Give a man a fish, he eats for a sec, teach a man to fish and he will stink bad and non get laid. Give a man a fork!, is what I say. I don't know why I say it, but I really thought it was clever last night down at the community center when I made it up. I kept saying it like I was Jesus, like I had some special little nugget of wisdom, it made complete sense to me at the time and I don't even think I was drunk. In my mind I kept trying to phrase it to sound biblical "Give ye therefore un fork" ... etc... Right now, I can't for the life of me remember what it was that seemed so poetic, whatever it was, my conviction was tested only seconds later at the buffet. Two old women were sitting behind me fussing with their paper plates and eating steak with their fingers.
"You need a fork." one said to the other loud enough that I knew that they were reading my brain.
"Lemme get you that fork." I said mostly to prove to myself that my own inner conversations actually mean something.
I folded up my seat and went on the hunt. The kitchen was out of forks, the dining room had none, every fork was spoken for.
"Know where I can get a fork around here?" I asked a scrawny kid who looked rather forkish himself, I think he was Kramer's kid.
"What? at a steak convention? Good luck, this place is packed, they ran out of forks hours ago. You should go up the hill and check the shed."
The hill to the shed was muddy and slippery, I was tempted to slide around and have fun, but I forced myself to stay focused on finding the old woman a nice fork.
I think the "shed" was really an old self contained kitchen unit that they used to install in small one room apartments back in New York City at the turn of the century when every apartment was divided into three. It was very dirty. The drawers were filled with cob webs and greasy tools, little knobs and dials, old soap and matches and all other junk drawer type stuff. I took a good minute of sifting through the rubble to find a fork.
The fork I found had two problems;
1. It was too big for an old woman's mouth.
2. !t was covered in spider webs and dried brown fly pupae.
I used my fingernails to scrape off the debris, the pupae popped like, well, like pupae. I bent the two outer most prongs on the fork back and forth until the metal became weak enough to remove them completely so it would fit into the old woman's mouth. I rubbed the fork between the fabric of my jacket until it was sufficiently shiny and presentable as an eating utensil and I ground down the two prong nubs by scraping them on the cement wall as I walked. The result looked like a hand doing the Boy Scout three finger salute, I made up a lie about it being a BSA commemorative fork in case anyone said shit.
When I returned, the place had cleared out, there were steak bones everywhere. I really don't think I was gone that long. There was a commotion in a room down the hall. The old woman for whom I retrieved the fork had a heart attack, or she fainted, or fuck, maybe she passed out from hunger waiting for me to bring her a fork. She had an oxygen mask strapped to her face and the onlookers wagged their heads back and forth contemplating the shame, pity and dread.
I left the fork on the side table and quietly backed out of the room.
I cooked 5 steaks and ate them with my hands. Fucking YumTown.
Later, at the dance contest, a really fat 9 foot tall black guy with very noisy moonwalky golden sneakers decided to make me part of his pop-locking routine. He picked me by one arm and one leg and swung me around like I was 3. He had no idea of my pop-locking prowess, I was the best volunteer he could have picked. I warbled around in the air like I was a robot ribbon worm and when he released me, instead of sliding down on the ground gravity steeze I remained in the air, floating around the room busting my moves for the unsuspecting audience. I totally stole the show. Most people can't actually float like me. My moves were wicked. I amazed even myself.
"There is no spoon." someone said.
"Maaaatrix quoooootes aaaare foooor dooooorks." I whispered back as I did some super slo-mo moves.
On the ride home the woman who plays Larry David's wife on TV sat on my lap, I slid my hand up her shirt, and she didn't object. Her skin was cold and soft, she kept turning in a manner to force my hand onto her breast as we discussed Larry David with Kramer who was sitting in the back seat.
"I need to hang out with you guys more often. Old ladies die too much." I said.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot, my old friends The Pussycat Dolls were there at the community center steak fry too. They were mostly all fat and dumpy. They looked better when they weren't famous. Too much catering. I should've done them a favor and taken away THEIR forks.
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