I visited the new science museum just over the Golden Gate bridge. I borrowed a remote control Porsche to get there. It's not really the most functional thing in the world to drive your own car with a little control box, I think they should have actual connected controls on the inside of the car and leave the little box controller for when one needs to control it from afar. Anyway, none of that stopped me from driving like I was Starsky & Hutch. I'm really good at getting air, all one really needs to do is sit really low in the seat and then, at once, thrust oneself upward -- it's not much different than doing a bunnyhop on a bicycle, in fact it's a little easier since the shocks can be exploited for their bounciness.
At the museum a woman was demonstrating the inherent memory of egg yolks. She cracked a bunch of eggs on her chest. The eggs ran down under her thin t-shirt, over her slightly visible breasts and onto a plate below. Once she turned on the vibrating plate and the ultraviolet lights, the egg yolks gelled up and created an exact duplication of her chest off of which they had just dribbled. In other words, egg yolks, by nature can remember any form with which they have come in contact and they are able to completely replicate it down to the tiniest of details. I'm sure you can imagine the implications for rapid prototyping and other such technologies. I thought it was smart to use a woman's breasts as an example. Duh.
The live 3d models of the sun were cool. Apparently there is now a camera system that projects things in actual 3d. Go to the science museum and check it out. It's nice to be able to touch and feel an exact scale model of the sun LIVE as it's happening, sans heat of course. You can do it with a person's face in another place as well, but I thought the sun was more interesting. Solar flares feel like furry tails. Still imagine the future of virtual sex with a person on the other side of the globe. They do need to get the temperature thing sorted. All the flesh I felt was cold.
My father brought a few of his buddies along and they wouldn't stop yammering on about being "moderates" and how they and their ilk represent salvation for our current political situation. I mean I was pretty much agreeing with the whole speech but still, it's not really a conversation one wants to have while attempting to cross the busiest VW Bug freeway. One should concentrate on not getting hit by a VW bug. Also, I'm not sold on the idea of having different freeways for different types of cars, sure, it looks cool - but it ain't practical.
Speaking of gigantic fireballs, as I was crossing the freeway, off in the distance, a pillar of fire and hot plasma shot up out of the skyline at least 50 miles into the air. I was certain that it was the end of the world. I could feel the heat on my face and through my clothing. It momentarily scared the crap out of me. Nobody else around me was as nervous, they all apparently knew it was all part of the science museum. Still, a little warning would be nice.
July 23, 2007
July 17, 2007
Craig Ferguson is a Hippie, The Easter Clown Rat & A Poop By Any Other Name...
So Craig Ferguson, the host of The Late Late Show, moonlights as a motivational speaker. You wouldn't think it by looking at him but he is quite a hippie. His main message is that everyone should sleep naked in gigantic beds with everyone else because we don't fight when we're naked or asleep. Genius.
Anyway, somebody dragged me to his seminar up in the mountains. I'm not a group participation type and I actually hate motivational speaking so when everyone else was curling up in the giant bed and Mr. TalkShow was ringleadering like a jackass, I found myself a little place in the hallway on the oily green carpet underneath the stairs. Everyone had to step over me and their shoe crumbs kept landing on my cheek so it wasn't the most comfortable sleep I ever had, plus some people got a little jealous that I had my own place so a few people joined me and somebody's cold foot kept wedging itself into my crack.
At breakfast Craig was quite the star, all the frumpy girls were basking in his glow and trying to get his attention. He played it off like the perfect polygamist, one woman was doing her best sad and neglected face and he walked right up and put his lips one millimeter from hers in some kind of torture type exercise which I found quite disturbing between two people who couldn't be less sexually desirable as far as I was concerned. Her lip quivered like it was the most tempting thing in the world. All I could think was ew.
In the other room a high school crush girl I never made out with was making chocolate chip cookie cake, which is basically just a 8 inch pile of 12 inch chocolate chip cookies with peanut butter in between the layers to keep it together. When she cut the cake into only four pieces I hinted that two pound servings of such a rich and heavy dessert might be a little much but she got all pouty about my suggestions so we fucked instead.
The rat infestation at the villa took a new turn, some of the rats learned that by being cute and doing tricks now and then, they get spared the flame-thrower. One rat was even wearing an easter bonnet and fake eyelashes. I pointed the flame thrower at him just to fuck with him but he totally knew I was bluffing and gave me a fake fear face. Confident cross dressing rats are pretty cool, like that even needs to be said.
Later on there was a poop joke telling competition and my friend from Australia was going head to head with Craig Ferguson. I thought my friend was the hands down winner because Australian accents beat Scottish accents in the funny department as far as scatological terminology is concerned. Say "poop" in both accents if you don't believe me.
The cab driver on the way home kept talking about cool buildings he'd "heard about".
"You mean you have never even seen the Twisty Hotel?" I asked.
"No, but I'm sure it's the greatest thing in the whole world."
"That is architectural hearsay."
I think the dumbest shit is clever when I'm drunk.
Anyway, somebody dragged me to his seminar up in the mountains. I'm not a group participation type and I actually hate motivational speaking so when everyone else was curling up in the giant bed and Mr. TalkShow was ringleadering like a jackass, I found myself a little place in the hallway on the oily green carpet underneath the stairs. Everyone had to step over me and their shoe crumbs kept landing on my cheek so it wasn't the most comfortable sleep I ever had, plus some people got a little jealous that I had my own place so a few people joined me and somebody's cold foot kept wedging itself into my crack.
At breakfast Craig was quite the star, all the frumpy girls were basking in his glow and trying to get his attention. He played it off like the perfect polygamist, one woman was doing her best sad and neglected face and he walked right up and put his lips one millimeter from hers in some kind of torture type exercise which I found quite disturbing between two people who couldn't be less sexually desirable as far as I was concerned. Her lip quivered like it was the most tempting thing in the world. All I could think was ew.
In the other room a high school crush girl I never made out with was making chocolate chip cookie cake, which is basically just a 8 inch pile of 12 inch chocolate chip cookies with peanut butter in between the layers to keep it together. When she cut the cake into only four pieces I hinted that two pound servings of such a rich and heavy dessert might be a little much but she got all pouty about my suggestions so we fucked instead.
The rat infestation at the villa took a new turn, some of the rats learned that by being cute and doing tricks now and then, they get spared the flame-thrower. One rat was even wearing an easter bonnet and fake eyelashes. I pointed the flame thrower at him just to fuck with him but he totally knew I was bluffing and gave me a fake fear face. Confident cross dressing rats are pretty cool, like that even needs to be said.
Later on there was a poop joke telling competition and my friend from Australia was going head to head with Craig Ferguson. I thought my friend was the hands down winner because Australian accents beat Scottish accents in the funny department as far as scatological terminology is concerned. Say "poop" in both accents if you don't believe me.
The cab driver on the way home kept talking about cool buildings he'd "heard about".
"You mean you have never even seen the Twisty Hotel?" I asked.
"No, but I'm sure it's the greatest thing in the whole world."
"That is architectural hearsay."
I think the dumbest shit is clever when I'm drunk.
July 13, 2007
The Back Seat Driver, Rumble Down at The Piss Burger & Apologies for Apologies
I have a friend that is a terrible driver, always yelling, driving aggressively, flipping people off etc.. it's like he thinks the whole world is intentionally in his way. It's not fun, in fact it can be down right miserable, nevertheless, I always let him drive everywhere because as bad as he is as a driver he is ten times worse as a back seat driver.
Well yesterday he took the worst of both and combined them by literally driving his car from the back seat. He rigged some pedal extensions and other junk to make it work, he was part drunk as usual and he thought that by sitting in the back seat, in the event that he got pulled over for drunk driving he could claim that he wasn't driving at all, he was merely sitting in the back seat. Yeah, that'd work.
As usual he was driving like a complete moron, swerving in and out of traffic, hitting parked cars, doing donuts in the road and carrying on like a total asshole, meanwhile I'm pleading with him to knock it the fuck off while scanning for cops. Every time I'd see a cop he'd turn the corner or ditch the cop in a back yard or old tunnel.
I'm not gonna drive with him anymore.
He convinced me to stop with him at a new fast food drive in place that everyone has been talking about. I don't see what the big deal is, it's the same fifties style diner we've all seen a million times the only difference I could see was that they installed urinals right out in the main eating area. Apparently this is very european and cool. I think the idea is total shit, especially if you happen to be sitting right next to one and you can feel the pee spray on your arm like I did. Not appetizing.
The place was filled with cops when we got there but halfway thru my burger they left and within minutes the place was crawling with criminals, real dirt bags, meth head hippie types of all sort swarmed in. My friend left his shit unattended with me as he went to pee in one of the special musical urinals with a long line way on the other side of the joint. The criminals could see this and seized upon the loot.
"Leave that shit alone, that belongs to a friend of mine asshole."
They ignored me and scattered with his stuff. I chased one out into the parking lot where I was able to dive and grab him by his baggy raver bell bottoms. He punched me in the face and threw me into a rage which landed him smack dab in the mayors office of beat down city. I punched his face to a pulp, I could feel his nose cartilage crumbling with each blow. Sure I probably over did it but he was also receiving the rage that should have been directed at my friend for making me go to that stupid hole in the first place and leaving me with his shit when I specifically told him not to. My victim's girlfriend jumped in and started pulling my hair so I pounded the shit out of her too and then I dumped the contents of her brand new Fendi bag, which was designed to look like a brain, out into the gutter.
"My Fendi, my Fendi, my Fendi.." She kept screaming over and over.
"That's the part of the brain that controls shopping." her friend joked from the sidelines as she pointed at the Fendi brain bag in the gutter. I thought it was a pretty clever thing to say in the middle of a parking lot brawl. I was attracted to her.
The cops finally came and one of the criminals who didn't really steal much of anything apologized profusely and reimbursed my friend for all the goods stolen by others, then he offered to pay me even though I beat the ever livin shit out of his pal and his girlfriend. He overdid the apologizing. He quickly became annoying.
He followed us to the party.
At the party I made steaks and rainbow trout, the overly apologetic gay dude asked me for cigarettes but I didn't have any, then he tried to reach into my pockets to see if I was lying and another fight broke out. Luckily the gay asian cop followed us to the party too and he shot the overly apologetic gay dude in the head.
Everyone was gay. What else is new.
I never trust people who are too good at apologies, it just means the have had a lot of practice from fucking up non-stop.
I kept looking for the joke teller chick but I couldn't find her so I masturbated instead. Even better.
Well yesterday he took the worst of both and combined them by literally driving his car from the back seat. He rigged some pedal extensions and other junk to make it work, he was part drunk as usual and he thought that by sitting in the back seat, in the event that he got pulled over for drunk driving he could claim that he wasn't driving at all, he was merely sitting in the back seat. Yeah, that'd work.
As usual he was driving like a complete moron, swerving in and out of traffic, hitting parked cars, doing donuts in the road and carrying on like a total asshole, meanwhile I'm pleading with him to knock it the fuck off while scanning for cops. Every time I'd see a cop he'd turn the corner or ditch the cop in a back yard or old tunnel.
I'm not gonna drive with him anymore.
He convinced me to stop with him at a new fast food drive in place that everyone has been talking about. I don't see what the big deal is, it's the same fifties style diner we've all seen a million times the only difference I could see was that they installed urinals right out in the main eating area. Apparently this is very european and cool. I think the idea is total shit, especially if you happen to be sitting right next to one and you can feel the pee spray on your arm like I did. Not appetizing.
The place was filled with cops when we got there but halfway thru my burger they left and within minutes the place was crawling with criminals, real dirt bags, meth head hippie types of all sort swarmed in. My friend left his shit unattended with me as he went to pee in one of the special musical urinals with a long line way on the other side of the joint. The criminals could see this and seized upon the loot.
"Leave that shit alone, that belongs to a friend of mine asshole."
They ignored me and scattered with his stuff. I chased one out into the parking lot where I was able to dive and grab him by his baggy raver bell bottoms. He punched me in the face and threw me into a rage which landed him smack dab in the mayors office of beat down city. I punched his face to a pulp, I could feel his nose cartilage crumbling with each blow. Sure I probably over did it but he was also receiving the rage that should have been directed at my friend for making me go to that stupid hole in the first place and leaving me with his shit when I specifically told him not to. My victim's girlfriend jumped in and started pulling my hair so I pounded the shit out of her too and then I dumped the contents of her brand new Fendi bag, which was designed to look like a brain, out into the gutter.
"My Fendi, my Fendi, my Fendi.." She kept screaming over and over.
"That's the part of the brain that controls shopping." her friend joked from the sidelines as she pointed at the Fendi brain bag in the gutter. I thought it was a pretty clever thing to say in the middle of a parking lot brawl. I was attracted to her.
The cops finally came and one of the criminals who didn't really steal much of anything apologized profusely and reimbursed my friend for all the goods stolen by others, then he offered to pay me even though I beat the ever livin shit out of his pal and his girlfriend. He overdid the apologizing. He quickly became annoying.
He followed us to the party.
At the party I made steaks and rainbow trout, the overly apologetic gay dude asked me for cigarettes but I didn't have any, then he tried to reach into my pockets to see if I was lying and another fight broke out. Luckily the gay asian cop followed us to the party too and he shot the overly apologetic gay dude in the head.
Everyone was gay. What else is new.
I never trust people who are too good at apologies, it just means the have had a lot of practice from fucking up non-stop.
I kept looking for the joke teller chick but I couldn't find her so I masturbated instead. Even better.
July 09, 2007
Them Aintch Peaches, Pudding Pops For Whitey & Why Stand Up When Your Nose is Perfectly Ass Cracked - Right?
About picnic tables in the hot sun: Cram them up your butt. Ever heard of shade? You already know that I'll twist my balls off and put them on the table and do you really want to have your friends mistake them for a peaches again? I didn't think so. Last time just to be clear, If you make me sit at a hot table in the sun, the balls are coming off and they WILL be placed upon it. I know, but you apparently don't listen unless I tell you a billion times -- even then. Right? -- I said RIGHT!?
About digging ditches: Not as bad as it sounds, sure the work is back breaking, but the soil is cool on your skin, mud is fun and chances are that if you do happen to find yourself digging a ditch it is more than likely that you are an extra in a court/wedding drama/comedy movie of the week so Craft services is just over yonder which of course means PUDDING POPS! I suppose if you're an actual prisoner/best man for reals they probably keep the chain just short enough to keep the pudding pops just out of reach. Not my fault you were born mexican/douchey. Any mexicans/douchebags in the house? Rattle your handcuffs/rolex if you have a taco/dick in your mouth.
Oh yeah, good advice for being an extra in court/wedding movies; wear a fake beard and get paid twice. That's what I did.
About wacky cab drivers: I'm not going to tip you extra for wearing blue makeup, a wacky hat, funny gloves or a wig and I don't need you to sing. Being pleasant is all that is required, my name ain't P.T. Barnum so can the audition. I understand it's a tough business and it's really hard to get those extra tips and what not, but really, talk radio is fine. I'll ask the questions. I'm a good tipper anyway. Lemme hear my cabbies say HO.
About glass ceilings: how else are the people downstairs supposed to see up your skirt? Think before you speak. You sound like an idiot. Anybody?
About calling your sister fat: If that is what you have to do to draw attention away from your pork chop face, well I'm not gonna sit here and judge. Plus people love family fights. Also we like little tiny rooms filled with lots of people while we sit on chairs that place our face at exact ass level. Don't we people? Huh? --
About eliciting interaction from readers: STOP IT. Right? We hate interaction right? Stand up and be counted people. Get them noses out them cracks.
Now Gillian;
That's all for now.
Don't get caught forgetting to put the silverware in it's right place.
Your Personal Scape Goat's Butt,
George W. Tush
About digging ditches: Not as bad as it sounds, sure the work is back breaking, but the soil is cool on your skin, mud is fun and chances are that if you do happen to find yourself digging a ditch it is more than likely that you are an extra in a court/wedding drama/comedy movie of the week so Craft services is just over yonder which of course means PUDDING POPS! I suppose if you're an actual prisoner/best man for reals they probably keep the chain just short enough to keep the pudding pops just out of reach. Not my fault you were born mexican/douchey. Any mexicans/douchebags in the house? Rattle your handcuffs/rolex if you have a taco/dick in your mouth.
Oh yeah, good advice for being an extra in court/wedding movies; wear a fake beard and get paid twice. That's what I did.
About wacky cab drivers: I'm not going to tip you extra for wearing blue makeup, a wacky hat, funny gloves or a wig and I don't need you to sing. Being pleasant is all that is required, my name ain't P.T. Barnum so can the audition. I understand it's a tough business and it's really hard to get those extra tips and what not, but really, talk radio is fine. I'll ask the questions. I'm a good tipper anyway. Lemme hear my cabbies say HO.
About glass ceilings: how else are the people downstairs supposed to see up your skirt? Think before you speak. You sound like an idiot. Anybody?
About calling your sister fat: If that is what you have to do to draw attention away from your pork chop face, well I'm not gonna sit here and judge. Plus people love family fights. Also we like little tiny rooms filled with lots of people while we sit on chairs that place our face at exact ass level. Don't we people? Huh? --
About eliciting interaction from readers: STOP IT. Right? We hate interaction right? Stand up and be counted people. Get them noses out them cracks.
Now Gillian;
That's all for now.
Don't get caught forgetting to put the silverware in it's right place.
Your Personal Scape Goat's Butt,
George W. Tush
July 06, 2007
Just One Donkey, Sharing The Suds & Erik Estrada's Boobs
None of this was in my day planner. I'm much better friends with her best friend with whom I have had various late night drunken slops in the mud and I'm not the type to try to pin the tail on every donkey in the barn, really I'm not, I'm honestly a one donkey per barn tail pinner. Weh, but we were in a hurry, we both needed to shower, so every finger on the green hand of pragmatism was pointing towards sharesville. Pragmatism is a good excuse for a lot of bad ideas.
I'd photographed her nude a number of times, but only when I was wearing pants, something about dropping your pants makes you see people in a whole new light. It's that extra eye I suppose. She wasn't as tan as I remembered and her body was quite a bit more curvy, both good things. Such a lovely wobble she had as she undressed and stepped into the shower.
But It was all business. We kept our distance, trading spots under the water in friendly intervals so that neither got a cold butt, but I don't think I need to explain what happens when a little bit of warm soapy skin accidentally brushes past a little bit of somebody else's warm soapy skin, so yeah, the business got a little earnest, we both took washing, rubbing, scrubbing, sponging, soaping and generally just getting our parts CLEAN quite seriously. I washed every speck of grime off of her whatchamacallits and she really did a number on my thingamabab with her howzitgo and the only reason my thingamabob was inflated was, duh, to make it easier to clean. There was nothing we couldn't tell our friend about. BUSINESS I tell ya. Just taking a shower. It won't be weird AT ALL next time we're all hanging out together.
BTW, did you see that Erik Estrada got a boob job? Yeah, they look pretty good, his face is too square though, he still looks too masculine, he almost looks like Brooke Shields. It was definitely a good move for him, his face is on the cover of every magazine stand on earth. Even my dad and all his friends were loitering checking out the pics.
My dad's friends all looked like stoners, they were all totally ignoring me too like they were too cool when really they look like a bunch of douchebags trying to act 20. They shouldn't be hanging out at the magazine rack at the mall talking about Erik Estradas "Cancer Bags". Not dignified. Not cool.
Come on Dad.
I'd photographed her nude a number of times, but only when I was wearing pants, something about dropping your pants makes you see people in a whole new light. It's that extra eye I suppose. She wasn't as tan as I remembered and her body was quite a bit more curvy, both good things. Such a lovely wobble she had as she undressed and stepped into the shower.
But It was all business. We kept our distance, trading spots under the water in friendly intervals so that neither got a cold butt, but I don't think I need to explain what happens when a little bit of warm soapy skin accidentally brushes past a little bit of somebody else's warm soapy skin, so yeah, the business got a little earnest, we both took washing, rubbing, scrubbing, sponging, soaping and generally just getting our parts CLEAN quite seriously. I washed every speck of grime off of her whatchamacallits and she really did a number on my thingamabab with her howzitgo and the only reason my thingamabob was inflated was, duh, to make it easier to clean. There was nothing we couldn't tell our friend about. BUSINESS I tell ya. Just taking a shower. It won't be weird AT ALL next time we're all hanging out together.
BTW, did you see that Erik Estrada got a boob job? Yeah, they look pretty good, his face is too square though, he still looks too masculine, he almost looks like Brooke Shields. It was definitely a good move for him, his face is on the cover of every magazine stand on earth. Even my dad and all his friends were loitering checking out the pics.
My dad's friends all looked like stoners, they were all totally ignoring me too like they were too cool when really they look like a bunch of douchebags trying to act 20. They shouldn't be hanging out at the magazine rack at the mall talking about Erik Estradas "Cancer Bags". Not dignified. Not cool.
Come on Dad.
July 03, 2007
Not That Kind of Sticky Pants, Not The Dump I Knew & Not Impressive Gigantic Books
Sometimes I don't give a fuck a little too much. For instance, last night night my suit was so dirty it was sticky. Sticky. Sticky is not an acceptable type of dirty, well, lemme back up, sticky on the outside, maybe down on the back of the leg or on the back of the arm maybe could work cuz it'd eventually pick up enough lint to de-stickify itself, like when you rip the duct tape off the cat, but sticky on the inside, in the thigh, armpit and ball sack areas ain't rad. When one's baggyish pants are clinging to one's balls like fly paper, the only statement being made is "watch out for pus!"
It wasn't completely my fault, although it was my idea to take the motorhome off road and race through the mud and trees, it was most certainly NOT my idea to drive through the garbage dump, that part was an accident. It came out of nowhere. Since when are garbage dumps filled with ninety percent moldy fruit anyway? When I was a kid you could find a bikes and radios at the dump, now it's all just fucking broccoli and bad meat.
Fucking recycling wrecked the dump.
Also, whose bright idea was it to have the outdoor summer concert series next to the dump anyway?
So yeah, my balls were sticking to my suit and I was very very dirty and not feeling at all fantastic about it but the only place I had to look for a new suit was the dump house at the edge of the dump where they kept all the keepable shit the dump lady who works there finds on her daily dump dives so all of that stuff in there was dirty as fuck too and nothing matched. Plus she was rushing me because she was closing the dump to go to the show. I hate being rushed. I like to say dump. Dump. Say it. Dump.
Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that I could tell all you people who call yourselves my "friends" were acting aloof and distant because my sticky pants situation and I forgive you for that. I can't really blame you, I didn't want to sit next to me either, but you didn't have to make it so obvious by clapping and over doing it when I returned with the non-stick gold pajamas.
Have some class people.
Oh yeah, and to my former roommate with the large collection of gigantic books. Stop it. Nobody is impressed. Gigantic books are dumb, you can't even turn the page without crinklesville city.
It wasn't completely my fault, although it was my idea to take the motorhome off road and race through the mud and trees, it was most certainly NOT my idea to drive through the garbage dump, that part was an accident. It came out of nowhere. Since when are garbage dumps filled with ninety percent moldy fruit anyway? When I was a kid you could find a bikes and radios at the dump, now it's all just fucking broccoli and bad meat.
Fucking recycling wrecked the dump.
Also, whose bright idea was it to have the outdoor summer concert series next to the dump anyway?
So yeah, my balls were sticking to my suit and I was very very dirty and not feeling at all fantastic about it but the only place I had to look for a new suit was the dump house at the edge of the dump where they kept all the keepable shit the dump lady who works there finds on her daily dump dives so all of that stuff in there was dirty as fuck too and nothing matched. Plus she was rushing me because she was closing the dump to go to the show. I hate being rushed. I like to say dump. Dump. Say it. Dump.
Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that I could tell all you people who call yourselves my "friends" were acting aloof and distant because my sticky pants situation and I forgive you for that. I can't really blame you, I didn't want to sit next to me either, but you didn't have to make it so obvious by clapping and over doing it when I returned with the non-stick gold pajamas.
Have some class people.
Oh yeah, and to my former roommate with the large collection of gigantic books. Stop it. Nobody is impressed. Gigantic books are dumb, you can't even turn the page without crinklesville city.
July 02, 2007
Grampa Forgot To Put His Eye In, No Wonder I Love Chicken Makhani & Time is Not a Metaphor
I haven't seen any of my grandparents since they all died in The Great Die Off of 94-95 when, if you're not quick enough to compute, all my grandparents, being totally alive and meaty at the beginning of 94 turned all dead and ghosty by the end of 95.
Hence the need for time travel.
I think it was 1965ish, two years before I was born. It wasn't confusing for anyone in the past having me there because, since time travel has been around for so long, the past is now fully aware of the future.
Don't make me get out the charts and graphs.
Point is, I never knew my grandfather was half indian, not that it's hard to believe, he was olive complected, had sharp features, when he was younger he had jet black hair and his name was Floyd, which is way WAY PoonJob. I always suspected he was polynesian with all those winter trips in Hawaii and all, but nope, Gramplestiltskin was one half Boojie. One would think this would be something someone might've told me much earlier in life. Should it really be necessary for me to travel back in time and hang out with dear old Grampa to get very basic details about my own fucking heritage?
Although I'm not complaining, I think time travel is tits.
Anyway, I'm not a kid anymore, I just turned 40, Grampa was looking an old fashioned 50ish and dare I say, not looking his very best, he definitely improved with age. He wasn't wearing his glass eye, which was shocking because I didn't even know he had one in the first place. I knew he had false teeth, but the fake eye was a new one. I didn't interrogate him about why he never told me he was half blind or indian or how he managed to hide both those things from me for all those years, I wanted to ask, but his vulnerable posture, standing off in the corner, avoiding direct interaction, smiling nervously, shifting from one foot to the other with a little hand wringing, totally melted my guts and all I wanted to do was tell jokes with him, hear him laugh, hold his hand and inhale his woody, musty, essence of Grampa fragrance that made Christmas complete.
My mom was obviously time traveling too cuz she had a digital camera she had no idea how to use. She was bugging atomic bomb style.
Although smiling as always, I could feel Grampa's hesitance about holding my elbow as I lead him around. I did my best to make him feel comfortable til we could get back to the house so he could put his eye back in.
"Mom, you're holding it upside down and backwards, you're looking through the lens, It's like a regular camera for cripes sake. The button is where it always is."
I sat in the front seat with Grampa and he told me stories about his days as a butcher while my step brother and half brother were ball busting each other in the back seat. They never got along like chums, so it was fresh to see them bantering like good pals. Grampa's tone was different, something had either changed or not yet occurred, he wasn't trying to fuck with my brain like he used to, trying to trick me with word play or convince me he was a professional wrestler, he didn't once tell me not to hurt his wooden leg or convince me I could take out my teeth too if I would just be a little more patient with my method. Grampa wasn't testing my smarts anymore, in fact, there might be an asshole or two who might even say he was acting as though he thought I was smarter than him, like he was trying to keep up, almost like he was ashamed, but like I said, only an asshole would say that, Grampa will always be the funniest and smartest so shut up or I'll body slam every last one of you glass half empties.
So there you go, I guess I'm a quarter indian now, which finally explains the latent curry odor when I don't shower for months.
I think the reason why experts say we should limit retro time travel is because time has a way of turning our good times into great times, our bad times into jokes, our heros into super heros, and our anecdotes into epic tales. Time is wonderful marinade. On the other hand, retro time travel is like sitting in a snow storm under a banana tree with a cow and a bag of sugar and calling it a banana split, all the ingredients are there, but the magic trick book is open begging you to get all technical as the joy disappears.
"Nice picture of your ear mom."
Hence the need for time travel.
I think it was 1965ish, two years before I was born. It wasn't confusing for anyone in the past having me there because, since time travel has been around for so long, the past is now fully aware of the future.
Don't make me get out the charts and graphs.
Point is, I never knew my grandfather was half indian, not that it's hard to believe, he was olive complected, had sharp features, when he was younger he had jet black hair and his name was Floyd, which is way WAY PoonJob. I always suspected he was polynesian with all those winter trips in Hawaii and all, but nope, Gramplestiltskin was one half Boojie. One would think this would be something someone might've told me much earlier in life. Should it really be necessary for me to travel back in time and hang out with dear old Grampa to get very basic details about my own fucking heritage?
Although I'm not complaining, I think time travel is tits.
Anyway, I'm not a kid anymore, I just turned 40, Grampa was looking an old fashioned 50ish and dare I say, not looking his very best, he definitely improved with age. He wasn't wearing his glass eye, which was shocking because I didn't even know he had one in the first place. I knew he had false teeth, but the fake eye was a new one. I didn't interrogate him about why he never told me he was half blind or indian or how he managed to hide both those things from me for all those years, I wanted to ask, but his vulnerable posture, standing off in the corner, avoiding direct interaction, smiling nervously, shifting from one foot to the other with a little hand wringing, totally melted my guts and all I wanted to do was tell jokes with him, hear him laugh, hold his hand and inhale his woody, musty, essence of Grampa fragrance that made Christmas complete.
My mom was obviously time traveling too cuz she had a digital camera she had no idea how to use. She was bugging atomic bomb style.
Although smiling as always, I could feel Grampa's hesitance about holding my elbow as I lead him around. I did my best to make him feel comfortable til we could get back to the house so he could put his eye back in.
"Mom, you're holding it upside down and backwards, you're looking through the lens, It's like a regular camera for cripes sake. The button is where it always is."
I sat in the front seat with Grampa and he told me stories about his days as a butcher while my step brother and half brother were ball busting each other in the back seat. They never got along like chums, so it was fresh to see them bantering like good pals. Grampa's tone was different, something had either changed or not yet occurred, he wasn't trying to fuck with my brain like he used to, trying to trick me with word play or convince me he was a professional wrestler, he didn't once tell me not to hurt his wooden leg or convince me I could take out my teeth too if I would just be a little more patient with my method. Grampa wasn't testing my smarts anymore, in fact, there might be an asshole or two who might even say he was acting as though he thought I was smarter than him, like he was trying to keep up, almost like he was ashamed, but like I said, only an asshole would say that, Grampa will always be the funniest and smartest so shut up or I'll body slam every last one of you glass half empties.
So there you go, I guess I'm a quarter indian now, which finally explains the latent curry odor when I don't shower for months.
I think the reason why experts say we should limit retro time travel is because time has a way of turning our good times into great times, our bad times into jokes, our heros into super heros, and our anecdotes into epic tales. Time is wonderful marinade. On the other hand, retro time travel is like sitting in a snow storm under a banana tree with a cow and a bag of sugar and calling it a banana split, all the ingredients are there, but the magic trick book is open begging you to get all technical as the joy disappears.
"Nice picture of your ear mom."
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