How much food do you have to eat at this steakhouse to get a free t-shirt? 

~ Chuckles

~ For me living in New York City is about as appealing as living with my mother (no offense Mom.) It’s not necessarily the weather or the car horns that bother me. It was probably the first time I saw a homeless man taking a dump on the sidewalk in front of my sister’s apartment that I realized New York wasn’t really the place for me. The reason I’m bringing this up is because for a long time people have suggested to me that the only way to make it as a writer was to live there. I beg to differ. Where else on earth would I be afforded the opportunity to write a story about possums than in the Appalachian Mountains?

I walked into work one day recently and the managing editor had a big grin on her face. She then told me that she had the perfect story for me to work on. It was a piece on bizarre New Year’s Eve celebrations. Namely, one called “The Possum Drop.” Boy, was I excited. I became obsessed with opossums.  I ended up interviewing a man from a tiny town tucked away in the mountains where each year thousands of people gather to watch a frightened marsupial in a plexiglas cage be lowered from the roof of a gas station to ring in the new year.

There’s more. This is the kind of town where men hook up skeet shooters to their car batteries and eat bear stew out of a can.  Most of these guys looked like Robin Williams had raped a werewolf. They talk about George Jones and moonshine and spit tobacco juice with pinpoint accuracy into growlers three yards away.  I learned a great deal about the oppossum - about how a possum can save your life. According to my source, if you ever get lost in the woods just look for possum tracks and they will lead you to nearest highway. As the founder of the Possum Drop likes to say, “Life is full of possum-bilities…”

~ Let’s take a brief tour of my mind. Here are a few things that I’ve been pondering lately:

Do people still write in cursive?

Is it possible to lower your cholesterol during football season?

Popcorn and bacon will get the smell out of anything.

What if Hitler had been accepted to art school? (seriously, he applied and got turned down.)

Is Vitamin Water just Gatorade for white people?

Do dogs get tired of having the same re-occurring dream? (you know the one where they’re chasing rabbits or butterflies in a field)

Has anyone ever been swimming in the ocean and not peed?

How confused was Bobcat Goldthwait’s first audience?

Why do my best ideas always come to me in the shower? Is there something about the ritualistic cleansing of my naked body that sparks my creative side?

~ A lot has happened since the last time I posted something here on Fat Kids. And I’m not just talking about my elderly neighbor who thinks my name is Rodney telling me the same joke everytime he sees me. I almost died twice recently. I was driving down the highway during a bad storm about a month ago and my truck started swerving for no reason. Apparently, you’re supposed to get new tires every few years. Mine were pretty worn out. After hitting some standing water on the side of a mountain at 70 MPH my truck began spinning out of control. Oddly, my life didn’t pass before my eyes like they say it does. All I could think about was who was going to administer my dog’s antibiotics and would that same person be willing to delete my web browser history? Needless  to say, I drove away from the accident without a scratch, but I have made an amendment to my will so that someone will be responsible for these two tasks if something ever happens to me.

My second near death experience occurred two weeks ago. I took my dog Jed for a walk after supper and we came face to face with a black bear. It’s kind of hard not to notice bear activity. I’ve seen tracks in the yard and aluminum cans digested in  large turd piles around the neighborhood. Of course, my first inclination was to run or climb a tree – the exact two things you’re not supposed to do. Jed seemed more willing to befriend the animal. He curiously pulled toward it as if they’d sniff each other’s assholes and go on their merry way like he does with all other animals. Evidently, my dog lacks the fertile awareness that wild animals pose the hidden potential of mauling us. Luckily, the bear spooked and took off. He was a rather large bear - about the size of Volkswagon Bug. I’m pretty sure he could have taken us. It’s not like it was a bar fight. He’s a fucking bear for Christ’s sake.

~ Ultimately, I’ve decided that bachelor parties boil down to one thing… how badly you’re willing to fail a drug test. I have a new strategy when it comes to these events. Only go for one night. It’s usually best to go for just the first night. There’s never enough speed to last all weekend anyways.

~ I made the mistake recently of drinking a lot of Natural Light Ice. First of all, any beer with “Ice” at the end should be accompanied with a stern warning from the Surgeon General that reads “WILL CAUSE ALCOHOL POISONING.” The problem here is that Natural Light is so goddamn drinkable. It’s the perfect beer for anyone not willing to resort to malt liquor or for anyone whose budget is still too cheap for Pabst Blue Ribbon. I’m not sure what they put in Natural Light Ice, but it’s probably a combination of the same stuff that goes in bowling alley and minor league ballpark beer. It’s kind of like try to narrow down which one of the ingredients at Taco Bell causes diarrhea.

~ Well as some of you are aware, I am in school getting my teaching license. As a resume booster, I decided to sign up to be a mentor with the local Big Brother program. I’ve always fancied myself as more of a bad influence on others, but I figured what the hell it’s only for a few hours a month and some poor kid might just be desperate enough to benefit from my misdirected hostilities.

I discovered that there is an intense screening process in this country to be legally allowed to spend time alone with young boys. I guess we’ve got the Boy Scouts to thank for that one. Anyways, references were given and a criminal background check was performed, which I somehow passed. A few weeks went by and I was scheduled for an interview with the director. I figured that this was just a formality – some signing of paperwork and things of that nature. I was wrong. A panel of people quizzed me for two hours about everything I’ve ever done in my life. There were two questions that particularly stumped me:

1) What is your sexual orientation? Honestly, the word “heterosexual” temporarily became lost in my mental vocabulary. An enormous uncomfortable silence followed. I couldn’t think of the the fucking word and finally I blurted out, “I’M NOT GAY!”

2) What kind of child do you imagine yourself being with? First of all, this question desperately needs to be re-worded. My response was, “One that can roll with the punches.”

That said, I’m meeting my little brother later this week – even after leaving them with the impression that I am a sexually confused child abuser. I guess life really is full of possum-bilities…

 

There comes a time in every man’s life when he has to shit in a cat box to prove a point.    ~ Anonymous

 

Well folks, I hope you’ve got your shoes tied because this is going to knock your socks off… I decided to trade in my sea legs for a pair of spirit sandals. That’s right, I finally severed the umbilical chord and left the great state of South Carolina. I didn’t get far, though. I landed in the Jesus Fish capital of the world, the Bible Belt that is the Western North Carolina mountains. Since my career in Charleston was not exactly a well-defined path of travel, I elected to take a detour to get my teaching degree at a small Hippie-Jesus school in the Tar Heel foothills.

My earnest hopes for a fresh start have provided me with the opportunity to fullfill two longstanding ambitions – growing a beard and owning a Subaru, both of which I’m still working on. Among other numerous notable discoveries here, I’ve found myself constantly pondering the same two questions:

First off, “Is it a dead give-away that a girl is a lesbian if she has a softball tattooed on the small of her back?”

And secondly,  ”Is that the guy from Whitesnake?”

Honestly, everywhere I go I feel like I’m looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. I stand out like the fattest kid at fat camp. I’m surrounded by homosexuals, Bible beaters, and of course, tourists. At one end of my block you’ll find a retired couple who has decorated their yard with a large stone slab outlining the Ten Commandments and at the other end you’ll find two gay men who drive a Prius with a personalized plate that reads, “BROKBK MTN.” Most of my neighbors are elderly and have small dogs who will likely outlive them. I also live directly across a small creek from a pack of hillbillies who have a rooster with a crystal meth problem. He crowes all the goddamn time…

All this said, I am really enjoying it here. The weather and town are great. I’m slowly meeting some  locals who seem to share related interests – music, beer, dogs, and bacon. The mountain people are growing on me. I do have one story to share that probably raises more questions than it answers.

Earlier this week my lawnmower decided to stop working. I grabbed a phone book and got directions to a small engine repair shop that sounded legitimate. Guided by the tools of ignorance, I drove through the woods to a junkyard wrecking service. As soon as I got out of my truck, I felt like I’d stepped into a scene from the film “Deliverance.” My suspicions were confirmed when I was greeted by the female version of the banjo player from that movie. Her ears were the size of frisbees. She stumbled toward me like a newborn calf. The threat of faith was everywhere – the yard was littered with all kinds of religious passages and ornaments. Impending calamity aside, two things were abundantly clear: that she possibly possessed lower than average intellectual abilities and that somewhere in her family tree bodily fluids were exchanged between close relatives.

I left my lawnmower with her and got the hell out of there. Fifteen minutes of total confusion followed. I decided to run a few errands while I was out. My first stop was the hardware store where I met a woman with a mustache who told me a story about witch’s milk… foreshadowing  a dark hint of what was to come.

A few hours passed and my phone rang. It was a man who had inherited the genetic birthright to repair small engines and have sex with his sister. He sounded slightly less terrible than his daughter on the phone.  I returned to pick up my mower, guided this time not only by naive confidence, but by some morbid curiousity as to what blinding variety of life endangering options awaited me. After all, no one would ever know if something happened to me.

When I rolled into the driveway this time the whole family was present – they looked like carnival workers. The mother was cocaine thin. Her skin was stained yellow and grey from nicotine. Her perm dangled like intestines around her sunken face. More disturbingly, the daughter was now wearing a dress and shyly staring at me. The father approached me and said, “She must be sweet on you. Look, she done feexed her hair up and everything.” His faced twitched like he was trying to impersonate Joe Cocker having an orgasm. I smiled in puzzled appreciation, laughed nervously, and then swallowed the puddle of vomit that my anxieties had summoned to the back of my throat.

The father pulled me aside with his arm over my shoulder to give me a tour of the property, and from what I gathered, to find out what my intentions were for his daughter-niece. I’ve never been so scared in my life. The man told me his life story. I scanned the junkyard for trap doors, slave bunkers, and male relatives brandishing chainsaws. Banjo Girl followed closely behind us looking like a zombie trying to hug a fire.

Fear is a powerful motivator. After what seemed like an eternity, I left the property promising a return visit. On the way home, I ran into the hardware store again to purchase the best thing since the invention of the 18 pack – bear spray. I’m never leaving home without it…

 

 

 

 

Does anyone need anything from the bathroom?    ~ Chuckles

Well, the good news is that I finally passed that kidney stone. The bad news, at least from your perspective, seems to be that I’ve stopped writing. That is not the case. The truth is that I’ve been on a creative hiatus, or more accurately I’ve had to face the ugly reality that is Writer’s Block. Curing this ailment is almost like trying to give a cat an enema – impossible. My apologies. As long as people are still doing cocaine during the day, I will continue to write.

I don’t really know where to begin, but I’ve often times found that the beginning is the best place. Here goes a list of random personal events and reasons I hate the media…

~ Governor Mark Sanford is a heinous jackass. Our state is second behind Michigan in unemployment and he’s off banging some woman in Argentina. If your sexual needs are not being met do what everyone else does… masturbate!

~ Speaking of masturbation, how creepy were the initial findings in David Carradine’s death…? I doubt we’ll ever know what really happened in that Bangkok hotel room, but if it was some weird self-induced asphyxiation while feeding his pigeons, I cannot fathom a more embarrassing way to go that doesn’t involve molesting a goat and a Cambodian boy or getting fooled by a transvestite. Call me crazy, but I’ve found more traditional methods of masturbation to be much safer. Now they’re saying it could have been some ninjas that offed him. Talk about irony… he was the star of a show called Kung Fu.

~ Speaking of molestion, did you hear that Micheal Jackson died? How pumped was Mark Sanford about this? Throw in one of Charlie’s Angels and Johnny Carson’s sidekick and all is forgotten, right. Wrong. Back to MJ’s passing. This isn’t exactly a personal tragedy for me and I owned a pair of parachute pants. I do have one brief MJ anecdote to share. When my sister and I were little, our mother took us to the record store and said that we could each buy one record. Remember those small 45’s that had one song on each side? Well, my sister picked out the Billie Jean single. For some odd reason that I don’t know why I’m mentioning, I purchased The Monster Mash. I recall getting home and coming to the sad realization that my first purchase that wasn’t candy had been trumped by someone whose parents fed him female hormones and expected him to grow up normal.

~ Speaking of being trumped, poor Farrah Fawcett. Talk about stealing someone’s thunder. What are the odds that hours after she loses her battle with cancer that the King of Pop croaks? For me as a child, it was always Farrah Fawcett and Vanna White – the perfect road map to heterosexuality.

~ For anyone out there looking for a moral obligation to destroy, I’ve got an idea. Give Spencer Pratt a merciless beating within an inch of his soon to be forgotten life. I’d do it myself, but I don’t like to get blood on my wifebeater. I watched about ten minutes of “I’m a Celebrity Get Me Outta Here,” and decided that he is a justifiable homicide. But then I realized that violence is not always an effective coping mechanism. He could not be more of a cultural travesty. First of all, the show should be called, “I’m a Complete Douchebag, Leave Me Here to Die.” Second of all, why are Stephen Baldwin and Janice Dickinson always on these awful shows?

~ How about this economy…? The other day I saw a homeless man wearing a bluetooth ear piece. Here’s a revolutionary idea, legalize marijuana. At least it might spring California out of bankruptcy.

~ I have a really big problem. My next door neighbor has, out of nowhere, begun calling me “Rick.” There are few things more annoying than being continuously called by the wrong name. I don’t know if there is a subtle way to correct him. It’s kind of like walking through a room full of deaf people and farting. I think I’ve missed my window here. It’s somewhat fitting though. When I moved into my house about a year ago, the ladies that live across the street came over to introduce themselves. When they asked what my dog’s name was I said, “Jed.” One of them misunderstood me and they have referred to him as “Chad” ever since. I guess for now we’ll continue to be Rick and Chad…

~ Speaking of farting, I recently learned the most hilarious slang term for a fart… “Gerbil Burp.”

Thanks for reading. I promise not to take two months in between posts.

 The party is kind of dying down… we just wrote “WHORE” in gasoline on the front lawn. ~ Wrong Number

~ Jesus F. Christ – I’m not sure things could get much worse. The economy is so bad that people are exchanging squirrel recipes. Most people’s job security is equivalent to the life span of a black person in a horror movie. The global economic crisis is almost like trying to organize a junk drawer. On top of everything else, pirates and Mexican pigs are trying to kill us. The government keeps telling us that, “Things are going to get worse before they get better.” What could possibly happen next - naked elf zombies and the extinction of beer?

For many Americans, small luxuries were the first to go. Whether it be cutting back on getting handjobs from your Thai hairstylist or doing blow with Darryl Strawberry, you had to quit. Either way, you felt compelled to share it with others. Stop whining. You’re worse than a Duke basketball player. My point here is that there is no need to share your minor hardships with others, especially if they’re insignificant. There are a lot of people in Michigan living in tents with their neighbors and relatives, trying to stay warm by farting.

I’ve filled out so many job applications lately that I’ve lost track. At times, the process can be rather amusing. Someone with a job hands you a chance to impress them by being completely full of shit. I’m so tempted to add I don’t snore and I’m a pretty quiet masturbator under the “Special Skills” portion of the application. The number of times I’ve heard the  following phrase has to be in the hundreds: Thank you, sir. We’re currently no longer hiring, but will keep your information on file if something comes up, since you have experience and are are qualified. “Thanks for your blind encouragement and sarcastic praise, Mam. I know I’m qualified. Oddly enough, that’s what drew me to the job listing in the first place. I thought there might be a chance I’d get it.” I usually hear this from a woman who has an ass the size of a pontoon boat and a redneck husband at home who hunts deer from their bathroom window. All of the sudden being qualified and having experience are no longer part of the equation in gaining employment - it’s kind of like getting turned down by a prostitute. It’s not as if I’m out applying for jobs I don’t know how to do or would be a horrendous liability performing. There’s a reason I left “Experience with gender repair therapy” off of my resume. 

I could probably get a job answering the phones for a suicide hotline. I’ll bet their lines are ringing off the fucking hook. They may even be putting people on hold. Most jobs require you to have clean urine and a driver’s license in good standing. Isn’t this along the same lines as testing people from West Virginia for incest? Throw us a goddamn bone. The fact that I smoked a little hippie lettuce a few weekends ago in order to cope with the agony of my existence, has little to do with my abilities to shred documents and bring you coffee in the future. Micheal Phelps is a pot head and he just won eight Olympic gold medals for Christ’s sake. No one wants a job in which they have to take a drug test AND wear a tie. If I wanted be be humiliated on a regular daily basis I’d get married.  Honestly, I’m probably going to spend the majority of my time borrowing your internet services to look for a better job anyways.

Being unemployed is great if you have errands to run. Number three on my to-do list the other day simply read “Sandwich…” Sadly, that was the only thing I crossed off that day.

~ My last post “Just So You Know” generated some noteworthy input regarding annoying sayings I left out. It was also pointed out that I need to address “The Reply-All Rules.” See below:

1. Go big or go home.

How about go fuck yourself? This one usually comes from a unique species – the former meat head. The weight of the tragedy here is that this guy thinks he’s still in high school and has taken this limited social opportunity to showcase that he is, in fact, still an oxygen thief.

2. It is what it is.

What the fuck else would it be? A cousin of this phrase is, It will happen when it happens. When else would it happen?

3. That’s par for the course.

I harbor the same enthusiasm for this one as I do watching old ladies count out change in the check-out line at the grocery store.

4. It happens to the best of us.

What if the vocal majority doesn’t appreciate you comparing yourself to the best they have to offer?

5. I’m not a doctor, but…

But what… you have a medical opinion you’d like to share?

Reply All Rules:

There are few things in life that disturb my psychological terrain more than an unneccessary reply-all to an email. Often times, this apparent occasion for outrage involves an invitation of sorts. Inevitably, some asshole will respond with “I’ll be there” to 150 people, some of which they may not even know. This makes me want to do something I’ll probably regret, like when you cross the line between sexual imagination and shame. Actually, what I’ve decided to do from now on, just to entertain myself, is get to the event early, wait patiently for this person to arrive, and then give them a hero’s welcome. Maybe even start a “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” chant followed by some clapping. I’ll throw in a big hug and sarcastically say, “We all heard you were coming!” This person obviously has no social paranoia. There’s really no reason to reply all unless you have information that is important to the event – like the fact that you’re bringing a pinata full of barbiturates. If you’re a serial reply-all-ist chances are I’ve permanently erased your email information and hate you more than life itself.

 If you don’t know why that’s awesome, then you need awesome lessons.    ~ Andy Bernard

For the purpose of this post, I decided to create a top ten list of my least favorite sayings – mostly just repeated nonsense that will continue as long as stupid people are allowed to communicate.

1. Just so you know…

This is probably the most condescending thing one person can say to another. Basically, what they’re insinuating is that you are an absolute idiot. It’s like admitting that you’re more than half of the problem. Whenever someone says this to me I just want to reply, “Just so YOU know, I’m about the punch you in the throat!” The next time someone throws you a just so you know please respond with, ”Just so YOU know, I don’t give a fuck!”

2. Whatever doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger…

Actually, whatever doesn’t kill you usually just makes you wish you were dead. Just ask anyone who has ever had the misfortune of dropping a bar of soap in a prison shower.

3. Everything happens for a reason…

Yeah, and sometimes that reason rhymes with merpes. This endlessly optimistic load of crap is usually offered to someone who has made an incredibly misguided attempt toward happiness and failed miserably – whether it be losing a job or a lover. This is really just a more polite way of saying, Shit happens or It sucks to be you.

4. Mind if I join you…?

Actually, I do. This one really tests the limits of honesty, because it’s pretty much impossible to say no. Often times, the person who says this has the timing of a zit and the self- awareness of a dog fart. If I wanted you to join me, I would have invited you in the first place. Few things are more tragic than being desperate enough to invite yourself to ruin someone else’s evening simply by being present. Anyone who says this usually has no friends for a reason. This one falls in the same category as, Let me give you my card. This just means that this person is willing to help you with a matter that was previously of no concern to you until you ran into them. Now they are prepared to take advantage of your vulnerability for the right price. Usually, said service is something that should be free in the first place.

5. Two heads are better than one…

What if one of them is a complete dumbass? What an added relief… to receive assistance from someone while you’re already in the middle of completing a task almost as simple as finding porn on the internet.  I harbor the same enthusiasm for a team project as I would running into an ex-girlfriend who has gotten a lot hotter since our break up. This firmly establishes my theory that anytime I leave the house, there is an ordinary chance for disaster.

6. At the end of the day…

You want to know what really happens at the end of the day… night. That’s right, it gets dark outside. This one is usually accompanied by an, It must be five o’clock somewhere – which in my opinion should be coupled with a merciless beating. People say things like this to make themselves feel pious, as if to suggest that they ask very little of life. All I need at the end of the day is the love of a good woman and a warm bed.  That’s a bunch of bullshit – most people are so goddamn selfish they’re not even willing to be honest with themselves. Not me – all I need at the end of the day is cable television, a few beers, and an occasional blowjob wouldn’t hurt.

7. Can I ask you a question?

You already have. The notion here is that this person is extending you some sort of courtesy by asking before asking. Again, this one usually translates into violence. It’s kind of like saying, “Hey, I was going to interrupt and bother you, but just wanted to be sure it was OK first.” Another one along the same lines is, If you’re not doing anything right now, would you mind helping me… (insert favor here?) This one implies that your time is not as valuable as their’s and that whatever task it is you are being solicited for is far more important than anything you could possibly be doing. This is when I just want to be honest to a point of recklessness and say something like, “Actually, I’m busy. I’m meditating in my underpants in front of the television.”

8. Two wrongs don’t make a right.

Actually, two wrongs can equal a right, depending on your definition of awesome and sense of moral ambiguity. My definition of awesome is a Brazilian woman’s ass and a stolen briefcase full of quaaludes and cash.

9. You need something to fall back on…

This one usually comes from a parent or spouse – someone who has something invested in your success. What this person is really implying is that they believe that whatever career path you are currently pursuing is going to lead to certain failure, just in case you were laboring under the illusion that dreams come true.

10. How’s the book coming?

This one really only applies to people like me (see #9.) In my opinion, this is like asking a woman how much she weighs. The truth is that my first literary effort reached completion at the exact same time as the economy took a bunch of sleeping pills. That being said, no one is publishing anything right now, so I’ve been busy applying for jobs I’m absurdly overqualified for – like picking up dog shit and dressing up like a hotdog to sell car washes. You guys will be the first to know if I ever get this pile of nonsense published. Thanks for asking…

Honorable mentions:

How’s married life?

I’m not married, but I’ve been told by my friends and other married people that this is the single most annoying question in the English language. I imagine my response would be something like this: “Honestly, now that you mention it, getting married is starting to seem like a huge mistake - I no longer get to do whatever I want, I cannot recall the last time I got a blowjob, and my wife is constantly nagging me to have some kids that we will not be able to afford.

You look like you’ve lost some weight…

If someone says this to you what they are really admitting is that the last time they saw you, they left with the impression that you were overweight. Whevever someone implies that I look like I’ve lost weight I usually just say, “Actually, I haven’t – you’ve just gotten fatter.”

All three of these are sort of intertwined:

A) Why the long face?

B) Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed…

C) Someone’s not a “Happy Camper…”

I’m not quite sure why some people feel compelled to comment on the merits of other people’s temperment, but somehow the common agony of your life interests them. First of all, what is a long face? Do I have a Jay Leno chin all of the sudden? Secondly, there really is no wrong way to exit a bed, unless your mattress is adjacent to a wall on three sides. Lastly, at what point did camping become synonymous with happiness?

Thanks for reading…