Happy Valentines Yesterday!

Tommy sat in class bored and unenthusiastic about the day ahead. It was valentine’s day after all, and even though the Ghost of Howard Zinn was rooting for him, the lady he had his eye on seemed to have completely disregarded his existence. But then the impossible happened. She totally texted him. She missed him, and said they should like definitely see this show her friend would be playing tonight. Well then. This just got interesting. She would be there to pick him up in like, 10 minutes or whatever. They made plans to go get frozen yogurt at menchie’s, and  then go hang out with his friend Rick James, whom he had not seen for some time, for a bit. She wanted to meet his friends. This was a good sign.  They parked in a lot a few blocks from the cold corporate yogurt depository. Being valentine’s day, they received the expected “awwwww u guyz r so adorbzies” looks from passers by. Tommy reveled in this. After all this was a subject that had permeated his thoughts for months now. They eventually arrived at the place which they would procure their frozen treats. She had insisted on paying. As they approached the Yogurt Worker, they were asked a simple question. “There’s a 20% couple’s discount today! Are you two a couple *wink wink*?” Tommy’s companion replied in a monotone voice, “No.” The worker replied in a concerned tone, “Are you suuure? It’s a 20% discount. That’s pretty substantial.” “No.” It was at that moment that Tommy realized that not only did he have no chance with her, but she was not even willing to be his pretend frozen yogurt discount girlfriend. “…Alright, thank you for choosing menchies, have a wonderful va… wonderful day.” “No sprinkles, Tommy?” “The sprinkles are free you know.” “No. I’m not too fond of sprinkles.”

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The Ballad of Tanqueray

Now Tanqueray was never known to be a gamblin’ man. He learned his lesson back in ‘nam and he certainly wasn’t going to disregard his code of ethics now. But Uncle Boris has put him in quite the pickle this time. He knew from the start that partnering up with such a character would end with him biting the old orange plantain if you get my drift. That is to say that Tanqueray is usually a man to follow his instincts. But Boris had that dirty back alley charm that Tanqueray just couldn’t resist. And his offer was too much for even a wise elder-muthafucka like Tanqueray to pass up. Aint no fool sellin’ such high quality sex porn out of that kinda alley in this city. Tanqueray could slang that shit both sides of tha Mississippi and that’s the only damn reason he ever agreed to work with this jive ass Uncle Boris foo.  And now this motherfucker expects Tanqueray  to cook his little white ass breakfast. And there’s a goddamned good chance Tanqueray gon’ do it too. What choice do he really have at this point? Three months ago Tanqueray wouldn’t’a dreamed he’d  be living in such a motherfucking swanky ass high rise in the heart of the city he loves, a city  that’s also torn ‘im limb from limb more times than could be counted. Tanqueray liked his velvet boots. He wanted a matching duster to go with it. Tanqueray made those milk boiled eggs with a smile on his face.

I’ve angered the gods… again

I’ve already maxed out my quota for angering the gods this month, thus some sacrifices were made, the most abhorrent of which being my computer’s monitor. It committed suicide a week ago after being the conduit of too much terror in such a short period. But don’t fret, I’ve got a much less squeamish conduit now and should be able to continue my war very soon. Be on the lookout for another chapter of that clown crap and the introduction into the life of Tanqueray in the next couple days.

Chapter Two: Thomas

Orville struggled to keep the barrel of his gun steady in the frozen wetlands. All of the bog’s feline denizens were strangely absent. It was starting to get dark, which was odd, seeing as he was sure it had been only 12:00 pm an hour or so earlier. It was then that he saw a glowing eyeball that he hadn’t encountered since that fateful night 2 years ago. No wonder the other cats were in hiding. It was fucking Thomas. The alpha male of their society, a large orange douchebag of an animal, who had to have been some sort hybrid as normal cats were incapable of such anger and cruelty. This was a very bad thing for Orville. He had crossed paths with Thomas once before, the very first night he entered this godforsaken place. He was the first to make it away from the abomination alive, taking Thomas’ other eye with that very same rifle in the process. This feat had made him a sort of folk legend among Thomas’ many progeny. The cats would not go near Orville, whether it was out of respect, fear, or gratitude was unclear. Ali quickly noticed the strange dirty man who lived in the bog free from cats. Although Ali found him quite disgusting and off putting, he was the lesser of the two evils, and was invited to stay within the confines of the Gas Station.

Thomas went into hiding after his defeat. The locals rejoiced, thinking the old bastard had finally died. Orville, although a complete failure as a human being, was not stupid. He knew he would have to face off against Thomas again some day. That puny rifle would not be capable of erasing such a beast. And now the long dreaded rematch was happening, all because nobody bothered to tell the circus woman that “teriyaki” was just the local nomenclature for smack. They stood motionless for what seemed like ages. Thomas pounced, Orville’s rifle jammed. It was over. In a way he was glad it would end this way. Sure, he’d never see his son again, but did he really want to? Little Julian had already come out as a furry at the tender age of seven.  Orville did not understand his young son’s proclivities for dressing up like a betta fish and aggressively hugging the other children, and now he would never have to try. Everything went black and Orville, for the first time since he was kicked out of clown college, felt at peace.

He awoke in the peculiarly placed purple dumpster what felt like several hours later feeling very… odd. He was covered in blood but did not appear to have any wounds. He emerged from the dumpster to find the beast slain and strung up on a tree, seemingly dead for at least a week. The cat had no wounds either. What he did have was a bright red clown nose placed over his regular cat nose, something that Orville was quite sure he didn’t have before. It was then that he realized that the red substance he was covered in tasted an awful lot like cotton candy. No, this was no time to think about that, he had a beast to filet. He yanked Thomas’ rotting corpse from the tree and began his trek back “home”, never quite shaking the sense of terror in the back of his mind about what had just taken place. Little did he know, this was to be the tamest event he would have to deal with that day.

Ambrosia, you spry little parlour wench, you.

Ambrosia awoke suddenly to reveal that she in fact had no curtains. The entire world had witnessed that pathetic display she had put on earlier in the celestial cycle. Instead of calling her pastor and immediately pleading for forgiveness, she did not do that. He owed her money and was still ducking her calls anyway. No, poor little Ambrosia decided to cut her losses for the night and headed out to the bed bath and beyond to replace the aforementioned broken blender. After all, they stayed open until the Taco Bell closes on Tuesdays, as she was their best customer, and this was a regular occurrence.

Chapter one: Felipe

Orville hated working at the gas station. It was a volunteer gig, so it didn’t pay much. Really, it didn’t pay at all, seeing as it was less of a volunteer gig and more of a “I have a warrant out for my arrest and cops don’t come here because it smells very bad” sort of gig. The owner of the gas station, Ali, allowed Orville to hang around there during the day, and sleep next to the warm machinery he kept in his garage at night. Ali had much disdain for Orville, but kept him around because he inexplicably was able to ward off the area’s many feral cats.

As is the case with most extraordinary days, this one began rather normally. Orville was attempting to hide in the station’s back alley teriyaki nook, which was helmed by a peculiar mute named Honas. Although Orville understood no sign language, Honas took to flailing his arms wildly at him every time he hid within his nook. It was clear that Honas was quite aware of Orville’s inability to understand him, but continued anyway out of boredom. It is thought that Honas may not have been using sign language at all, but in fact throwing up some sort of bizarre rural gang signs, or may have even descended from a primitive tribe that never developed verbal communication methods. Orville sat on an overturned bucket next to the radiator/grill, his week old newspaper covering his face in a futile attempt to ignore Honas’ aggressive gestures.

Then something truly terrifying occurred. Something that Ali, Orville, nor even Honas had a contingency plan for. A customer had arrived, to buy, not heroin, but an extra spicy order of chicken teriyaki. This was not a real teriyaki nook, but rather a thinly veiled drug dealing nook. All the locals were aware of this fact, so it was not a problem they had ever encountered. This was no local. She was a surprisingly well put together woman, who claimed to be working for the circus, which had just arrived in town. Why the circus was visiting an un-annexable swamp, in a part of the county with a population and collective IQ of less than 200, in the dead of winter, they did not bother questioning. They were too deeply engulfed in existential crisis over just how, in such a place, at this time of year, would they be able to come up with something resembling teriyaki? Then it was decided, Orville would have to be the one to undertake the grim task , one he hadn’t performed since before his divorce and subsequent tax fraud. The woman was told it would be an hour wait for her dish, she was fine with this. Remarked that it would be a great opportunity to “soak in some of the local culture”.  There were no other options now. Orville ventured out into the swamp with his .22 rifle and a Ziploc baggie full of meow mix. He felt strange. There were a lot more zippers out here than normal. Has that purple dumpster always been there?

Oh, Ambrosia!

Ambrosia was quite deeply entrenched in what some might call a baleful storm of woe and malice. That is to say, the previous night had been a really smarmy one, and she was all out of Tylenol! So many broken ribs, but it was alright, as she still possessed her inexplicably warm owl onesie.

Today I wage war on the entirety of language and culture

Some might argue that this blog is, in fact, in and of itself, composed entirely of language and culture. They would be correct, but to that I say that when life gives you eggs, protect them, nurture them, allow them to hatch into the healthiest and most virile of all chickens! Then of course you slaughter them, slather them with their own unfertilized embryos, and bathe them in boiling oil.