The Shaky Falldown

Friday, August 19, 2011: 8:42 pm, U Street, Washington D.C.

It’d been a long week. I’ve never been a fan of 9–5 jobs, they seem like they rob the best part of the day from you and you have to be satisfied with the scraps of morning and evening. This had been a particularly annoying week; my boss had been riding my ass for some bullshit assignment that only made sense to him.

“Joshua?” He asked, taking two steps into my office. He never liked to walk entirely into my office and normally I wouldn’t mind, because I’m always quick to get annoyed by visitors when I work and the less time they spend in my designated work-space, the better. But his annoying ass grated on me any time he opened his mouth in my breathing area. “Hey, have you gotten around to pulling those numbers I asked for the other day?”

Have I gotten around to pulling the goddamn numbers he asked for? Of course not. I had actual work to do and he wanted me to pull the stats for each player on the retarded Dallas Cowboys for the last five seasons. It’s not my job to do his bitch work for his fantasy football team. As far as I was concerned, he could take his “numbers” and…

“Because I’m really trying to get that info before ‘C.O.B.’ today,” he said in that high, nasally voice of his that always reminded me of Pee-Wee Herman, for some reason. The worst part? The dick actually did air-quotes when saying C.O.B.

“Listen Mr. Loomis,” I said with a barely-contained sigh. “It’s 15 minutes until the day is over, do you really need the stats by then?

“To be honest, no. But I do need you to finish that task before you leave today. No matter how long it takes.” And with that he took two steps out of my office, without even looking backward, like he was on some sort of Evil Jerk conveyer belt.

God, I said to myself, I deserve every alcohol in the world for this bullshit.

Fast-forward to now. Sitting in one of those pretentious bars on U street, Northwest. They’re each about the size of a Japanese apartment, with drink prices that require you to take out a mortgage. I’ve been pounding down drinks for the last 90 minutes or so. Not entirely sure. You know how it goes when you’re three-sheets-to-the-wind on a Friday night: time is for other people, for people who cared and who had places to go. I was already where I was supposed to be, with my two friends, Marcus and Arthur. Marcus was my friend from college, Arthur was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle brand gin, it made me feel smart. We’d also been friends since college.

“Alright Josh, I’ve got to get going, I’m meeting Trish for a jumbo slice in Adams Morgan in about 20 minutes, and it’s gonna take all my focus to walk there in a straight line. I got to get going now or else I won’t get to enjoy a nice greasy slice…or any pizza!” he said with the guffaws that only an inebriated person has the ability to make. It sounds incredibly fake, but at the same time garners your pity, because you know it’s real.

“Yesh, shounds good. Lemme jhust crush one more quick gin an tonic and I’ll join yoush. I could totesh kill a shlishe of pizzzza the shize of my head,” I responded, sounded incredibly sober and functional. “Bartender, one more pleash?”

“Ummm, I’m sorry to say this sir, but that was the last bottle Of ACD gin. May I recommend something else? Howard, perhaps? Hemingway?”

“Whaaz? Arsh you trying to appeal to my shense of great writersh/drinkersh? How dare you shir!” I suddenly sprung from my barstool and reached over the bar to grab the bartender by his shirt, in an act that was strangely agile for a person in my present state. “Whush your namez?...Dick!”

“Yes sir, my name is Dick. How did you know?” he managed to stammer.

“Beacush if I were your parentsh, I woulda had that tattooed on your shtupid jerk facesh!” I bellowed an inch from his stupid jerk face. “ Are you telling me you’re outta my gin? Caush I don’t believe a word your…shtupid jerk facesh saysh!”

At that point Marcus reached over and liberated Dick from my grasp (a sentence I had hoped to never say). “Dude, relax. If’s he out of that label, he’s out of that label. Why would he lie?”

Why would he lie indeed, I asked myself. It seemed pretty innocuous, and perhaps I was blowing things out of proportion. This could just be the alcohol talking, and I wasn’t being rational.

But if that was the case, then why, when we were stumbling out of the bar, (making it down the flight of steps with only two trip ups) I was so sure I saw Dick winking and offering the crooked smile of a guy who enjoyed the fact that his name was also his personality characteristic? That guy was hiding something from me. And I vowed to come back the next day to find out what it was.

To be continued…

YOU

You do not exist. And for that, I am sorry, but accepting.

It’s nobody’s fault. Regardless of what Disney movies will tell you, happiness isn’t just hanging around, waiting for you to tap it on the shoulder and make yourself known.

I’ve been on this planet for 30 years, and I’ve seen a couple of things. I can’t say I’ve seen a lot, because who is the judge of that? An astronaut has seen everything the human eye could ever gaze upon. A biologist has seen things that most of us will never see. An artist sees things that only exist in the imagination. Doctors and priests have seen miracles.

I’ve seen a couple of things.

I like to think of myself as observant. I used to think of myself as an impartial observer, but that’s never the case. It’s impossible. The more you observe the world around you, the more it changes you. And the more it changes you, the more it changes the way you observe things. Some people choose to only see good, some, only the bad. But I think that most of us fall in the middle: we want to believe in good, but the world makes it a full time job to try and prove us wrong.

I say all that because there’s one area in which I’ve always tried to be a wide-eyed, naïve believer: soul mates and the fact that there’s somebody out there for everybody. It’s an easy and satisfying thing to believe in. No matter what you look like, no matter how you act, what you believe in, how you smell, the amount of body hair, religious beliefs or Angry Birds score, there’s something out there who will always say “yes” when it comes to you.

Of course, the easy counter to that, which I’ve always used to temper my optimism, is that while it’s possible for that perfect person to be out there for you, statistically, your chances of meeting them are about as likely as…well, your chance of meeting your soul mate. And how often does that happen?

And now, we come to You. You are an ideal. A hope and a dream. You are what people strive and yearn for. And that makes You powerful. Very powerful. So much so in fact, that people refuse to give You up, or even the idea of You. So instead of just being happy with the concept of You, they pervert it, subjugate it. They try to take pure happiness and turn it into something they can control and own. They warp their own thoughts and desires. They’d rather think that You aren’t metaphorical. They want You to be real, to be there to comfort them after a hard day, take care of them when they’re sick, suck their toes when in a nasty mood. Basically all the stuff in wedding vows, (the toe-sucking is in the vows, right?)

But You can’t do any of that stuff, because regardless of all of Your power, You’re not tangible. And I think that deep in the minds and hearts of people, they may have an inkling about that. And they are not happy campers. If you rob hope from people, it makes them crazy. So, instead, they choose to see You in others. They’re willing to compromise in the name of love, and to convince themselves that they have met You. Time, age, experience, these are the teachers that weigh heavy on people, causing some of them to compromise, to settle.

I thought I met You 15 years ago. I blinded myself to any other truth. Much like those who choose to see the world through rose-colored glasses, I felt that I had made my choice. And even better: You chose me to be Your soul mate.

Too bad that’s not how it works.

Years of fighting. So much anger and revenge and drama and games. But mostly sadness and wasted emotions. Obviously, she couldn’t be You. If she were You, there would only be happiness and running through meadows, and my heart warming up enough to find puppies cute, instead of seeing them as soccer balls. So, I lied to myself. I convinced myself of something that I knew wasn’t true.

The worst part? I tried to see You as much as I could in her. I honestly did. Even past the point of everybody else giving up.

But that wasn’t enough. I started to see You in most of the women I dated. I took the concept of the “one” and I spread it across all the women I knew, the women I met and ones I just happened to see. I could see You in a smile, a stance, a smell, the eyes, hair, height, weight. I realized that I was trying to put You together like a puzzle from all the women I knew. Each woman I have ever dated, kissed or even longed for, held at least a piece of the truth that I sought from You.

But I know better now. I’m only 30 of course; I’m no sage, or even a wise man (I’m barely even an adult). But I’ve seen a couple of things in my life, and while I’m pretty sure You aren’t going to pop into my life any time soon, I’m happy that You’ve been able to convince my friends of happiness. Because, while I think You’re an evil trickster and imaginary, I also know that They need You to make the world turn.

So…keep up the good work, You. And take care of Them.

The People vs. A Right Jolly Old Elf

Opening statements

Prosecutor: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for being here today and doing your duty as American citizens.

Today you will see and hear facts and evidence that the accused did knowingly, purposely and unlawfully, send erotic and pornographic photographs of himself to several people, including Mother Nature, Cupid, the Easter Bunny and for reasons known only to himself, Bob from accounting.

None of these people requested these photographs and all of them feel, in some way, soiled, sullied and abused for having received them. These pictures, of an extremely graphic nature, now haunt the dreams of the defendants and have made it hard for them to work. The testimony you hear today from both the defendants and expert witnesses, will show how tormented their lives have become and how the monetary compensation of a measly $8 million will never erase the pain from the defendants’ lives. Although it’s a good start. Thank you.

Defense: Good morning everybody. I hope you’re having a good day so far. It’s a beautiful July day, the sun is shinning, the weather is mild and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. And even better, you get a small reprieve from the tedium of your jobs!

Ladles and jelly-spoons, what my colleague has told you is a complete fabrication. My client has never sent inappropriate pictures to anybody and certainly not to his fictitious peers, nor this “Bob” person.

To be honest, if anything, there’s a high demand for photographs of my client’s private parts that he has to fight off constantly. It has caused him considerable anguish that people perpetually harangue him to see that which has been reserved only for Mrs. Claus.

We demand that these charges be dropped and apologies given to my client, who is nothing more than a simple man, with a stomach that shakes like a bowl full of jelly, and who wants only to bring joy and happiness to the boys and girls of the world. Would you find such a good soul guilty of this laughable crime? I think not, and I know you’ll agree. Today, justice will prevail. Thank you.

Testimony

Prosecutor: Please, Easter Bunny, in your own words, describe the events that occurred on the night of December 8 of last year.

Easter Bunny: I’ll…I’ll do my best. I was sitting in my warren, watching an old episode of Duck Factory and enjoying a Harvey Wallbanger, when out of the blue I got a message on my cell phone. I opened the message attachment…sob

Prosecutor: It’s alright Bunny. Take your time. Here’s a tissue.

Easter Bunny: Thank you. Anyway, the picture was of Santa Claus’s groin area. It was close up and not out of focus at all. Thank you 4G network! You worked too well!

Prosecutor: And how did you know whose crotch that was?

Easter Bunny: Because the carpet matched the drapes!! Sob, sob…

Prosecutor: Thank you. You may step down.

Testimony, continued

Defense: I call to the stand: Dr. Gustav Otto Olberov Christof von Hubberstein.

Dr. Gooch: Danke.

Defense: Dr. Gooch, here we have exhibits J, R and W, blown up photographs of my client’s alleged penis as sent to the defendants. Can you tell us, in your expert opinion if this is actually Santa Claus’s no-no spot?

Dr. Gooch: I sure can, and it isn’t.

Defense: Can you elaborate, doctor?

Dr. Gooch: You bet.

Defense: …

Dr. Gooch: Oh you mean now? Sorry. Anyway, as you can see in these photographs here, here and here, you’ll notice that the skin is smooth and unblemished. After spending hours personally handling St. Nick’s balls and shaft, I can tell you that he has a slight scar right at the base from a night of wild, experimental sex that he and Mrs. Claus tried back in the 70s. It involved a jar of honey, a razor blade and four…

Defense: We don’t need all the details doctor. Thank you. Please continue with other differences you’ve observed.

Dr. Gooch: You got it. Alright, here take a look at the scrotum skin. You’ll notice how droopy and saggy it is. There’s enough extra skin there to supply an entire burn ward at a children’s hospital. This is typical of what you’d expect to see on the balls of a really old guy. However! Santa is no normal old man. He’s a fairy, and as such the skin on his testicles is smooth and taught.

Defense: Interesting. Do go on.

Dr. Gooch: The most important difference is also the most obvious one. The penis in these photographs is uncut. Not circumcised. Weird-looking. Whereas Santa Claus’s purple-headed warrior is majestic in its full splendor and glory!

Defense: Thank you for that…oddly specific testimony doctor.

Dr. Gooch: You’re welcome! Now I’m off to perform a reverse nipplectomy on Justin Beiber.

Defense: I have no idea what that means, but good luck.

Verdict

Judge: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have spent the last six weeks listening to both sides as they presented their cases. And frankly, a lot of it was some weird shit. But it’s a weird case, so I guess it’s par for the course.

You have also spent the last 18 hours deliberating as to the verdict of this case. Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?

Foreman: We have your honor.

Judge: Could you please read as to how you find the accused?

Foreman: On the count of sending lewd and salacious photographs of his genitalia to multiple people, including some who are underage, we find the accused guilty.

Judge: Thank you Mr. Foreman and members of the jury for your hard work. You may be excused.

As for you, Kris Kringle, you have been found guilty by a jury of your own peers. And I don’t blame them. What we have seen over these past weeks has painted a disgusting picture of an old man who has abused his position as Father Christmas. Frankly sir, I find you and your personal life offensive and would go so far as to say that you would most certainly appear on your own “naughty list”.

Because of the circumstances, I must sentence you to a year of house arrest, to be followed by a stint in sex rehab, until I feel that you are well enough to be giving presents to people that don’t involve your pubic hair.

Get this freak out of my sight.

I want to bang Janice the Muppet*

I want to bang Janice the Muppet.

I want to run my fingers through her yellow, stringy, yarn-like hair.

I want to caress the soft felt of her radiant cheeks,

And listen to her wail on her left-handed Gibson Les Paul

“Like, oh wow man!”

I want to hump Irona the Robot Maid.

There’s just something about a female robot

With a square jaw and a maid’s costume.

Richie Rich doesn’t know what he’s got,

And she’d beat the hell out of Rosie the Robot

I want to screw Blondie Bumstead.

I want to make her a big ass sandwich and watch her eat every bite.

I want to spoon with her backwards on a couch all Sunday.

Her classical looks and ridiculous ta-tas,

Make me want to meet her in the funny pages

I want to smurf Smurfette

I would gnaw on a mushroom, like Alice.

And shrink down to her size.

And if she didn’t put out,

Then I’d end up having blue balls.

I want to sexify Jessica Rabbit.

I truly enjoy her booby…traps.

She sparkles more than a lame-ass vampire.

I’d show her how funny I can be,

With an over-the-top lisping stutter.

I want to seduce Ophelia.

And take her to my castle in the country-side.

I’d yell at her uncontrollably, for no obvious reason,

Then manically cry on her shoulder.

Our honeymoon would be at a nunnery.

I would love all these fictitious women,

And make them my harem.

The Hef may have The Grotto,

But I get to have all the fun.

FIN

* Or, Fictitious Love**

**Or, Do women think about stuff like this?

Eighty-Four Glyde Fables: The Little Greenhouse that Could

Once upon a time there was a little old lady who lived all by herself in a big, empty house. Living alone made her sad, so she decided one day that she would build a greenhouse next to her house.

So she did.

Her greenhouse was a beautiful building that held rows upon rows of the most exquisite flowers and plants you’d ever seen. There were snapdragons, lilies, tulips, ficus, quamoclits, begonias, roses and a variety of other unique flowers that couldn’t be found anywhere else. The beauty of each flower in her greenhouse surpassed the plant before it.

The greenhouse was the old lady’s pride and joy and she loved to spend hours each morning watering, talking to and caring for her plants.

One morning the old lady noticed something upsetting about her beautiful greenhouse. While the plants at the end of each row grew big and stood up tall and strong, the plants in the middle of the rows were small and weak looking. The old lady couldn’t explain why this was. Worst of all, her beloved Rose, the pride of all her flowers, the one that was more beautiful than all the other flowers combined, looked fragile, near death.

Concerned by what she had discovered, the old lady decided to run out of the greenhouse and pour through every botanical book she could find in her library.

So she did.

That night, in the greenhouse, the flowers had a conversation.

“Why,” the small Rose said to its neighbor, a tall ficus, “why is it that the old lady is sad?”

“The problem is that the flowers at the ends of the rows are growing tall and beautiful, while the flowers in the middle of the rows, (like you) are small and weak. She doesn’t know why it’s happening and it upsets her,” the ficus responded.

The Rose thought about this, then turned its petals toward the ficus and again posed a question: “do you know why we’re not all growing beautiful and strong as she would like?”

“Yes I do, little bud. You see, we need sunlight to grow. It nurtures us and gives us warmth. Without the sun, we will all wither and die. The sun always rises in the east and sets in the west. Unfortunately, this greenhouse was built facing the wrong direction, so only some flowers get the full benefit of the sunlight,” explained the ficus.

“Is there anything we can do to fix that problem and make the old lady happy again?” asked the Rose.

“Hmmmm, there are two options here: we could rotate the greenhouse so that everybody gets sun, but that is too difficult and would require outside help,” the ficus said. “Or, we could change the orbit of the sun so that it rises in the north and sets in the south.”

So they did.

And then the worlds were thrown out of their orbits, the seas crashed upon the shores, fires spread across the face of the planet, the glaciers ran aground in the Caribbean, birds flew into volcanoes, animals ran straight into chasms and the Earth spun out into the cold harsh emptiness of space, never to be seen or heard from again, because all life on the planet was dead.

The End

Moral: Never listen to any Rose. They never have anything good to say and only cause you pain and trouble.