spare particles of patience and tolerance that I have not yet bestowed on unfavorable people and I decide which group to give it to.

Last year, I taught my people to be tolerant of girl scouts. This year, I learn to be tolerant of vegetarians.

In the past, vegetarians have been seen as incompetent hunters, poor cooks, unskilled butchers and generally unfortunate people that burden those around them.

It is important to consider, however, similar behaviors in other situations. When a person declines to take part in the consumption of alcohol and donated their share to the participants around them, they are regarded as the party martyr who stands alone in his quest for sobriety so his friends may savor the liquor of Dionysus.

Equally, when one is indulging in pleasures of the flesh, the friend that does not participate and instead gives wide birth for more assertive comrades to flaunt and attract mates, this friend is heralded as a grand ‘wing man’ that generously grants others the spoils of youth and attraction.

Finally, the vegetarian should be regarded in this way. As noble as the sober chauffer and as valiant as the sexless wingman, the vegetarian sacrifices his own enjoyment of life to let you enjoy all of the steaks roasted at your seasonal barbeque festivities.

Admittedly, the vegetarian is still the party pooper that his social relatives are. Just as the sober chauffer chides you for relieving yourself in an intersection from the window of his vehicle, and just as the sexless wingman complains belatedly about his role as the celibate comrade, the vegetarian too will drag on your festivities.

The vegetarian is likely to try to make his role in life look enjoyable and encourage you to convert under the knowledge that misery loves company. He may express this encouragement by bringing salad to your barbeque. Luckily the vegetarian is also weak and can be safely stored in a pantry until the party is ready for his antics again.

You have come to understand by now, that is will be difficult to enjoy the company of the vegetarian, but such affection is unnecessary anyhow. The fact that the vegetarian will not finish off your steak while you are savoring its succulent flavors is reason enough to tolerate the vegetarian.

And now, if I have had any success at all, I have taught my people how to be tolerant of the vegetarian.

The Screaming Violin

My mate and I had a good deal of time on our hands when we discovered a violin amidst the moving boxes. The bow was falling apart and needed to be restrung, and the strings as well were showing the signs of neglect and needed replacement.

Generally I am advised that showing your appreciation for a musical instrument by touching the strings is like showing your appreciation for a person by touching their eyes. However in this case, little could be done to damage the strings any worse so I was permitted to play with them as I saw fit.

I soon orchestrated a game between myself and my mate. At various hours when it was least expected, I would take up the violin and bow and find a clever place to hide. And then I would play...

I would saw passionately at the violin. The old strings would obey me as best as they could but they could emit nothing more melodious than a piercing and consistent scream. And so the violin did scream and the voice tore through the house and reached my mate through whatever distraction took priority earlier.

My mate would be forced to come and seek me out and come closer to the scream of the violin to find where I hid. I had a few favorite places, behind the coat rack, inside the shower, behind the door, under the bed, and so on.

I would gleefully continue playing until pulled from my hiding spot and relieved of my instrument. The game was great fun and it made me smile to hear the pitter-patter of a tortured soul running through the house in search of the violin.

The game came to an abrupt end the day my mate took the violin, returned it to it's case and locked it shut with a key. I've recently been looking at violins available to me to purchase and I'm considering reintroducing this little game.

Knight Rights

I have been encouraged to read the debates on the civil rights of homosexuals while replacing the word "gays" with my own name. This is to remind that gays are people and the arguments are made on how these people live their lives.

This challenge was meant to be moving and emotional. But as I read the list I could only consider it incredibly fitting and humorous at best.

"Knight should not be allowed to marry."
In the adult world of exclusive clubs that only allow two members (possibly 5 if you are Mormon), Knight is not allowed to participate. I can only visualize wedding limousines driving away with streamers and cans on string, with a sign in the back window that says "No Knights Allowed".

"Knight would not be a good parent."
If you wish to disagree with this, review my journals once more and consider these adventures with a young child clutching my hand. I have no doubt the child I raise would be happy, it is in fact society that would suffer if I spawned and raised a member of the next generation to follow in my footsteps.

"Knight can only raise more Knights."
Procreation is easily confused with spawning and direct cloning, from the government's perspective.

"Knight does not love, it is only lust."
How mysterious and brooding does this make me sound? And I appreciate that the debate made sure to mention that I still have sexual needs, my lack of love does not mean I am off the market, only that I am hard to get. Ladies.

"If Knight can marry, we should just let people marry animals."
I am almost completely certain this debate implies I am a tiger. Watch out, Ladies.

"Knight is what is wrong with this country."
We took a sharp turn from describing Knight as a brooding and mysterious sex tiger to declaring me as the singular flaw that makes this country wrong. Perhaps the compliment is hidden in the fact Knight is apparently very influential to have such impact.

"Knight is what is destroying the Western World."

I'm concerned that Congress is merely attempting to seduce me with such compliments overestimating my power and strength. Congress is writing a check that I cannot cash. How can one read "Knight, Destroyer of Worlds" and picture me bringing a country to its knees when I can barely do the same for my crush? This debate is certainly expecting more than what I can live up to.

"Knight is what destroyed the Roman Empire."
I would at this point declare that the debate has greatly overestimated the limitations of my power, but this could be based loosely on a fact. I am fairly certain I reduced a  Roman city's thriving population to 3 prostitutes and 4 donkeys while editing an article on Wikipedia one evening.

"Being Knight is a choice."
Indubitably the best choice I have ever made.


This is the most fun I have had with politics in a long time. It is wondrous that Mad Lib politics has not yet been created. So I shall consider it my duty to bring you additional articles of interest, with words replaced with more interesting words. However, firstly, I have a Ming Dynasty to destroy in the name of Knight.

Try to understand. It is a lifestyle.

Spontaneous Exercise

As a word of caution, impromptu workouts can happen at any time. This is the excuse I manifested when I found myself in a surprise session of exercise.

I was strolling through a pleasant and attractive museum with vaulted ceilings reminiscent of Villa Dei Papiri of Herculaneum (Italy) when the most attractive of sculptures caught my eye. My jaw hung slacked and I rushed forward to absorb the vision but in my hasty steps I failed to notice the rise of the threshold.

My foot caught the threshold and the foot following caught my heel and I fell in a long swoop towards the floor. I landed with a loud enough smack to gain the attention of those already admiring the statue that had beckoned me forth, worse yet, my companion had noticed my folly.

I did the very first thing I could think of and placed my hands beneath my chest and began to push myself up, then lower myself again, and repeat this in rapid succession.

My comrade cries in shock, "Are you alright?"

I answer as if the voice of alarm was entirely unnecessary, "I'm quite well, thank you."

"What are you doing?" I was demanded.

I reply just as casually the second time, "Push ups" "Why!?" I am interrupted before i can say anything more.

There has to be a reasonable cause for impromptu work-outs? I state, "Why... I saw the stunning vision of this statue and realized that I must begin to tone my body immediately if I wish to resemble such form of a marble deity!"

My comrade helped me to my feet and I cleverly followed up, "Alright, that is enough push ups for now, but I will require a recess later to complete my routine with squats." Obviously my clever ruse could not have raised any distrust in my word. My folly could be seen as nothing other than sincere enthusiasm for exercise.


In fact, on some level it pains me to retell this event to the reader as otherwise there would have likely been no assumption that I was anything less than entirely honest when I excused my misstep.

The Airport Security

My confident gait carried me through an empty air port and down long empty aisles. Aside from security, the only people at the air port were couples that clung to one another tightly in their final farewells before crossing the gates.

I stared at the affectionate couples and felt as though they magnified the loneliness of my own solitary travel. A security agent summoned me forth to move me through security and I motioned to the coupled locked in a tight embrace.

"I see your terminal provides complementary good bye hugs. Where can I receive mine?" I ask. The agent regards me with surprise and I query, "Here? With you?"

She quickly answers, "No." and she moves me along.

The agent beside the security check points declares as though accepting a challenge, "I will hug you." I look upon this agent with surprise. He states, "You weren't expecting someone to call your bluff, were you?"

I promptly dropped my luggage on the belt and spread my arms to accept his hug. Without a moment's hesitation he turned and walked away...

Though I was mildly insulted to be rejected by a security agent, I try not to take it too personally. It is possible that he was aware of my adventure with air port security and a penis in a jar. He could have known his best option was to turn and leave.

I never did receive my goodbye hug, but another security agents awarded me with a hand five when I passed through without setting off a single alarm (a considerable achievement, considering myself).

You Should Know Mister Stalker

There was a woman I once had a fondness for. To express my appreciation I dedicated myself to learning every detail it was possible to learn about her.  Our courting held more likeness to an interview than to a date.

I asked, innocently enough, "What is your favorite song?"

She answered, "You should know Mister Stalker."

I'd never heard of this song but it sounded interesting. It sounded like an ominous warning depending on the inflection and tone. "You Should Know Mister Stalker". I anticipated what the song could be about.

My imagination lead me to believe the song was informing the listener of a fellow known as Mister Stalker. It seemed they advised you should be familiar with his tricks and his intentions. Obviously, Mister Stalker was a very interesting person... but someone to be cautious of.

I searched for the song but there was no word of it existing in English or any other language we conversed in. Finally I returned to this woman and in exasperation I admitted "I never found the song."

She questioned "Which song?"

I answered, "You Should Know Mister Stalker."

At this point she laughs and clarifies for me that she had not given me the name of a song. She was calling me Mister Stalker, and considering my thoroughness in learning about her, she teased that I should already know what her favorite song was.

I learned a valuable lesson that day.

1. I am Mister Stalker.
2. You should know Mister Stalker.

Another Almost Ghost

I encountered an almost ghost recently while residing a small distance from Tombstone, an infamous Ghost Town of Tuscon Arizona.

I had not visited the Ghost Town, plenty enough cow boys died in this vapid desert around Tombstone to make the vast flat land a grave in and of itself. But considering I was in Tuscon for business unrelated to ghosts, ghosts were the very last thing on my mind... until night fell.  As I lay in a bed, staring up into darkness, I heard a faint metallic clicking.

click click click click click click

I held my breath and listened closely. The subtle ring of metal with each click made a very specific sound. Spurs, sharp metal spurs that quietly rang after clicking with each foot step.

click click click click click click

It was easier to hear now as the foot steps drew nearer. I gripped my bed sheets and my eyes searched the darkened windows, waiting for the shadow of a fallen man to eclipse my view of the sky. My lungs were burning as I held my breath. A chilled breeze penetrated the hot desert air.

click click click click click click

The clicking became faint, and it left. I breathed a sigh of relief and I forced myself to envision a local cowboy that was simply passing through on his way to a motel after a night of pensive drinking. We were safe, there was no reason to fear the locals.

But after some minutes of silence, I heard that sound again...

click click click click click click

I whispered to my friend, "Do you hear that?" He did not say a word and I shakily admitted, "I think there is the ghost of a cow boy walking around. I hear the spurs, but I cannot see anyone."

My friend assured sleepily, "If there is a ghost it won't want anything to do with us. We have not done anything to upset him." This was easy for him to say.  How did he know I had not done anything to upset the ghost?

It had been a long road that I traveled to Tuscon upon, and I had been required to stop and relieve myself on the side of the road at least once. Pray tell, what if I had unknowingly urinated on this un-known cowboy's final resting place?

click click click click click click 

I fall silent, the foot steps were drawing near again. I hold my breath and wait.

click click click click click click

The same as they had the previous time, the foot steps fade into silence as the apparition passes by. I'm quite certain I cannot endure an entire night of this pacing spirit. Even if I do not always subscribe to believing in Ghosts, the sound was audible and immediate, making it very hard to ignore.

click click click click click click

When I heard the clicking once more I could no longer be still. I slid out of bed and began crawling across the floor in search of a sufficient place to hide. I blindly pawed my way around the room, head-butting into a chair and dresser as I turned in circles, perhaps in a clever attempt to hide from the approaching spirit.

I turned around after head-butting the wall and continued crawling, becoming more frantic as the clicking spurs grew louder. Finally I stopped when I realized with dread that the spurs were clicking over my head.

It didn't take me long to consider the absurdity of this. A vengeful cow-boy ghost with spurs was one matter, but a floating cow-boy ghost with spurs was another matter entirely. I cautiously looked up and found that overhead there were two metal tassels gently swinging under the fan. Their rotations brought them together and further apart intermittently causing varying volumes of clicks that followed a consistent pattern like a metronome.

To be certain, I stood up and took the tassels in hand and I was relieved to hear the clicking stop. I pulled on them both several times, turning the ceiling light and fan on and off in rapid repetition as I mused over how silly I had been.

"Knight! Go to bed!" My friend abruptly interrupted by investigation of the ceiling light. I quickly turned the light off again and returned to my bed with the satisfaction that I had survived yet another almost ghost encounter.

Even better, my only injuries from this almost encounter was some minor bruising from head-butting furniture in the dark during my attempts to hide.

Sissy

On a merry night in spring my company and comrades gathered close and minstrel played a friendly tune. To the song I regaled a musical tale calling one of the men present a sissy. I did not know the man particularly well, but that was no reason for me to not include him in a song that teased the others in our company.

I called him a sissy with the assumption that he would laugh at the accusation as confidently as the other men laughed at the jabs directed towards them. Instead he got very huffy, voiced that someone should stop me, and stormed off to give us all the quiet treatment.

My twin, Dame, pointed out, "You cannot go be a sissy in response to being called a sissy. That is not how you prove them wrong. That would be like telling a fellow he has a bad temper and he replies "No I don't!" as he punches you."

Coincidentally, he punched my twin the next day when she failed to notice he was making angry eyes at her.

Plans to write the song "Sissy, The Woman Beater" have not yet been made. In fact, quite the opposite, I've been asked not to write any more songs about Sissy. Actually, I've been asked not to call him a sissy.



.... sissy.
[They will never keep me down.]

Rock Dive

On a bright and sun filled summer day on the vast and placid Lake Mead many years ago, I could be found rapidly sinking to the bottom of the body of water, carried down by the substantial weight of many rocks.

Prior to sinking into the cold depths I had been admiring the rocks decorating the shores of the lake. I leaped from my boat to swim ashore and spend the sunny afternoon collecting rocks.

I gathered the smoothest and most colorful red and white rocks by putting them into my child-sized wetsuit. I was limited on how many rocks I could carry against my body but I was determined to pack the wetsuit with as many rocks as possible so I could share with others the treasure I'd collected.

It took some time until I was satisfied with my collection and content with returning to the boat. I stepped carefully along the shore and out onto the rocky peninsula to get as close to the boat as possible before having to make the swim.

I waved to my family that sat merrily upon the aquatic vessel and I leaped forward from the rocks into the water and began swimming.

The swimming was immediately followed by sinking. My substantial collection of attractive rocks would be my great downfall as I fought to return to the surface in a futile effort to overpower the weight dragging me down.

Finally my greed gave way to my desire to not drown for some rocks. I opened my wetsuit and let the rocks pour into the depths of the lake, allowing me to return to the surface. By the time I returned to my boat I had regrettably lost the majority of my treasure.

The few rocks remaining had settled into the lap of my wetsuit and were forgotten soon enough anyhow. My attention refocused on a photograph my parents were requesting, of me standing on the bow of the boat...

The picture, that my parents still have on display in the den, is pleasant enough if not for the rocks jutting from my wetsuit, granting the appearance of a set of balls and a horrific shaft that no child of 8 years old should be entitled to.

Admittedly much worse is that my parents insist there were no rocks within my swimming attire and that I simply had not yet grown into my (evidently disproportionately monstrous) genitals yet.

The Quest for the 'Holy Grail'

After much debating and negotiating a woman hatched a deal with me. I would be granted anything I wanted from her, anything, if I delivered to her a specific book. She told me the name of the book and warned me that I would learn it was exceptionally difficult to find.

With the name of the book in mind I ventured forth towards the nearest book store. The store had never heard of the book, had never held it on their shelves and had no sign of holding it in the future. I take my second choice and embark towards the Library. The library had no traces of the book, no catalog for it, no sign of ever holding the book or ever intending on having the book.

Rather annoyed with this turn of events, I returned home in defeat and dedicated time to research. The book featured an ominous cover and ominous title, muted colors depicted an image in textures and styles appropriate for the time it was made.

It was a lewd and scandalous novel, the cover made a subtle promise that tickled my curiosity. Unfortunately, the book had been out of print for over 40 years.

I refused to allow this turn of events to stop me, I would seek out the book, I would find it and I would present it to this woman in exchange for my prize. I searched for wherever the book could be hiding, I investigated online and in person.

Over the course of a year I'd poke my attention through various stores and antique locations, online and offline, always in search of the book and always returning empty handed. Friends who presented themselves to me a sleuths would be met with a challenge to find this book, and despite their earnest efforts, they would come away empty handed.

The book had become such a challenge, simply collecting my prize would no longer be enough. As soon as the book was within my hands I would greedily devour the book and read it from first word to last. The book that had remained hidden from the public world for so long would be a unique chapter of knowledge that I and few others possess.

The quest for the book would continue for four long years. Over this course of time I came into the acquaintance of a young Russian who soon became my friend. The Russian casually mentioned, "Between my friend and I, nearly the world is at our fingertips."

I carefully breached the topic, hopeful, but not expectant of success, "There is a book I've been looking for." I told myself that perhaps the Russian would have access to sources outside the country I had never known of, beyond what my previous comrades could accomplish through our efforts.

"What book?"

I answered, and to my surprise I was rewarded with success. The briefly mentioned friend sent me the book and as my eyes rolled over the cover I questioned the Russian, "Have you read it?"

"It does not interest me" were the final words I heard before I let the pages of the book consume me.

I read the book from the first word to last and finally conquered the goal I had pursued for years now.

 
I thought with bitter resentment on the scarcity of the book and how long it had been out of print. It had taken me till now to realize that perhaps the book was never truly known or recognized is because the book was horrible and poorly thought out.

Few owned the book because few were even willing to buy it. The book ceased to be printed because no profit was being made. I had spent four years now, eagerly hunting this book with assumption I was hunting a thing of worth.

I finally deliver the book to the woman who requested it. Admittedly she was impressed how thoroughly I had completed my quest but she was far less impressed with the book and scarcely skimmed it.


At least my prize made it worth it, God damn it.

Social Skill

On one of the very last days of a year in middle school before being released on summer break I found that I hardly possessed the means necessary to concentrate in class and I excused myself to a leisurely stroll to the restroom.

I traipsed through the door, thinking of how I would spend my summer break and as I opened the door to a stall I made the mistake of glancing into the toilette bowl. Instantly I was stricken with surprise and disgust.

What I saw was offensive enough, but furthermore I insist you must also have this image in your mind. An unraveled, off white condom floats lazily, discoloring the water around it with pigmented streaks of blood along it's sides and coagulated fluids within.

I stumble backwards while my arms turn in wide circles, a windmill like motion to move me away from the scene as quickly as possible. I collide with a  sink and press my back to the wall and then catch the sight of a younger student  just now entering the restroom.

This student is shorter than myself, younger, and riddled with confusion concerning my dramatic display. I would quickly have explained that I was obviously not the weird one here, and warned "There is a horrible bleeding contraceptive device in that toilette!" However there was a clear reason why I could not (a reason beyond my vocabulary not quite being at this level yet).

My parents had made it very clear to me that older students cannot simply tell younger students about these things. It is the duty of sexual education to explain or even name these devices. Clearly, I had to at least ensure this student was of the appropriate age, lest I do the irreversible damage of uttering the word 'condom' to this child.

"How old are you?" I asked, not yet peeling away from the wall.

The student answers "Twelve" with suspicious eyes locked on me, trying to understand the link between whatever I had been doing and my curiosity for ages.

I nod, knowing I was probably in the clear, "Ah, then you've had sex ed..." It was supposed to be the subtle lead in to my next statement which would have been a completely innocent explanation as to how I saw a gruesome contraceptive in the stall I vacated and I had no choice but to dramatically explode across the room.

Instead the awkward words hang in the air during a long and stagnant silence. The tension would be comparable to awkward pick up scenes that I would not experience for many years to come. The student breaks from the scene first, turning into a stall and closing the door on me.

Though I had failed to use the restroom as I intended, I turn and wash my hands in order to make sure the student wouldn't think I was weird for not practicing proper hygiene, and I promptly left. I never crossed paths with that child again, which is likely for the best. I imagine if we met one another at a reunion or some such I would half way try to bring up the situation and explain it until the pure awkward tension ruins my chances at redemption forever.

A Simple Midnight Stroll

Today I am walking a shopping cart from my lawn back to the store it came from. It is my responsibility and it is the shameless result of gruesome media, alcohol, and minor dehydration.

 King arrived in the early evening with the intention of having me inebriated with a selection of alcohol, primarily deep burgundy wine. I provided a plethora of horror films, intent on bringing a horrific flare to the candle lit allure.

The night started off well, intense violence and the gurgling cries of monsters filled our minds as red wine filled our chalices. My wine glass was never empty, King made sure of this. I can only assume that my comrade's intentions were different from my own and by the hour that the final undead film had reached completion, I was effectively drunk.

My body was heavy and I was only vaguely aware of wandering hands on my body- possibly my own hands, I wouldn't put it past myself. Too inebriated to hold a bottle, I realized, "If I am so drunk so soon, I will undoubtedly feel the repercussions by morning." I would do anything to avoid the painful presence of a hangover stabbing within my skull. 

To display how incredibly responsible I was, I went to fetch water from the water jug with the intention that by drinking myself to sobriety I could stave off the possibility of a hang over. Unfortunately, fate left my water jug dry and empty, condemning me to the grips of 'hangovers'.

Of course I realized that not only I relied on this water. The family residing within this abode, all of whom would return tomorrow, would require hydration as well! I granted myself the responsibility of insuring I would provide these needs! Undoubtedly, I would fetch the water, and hopefully avoid a hangover as well.

 "You cannot drive... " King indicated. I had no choice but to agree. I was not entirely sure I could walk, driving in such a state would be gloriously irresponsible, and I, as indicated by water fetching, was a very responsible young person.

My answer was to walk to the market. In the event that I may not be able to walk without toppling forward, I found it advantageous to run, nay, dead sprint, the entirety of the distance to the store. The fresh terror and adrenaline in my system from the horror movies effectively fueled my speed, but my coordination was left entirely to what was left of my mind. Despite my stumbles and falls I arrived at the market without a single scratch... from the hordes of undead I was supposedly fleeing.

Late evening shoppers regarded King and I with concern as we stumbled into the light and collapsed unceremoniously upon the water giving machine. Cautiously, a store keeper watched as we clumsily fed the machine and possibly touched every button in our demands for water. The machine would finally provide our water jug with water... actually with more water than we were expecting.

When the jug began to overflow and the machine showed no signs of stopping I panicked. I refused to waste water because, as everyone knows, water is nearly as valuable as gold in the post apocalypse horror films we viewed.  I caught the water in my palms and drank it greedily from my hands, a difficult feat to accomplish in my advanced state of alcohol influence.

I could compare the citizens observing to be like the extras in a heroic film, gloriously cheering me on in my heroic quest to not waste water. But that would be a lie.

I was putting more water on myself than I was successfully consuming so my plan changed in the way that only drunken logic could. I needed to bathe myself in the surplus of water, and I should help King bath as well. As the continuous stream of water flowed wastefully from the stream, I doused myself with it and beckoned my comrade to do the same as I threw hand fulls of water presumably in King's general direction.

The flow of water finally ceased and we looked upon the hefty water jug with satisfaction... until King pointed out, "We cannot carry that." In my drunken state I'd managed to soak myself while attempting to drink and managed to mostly miss both of our bodies, leaving us surprisingly un-bathed. I was certain I would have little luck in carrying the heavy jug of water back to my dwelling place if it depended on my balance and coordination to arrive safely.

A clever plan was hatched and we absconded from the market with a shopping cart. We tenderly loaded the water jug into our cart and set on our way back home. At home, King and I holed up with the jug of water and bottle of wine and effectively shut ourselves away from the world that the horror films convinced us was lurking with the undead.

All was peaceful until King indicated, "The shopping cart on the lawn is a dead give away you were up to something... We have no choice..."we had to hide it.

King was correct and because the dark and endless night was far to reminiscent of the recently viewed horror movies, we devised a plan that didn't require us to repeat the walk to the store. I ventured into the rainy night with the shopping cart to deposit it on a lawn down the street, safely within a bush and wisely in the direction opposite of the store so that no one would suspect my humble abode.

The next day the plan worked perfectly. The family returned and suspected only that I had enjoyed the summer storm while consuming a pleasant book.

The neighbor, I imagine, was displeased with the shopping cart and deposited it on the lawn of the home beside his. That evening, the new bearer of the shopping cart deposited it on the next lawn, creeping closer to mine. During the course of the subsequent three days, the shopping cart made its way up the street I'd taken it down until it was deposited on my lawn.

At the point that the journey of the cart had returned it to my lawn, the house woman needed no explanation and wisely assumed that it was the result of my general mischief.

She commanded that I return the shopping cart to the market from whence it came and I reluctantly agreed to do so, bringing me to where I am now: courting a shopping cart through the streets, prepared to defend my basket from any homeless fellows wishing to commandeer it and doing a much better job of this now that I am sober.

(Dis)Agreement

I agreed with a person once... and perhaps I should have learned my lesson to neither agree or disagree with people making statements.

 "I'm fat." a woman beside me at a train stop declares.

I glance her way, she is a stranger but she seems very open to sharing her body self-consciousness. Regardless of her mass, I was in no mood for unpleasant conversations this morning so stated "I agree." and left it at that.

The woman regards me with surprise and declares her height and weight to me. I was in no mood for unpleasant conversations and I had even less patience for calculating whether or not this was an acceptable weight range for her age and height. Because she had already labeled this height and weight ratio as fat, I find it easiest to agree with her again. I advise, "Perhaps you should aspire to weigh less, for that height." and I return my attention to my papers.

She took a different approach at the conversation and informed me of her friends. "Out of all my friends, I weigh the least. I wear the smallest sizes of us all."

I am as interested in learning about her friends as I was interested in her weight or her weak self esteem. I'm surprised she hasn't left to find a willing participant in this one sided discussion, but I kindly suggest, "You might be fat because your larger friends are encouraging gluttonous eating habits."

The stranger proceeds to prattle onward with more information about herself, informing me of her eating habits next, "I only eat one plate of food a day as it is!"

I begin to fear that this insufferable conversation will not end until she has been satisfied in telling me everything about herself that I hadn't cared to know. Ever the kind stranger, I offer a helpful word of advice and hope that she will be satisfied, "Perhaps you should invest in smaller plates, rather than fewer plates."

Infuriated by my 'agreeable' nature, she promptly stands, calls me a plethora of colorful words, and vacates the bench we sat on. She stomps down the walk way and paces between poles until the train came.

I am happy for her, even small amounts of physical activity, such as that, will help her control her weight, then she wont need to call herself fat.

But from this point forth, I believe I will handle such interruptions differently.

How could this possibly go wrong?

Deal With The Devil

I wont attempt to confirm or deny the existence of demons or devils, because that is not what this story is about. This story is merely about hatching deals with one.

 Because when has the media ever reported something incorrectly? 

I once asked a demon if I may have control over him. He declined. I asked what I may trade for control over him and he replied 100 souls. I made a list and I began on a quest where I asked for people souls.

I did not disguise the deal as something special, I simply asked people that crossed my path if they would be willing to give me their soul, and I would have them sign. I received various responses.

Some people pressed their lips tightly shut and hurried away. Some people asked me what I would give them in return for their soul. I answered that I wouldn't give them anything in return, they could simply give me their soul or not, the choice was theirs. Some refused, claiming to require some sort of sexual or monetary favor in return, and some did not care and signed my list. A few people were perhaps not listening or had very little to look forward to in life and signed my list without question.

At the end of my efforts, I had acquired the signatures of 98 people agreeing to give me their souls. The dream died when I was politely asked not to solicit the souls of strangers.

Security persons escorted me off the property. I informed them that they too could share the opportunity of signing their souls over to me, and regrettably they refused to surrender their souls at this time or at any point in the future.

I still have the list in my possession, and I anticipate some day I will finish that list and hand over the 100 consenting soul donators, at which point I will likely request something trivial in return from this demon.

My only limit is my own imagination! I eagerly anticipate a day when I can open a conversation with the following line, "A young hipster, a demon, a homosexual and I were attending the County Fair. The humans attended due to their own free will, but the demon attended because he belongs to me now. Then, the most peculiar event occurred... "

Perhaps the dream is not dead after all... Soul donations are currently being accepted.

Clean 'Ass' A Whistle

A friend of mine was once courting a person who could one day be the proud owner of one of the cleanest butts in the world. I was very happy of her for her great find, though she never considered this a truly valuable aspect of the relationship.

She cannot poop because she is a woman,

he cannot poop because of an unexpected medical disorder that renders his rectum useless.

This is the crazy kind of match you'd expect from a Hollywood Romantic Comedy.

This dear friend of mine lamented that the male she had taken a liking towards had a serious ailment, Crohn's Disease, and would likely face the consequences of trying to live happily with such evil lurking in his bowels.

For those of you who were looking for a reason to lose your appetite for lunch today, merrily proceed: Crohn's disease destroys your intestines and forces doctors to dramatically hoist them from your belly during surgery, remove the most offending section, seal it up, and hide it within your cavernous body once more. Eventually you will run out of enough intestines to function properly, and the doctors will be creative.

The Doctors make a hole in your stomach. (As a word of caution, do not meddle with these doctors, when they threaten to "tear you a new asshole" they mean this in a very literal sense.) They will connect this hole to your intestines and force you to poop through a hole in your stomach attached to a bag hanging around your midsection for the rest of your life.

This woman was very concerned for the well being of this man. She had wanted for him to grow old in a healthy way, and if that was not possible, then at the very least in an unhealthy way that was not physically visible from the outside. Perhaps an ailment like dementia or Alzheimer's, those can be an adventure!

 Pictured above : Adventure!

I dutifully reassured her by reminding her of the endless benefits and opportunities that could manifest from this development in his health. For one, she can enjoy the carefree life of a woman that never needs to share toilet paper with her husband! He will certainly need sanitary wipes for his new anus, but the one he grew up with will only require dusting from time to time, now that it is out of use.

Furthermore, now that this fellow's original rear is no longer used for human-byproduct, it will always be clean. I congratulate her that she will undoubtedly be able to commit sodomy on this man at any time and never be concerned with the dirty results. His butt will be clean enough to not ruin the mood no matter how deeply she violates him! She insisted that she was in no way a sexual deviant that would benefit from violating her husband in such ways, and I assured her it would be far more devious if the violations were committed while he was still using that orifice for practical purposes. In fact, it would be much dirtier also.

Her potential mate's rear still had plenty of unexplored uses beyond sexual violation. I reminded her that with enough practice, she could possibly replace her purse by using her husband's superfluous, vacant rectum. Letting that abandoned territory go to waste would be a shame when it could function just as well as perfectly good storage space. He could carry her cell phone, car keys, lip stick, and pepper spray in the safe and warm tunnels of his gut.

She left to find others that could provide less optimistic relationship advice. I believe my comrade hoped someone might tell her reassuring words such as "I'm sure you wont notice." and "We'll buy you potpourri for Christmas."

Though she does not share intimate information regarding her companion's orifices any longer, I consider myself adequately prepared for the day that she opens a business that offers her husband's rectum for rent.

I am indubitably eager to have a "space for rent" advertisement on his rear. Perhaps with an "inquire within" statement if my relative-in-law kept business cards inside there as well.