Posts Tagged ‘stories’

Sleepovers, better known as up all night giggle fests, are something every child should experience. Only few times did I ever spend the night away from my own bed when I was younger. Usually whenever I did it meant one of my parents put the other in the hospital or my parents were having ravenous loud makeup sex after the one who was in the hospital had gotten out. Today I do my best to remember my first up all night giggle fest and all the crazy events that took place.

I was probably in 4th grade when I was invited to my first up all night giggle fest. It was rare I was invited to parties when I was younger because I was me. One time a classmate had a birthday party at a bowling alley. I wasn’t invited. I was so uninvited that I didn’t even know about the party. I went bowling with my family and guess who was 3 lanes over, all my friends without me. I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure this was the first moment I wished the entire world dead.

earth-exploding-by-rufus-gefangenen

(Watching the earth explode and everyone on it die used to be like hardcore porn for me. Now it’s just softcore. By that I mean it’s nice but not as much fun as other possibilities)

When I got invited to this sleepover in 4th grade I felt really honored. Not too many kids were invited. After all, what parent wants a house filled with little boys running around? Sleepovers are usually limited in numbers because if you put too many young boys in a room together you get Shakespeare or however the saying goes.

This was a very humble party as far as birthday parties go. I think we ate Dominoes because they had the best commercials going at the time. Commercials only work on children. When I was younger and a commercial came on for a toy we wanted, everyone I knew would shout “I want that!” at the TV as if it would give their parents a raise where they could actually afford the toy.

Other than the food we also played the popular Madden video game. I knew nothing about football at the time. I really mean nothing. I knew it existed and I knew after games the men shower naked together. I was at a huge disadvantage when it came to knowing the actual game rules. I was at an even higher disadvantage considering the game console was one I had never played before and no one would tell me which buttons did certain things. I was playing the birthday boy and the game was a 0-0 tie with only a few seconds left. I told him “no matter who wins we both played a great game.” I distinctly remember saying that to him. He ran the ball and thinking football was like a real sport where the game ends when the clock runs out, I gave up chasing him. He scored a touchdown on the last play and won the game. He got up and did a celebratory dance. I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty sure this was the second time I wished the entire world dead.

madden2000

(Thanks Mr. Madden. You ruined a friendship I had with a kid who had smelly breath)

The video game playing got boring so we decided to watch the classic Tom Arnold film The Stupids. Yeah, it was that kind of party. Like in any situation, we all found the weakest kid at the party and began to make fun of him. I forget what we made fun of him for, but we did it. He was also the first one to fall asleep. Why didn’t anyone teabag him? I don’t think at this point in our lives we even knew we had testicles.

Of all the unexciting things to happen at this up all night giggle fest the strangest was when we were sitting around talking about Pokemon or whatever we were talking about and the birthday boy turned around and showed everyone his ass. He didn’t even say anything. He just presented himself for us all to see for a few seconds then pulled his pants back up. He even bent over and aimed his ass toward us to let us all know his pants didn’t drop by mistake. I never had the courage to ask the guy why he did what he did. I will admit though, we all laughed at him mooning us. Something about seeing a half-Jewish boy’s ass crack was pretty funny. I don’t know if I would have the same reaction today.

alexa-vega-machete-kills

(This picture has nothing to do with this post but I have noticed whatever picture I use at the end is the one that shows up as the thumbnail on Facebook and I wanted to let more people know how hot the Spy Kids girl got. This also got me to stop thinking about little boy butts)

Have you ever been to an up all night giggle fest? Girls, tell us your best pillow fights/bicurious encounters. Guys, sit back and read what the girls say.

Recently I had to go to the DMV. My reasoning was I wanted to waste an entire week waiting for help. Really it was because I got a ticket for having expired plates. I would have loved if I got some warning in the mail about this. They had been expired since at least November. The car used to be under my mom’s name so when she died I had to switch it over to mine. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I contemplated a sex change operation followed up by a name change to make things easier. Anything to avoid having to deal with government workers. Even if it means testicular removal.

I headed to the DMV which is conveniently located down the road from my work which is inconveniently located an hour away. I had been to this DMV before many times. I have lots of good memories. This is the same place I failed car inspection for having bad windshield wipers. I got there early armed with every piece of identification I could find. My birth certificate, social security card, registration, license, passport, copy of my finger prints, picture of my genitals signed by a doctor, a trustworthy friend who could identify who I am, a bill in the mail with my address, an old high school yearbook, and the video of me being birthed. They told me I was still a few points short, but would let it slide since I put in a valiant effort.

I filled out the form with a giant pen next to a Mexican guy who didn’t like me standing next to him. I got into the proper line and was treated like an idiot. I had to go back out to my car to gather up information on my insurance. I returned to see a woman with a television mom haircut in my spot and a new person helping out at the number 4 cubicle. An elderly black woman approached me and said she would help me. I knew this was a good sign as elderly black women can usually see the future. I had it made.

(“I predict white women everywhere will buy whatever I tell them to buy even if it doesn’t work or they do not need it”)

She returned shortly after saying that my registration was suspended. She seemed suspicious of me. Probably because I was the only one there who spoke English or wasn’t arguing. I was informed that due to my switching insurance last year it probably suspended it and that I should have filled out a form in the mail. So I think that makes two things that I never received in the mail. I was given a copy of the 4 step directions to get to the DMV in Trenton and after a little bit of debating I decided I would not go that day and hope that a revolution started before I had to get this problem resolved.

(The last time Americans revolted men died so young that they had to wear fake white hair just so we’d know who would die soon of natural causes)

Americans are too big of whiners to start a revolution so two days later I attempted to get to the Trenton DMV. If you need to know anything about Trenton it’s this, it stinks. I’m convinced it’s the worst state capitol. Or is it capital? I never remember that dumb rule. There’s literally nothing to do there. There are no happening spots. No places to pick up drunk chicks and drive them into the woods before killing them. The directions I had said that parking was across the street from the DMV. The problem with things being across the street from buildings that take up an entire block is that there are 4 across the streets. I pulled into the employee parking and had to back out. Then I did it again into another employee parking lot. How many employees are there at the DMV? I saw about 7 people actually working. I think the rest of the employees died years ago in some tragic terrorist attack and they’re afraid of moving a current employee’s car. Yeah, they could look up who the car belongs to but this is the DMV. That would require them to work.

I found parking and hit a light post. I hit lots of light posts. I moved my car because I was concerned that I hit the light post so hard that it could topple over. I’d let someone else suffer due to my mistake. I got out of my car as most people do when finished parking. I wasn’t sure if I should cross the street in the middle of the road or walk to the end and use the crosswalk. An outdoor adventurer, a homeless man with a giant garbage bag, led the Pickett’s Charge across. I followed at his side every step of the way. Who says the homeless are useless? Their good for shielding us from oncoming traffic.

(I prefer the homeless shield to shield my home)

The first line I got into looked promising. I figured this would go pretty quick. The receptionist in the front sent me to cubicle number 25. At 25 I was met with a woman with a dead hand. Maybe it was broken, but it also looked kind of tiny. Dead hands also amuse me so let’s pretend that’s what it was. She too thought I was retarded for having a problem with my motor vehicle. She gave me a blue note card with the number 229 on it and informed me that I should take a seat and wait to be called. That’s when the fun began.

I sat waiting to be called as my girlfriend texted me and picked a fight. Great, I’m at the worst government department on the planet, in a terrible city, still have to go to work later in the day, and now my girlfriend is telling me how much of a shit I am. If a man ran into the room with a gun my life would have improved. It was about 40 minutes before my number was called. They even started at 220 so I wasn’t that far away. It was that gap between 228 and 229 that killed me. That took 15 minutes. When I was called I eagerly popped up and made my way over to cubicle number 20. Maybe I would get this all resolved in under an hour.

The woman at cubicle 20 was an elderly black woman. I explained to her the situation and made sure to throw in about how I only changed insurance because my mom’s death. She didn’t give me an “oh child peace be with you” which I was hoping for. She disappeared briefly and I took a look around her office space. She had stuff for the Dallas Cowboys and a lot of breast cancer stuff. I was going to use this to my advantage. Troy Aikman, Don Meredith, mastectomies, any names or words I could think of popped into my head. If I couldn’t beat the system I was going to charm them into being nice.

(Hopefully none of these women ever get breast cancer. They’d be forever unemployed)

Cubicle 20 worker returned and told me she was going to do some “soul searching” to fix my problem. I thanked her and took a seat, again. This time things were more crowded. People were watching movies on DVD players. Long movies too. I think the guy got through the first two Star Wars movies and got to the first Ewok sighting in the third. I listened to a few conversations too. New Jersey stereotypes in front of my talking like Tony Danza and being fat and greasy really got on my nerves to the point I almost sat in the chair in front of the kid who kept kicking it. My number was called about 10 minutes later and I returned to Cubicle 20.

For the first time in history someone received good news at the DMV. I was told that everything had been fixed and I need not worry. My plates were now up to date. I had to sign one form and I was set. Before leaving, the cubicle 20 worker showed me sympathy. She even asked how my mom died and before I could give an honest answer she said “What it cancer?” Now I had my problem resolved and she was very nice to me, but I had already planned out in my head to pretend that it was cancer. You know, for bonus points. I said “Yes” because saying “No” would have raised more questions and ruined the connection we had made. It felt like if I didn’t say my mom died of cancer or tackling a Washington Redskin running back I would have had to wait longer. She told me that my mother would always watch over me and I know if that’s true she was probably laughing at my taking advantage of someone else. If you think I’m a jerk-off for doing this, remember, this was the DMV I was dealing with. I was ready to tell her that I had breast cancer to get quicker service.

I got my new registration really quickly from a Spanish man across the way. I headed out to my car and used another homeless man, this one carrying boots, as a shield. I got into my car and drove off into the sunset. That’s the great thing about the DMV. You can drive there into the sunrise and by the time you leave it’s the sunset. Get it? Because it takes a long time. The moral of the story; don’t trust mailmen, use the horrible things in your life and the lives of others for your convenience, and jokes from the 1980s are still relevant.

(Tomorrow, Airline Peanuts!)

I had a two paragraph introduction that involved an Indian girl getting her diaper changed in a library bathroom while I urinated only feet away. It seemed like too much of a distraction so I’d like to get right into the purpose of today without getting too detailed into child diaper changing station etiquette.

I had a choice of two places to sit down at the library. One was next to an old woman with reading glasses and the other was next to a guy with a hat. I sat next to the older woman. Perhaps she had a granddaughter. And maybe if I’m lucky I remind her of the guy who deflowered her in 1957, Mitch Timmons. She can relive some sick vicarious fantasy through her granddaughter. That’s what caused me to sit next to the older woman. Thank goodness I’m crazy. Sitting next to hat-face might have turned out worse.

(Mitch Timmons hanging out with his boy Sticky looking cool with their tucked in shirts and hatred off all things square)

Things were going smoothly as they always go at the library. I don’t think I saw the guy who I’m convinced is a huge drug kingpin. I won’t go into exactly why I think he’s a drug kingpin because it would seem racist. I am writing a television pilot based around him though so stay tuned for that to never go anywhere. The guy with the hat whom I will from now on call Bojangles began talking to the black woman next to him. She seemed like your average black woman in her 50s. She was well-spoken, wearing a purple blouse, and was looking at pictures of Oprah online then claiming that they were the same person. Bojangles began talking to her and I heard him mention that he watched some Boy Scouts event at the mall across the street earlier. “Great, a queer” I thought. “Better get out a rope to drag him through town” chimed in a mind reader pointing out my derogatory summation.

The conversation continued and if you haven’t figured it out by the name I chose for him, Bojangles mentioned that he was a homeless. I never would have guessed it either. He seemed like any guy in a band. My guess was he was 30-years-old tops. Basically, he looked too normal to have fallen through the cracks of society. I would have guessed he worked at Hot Topic and enjoyed watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. For a brief moment I thought to myself we could be friends. Then he started talking and I was happy with my choice of sitting next to Murder She Wrote.

(Angela Lansbury gets off on writing about brutal murders)

Further into his life Bojangles went with the black woman. They talked about how he had made a few mistakes. He had apparently gotten with the wrong girl. Because we of course all know, whatever a woman does a man should always follow. Dating a girl and that causing you to become homeless makes you the most pussy whipped man of all time. I’ve heard of guys ditching friends or seeing bad movies for a girl, but never doing so much where it led to you becoming homeless.

Not wanting to invite Bojangles to stay with her, the black woman asked him if he had any family. He said he did but they lived in New York and he didn’t want to bother them with his problems. That makes sense. Because a family isn’t supposed to help you out with things like having a place to live. I’ve said it before, but you need to be one shitty person to not have a single family member or friend to live with. How many bodies did Bojangles have to walk over to get to this place in his life? That place being at a South Jersey library on a Sunday afternoon. You know, heaven on earth.

The black woman was so kind she offered Bojangles information on a friend of hers who might be hiring for a construction job. At least that’s what I heard. I was starting to get really angry that my mind began to drift. Bojangles complained about how his ex-landlord screwed him over and stole his computers. Now you’re getting a little too James Bond for me. If my computer was ever stolen I’d probably follow-up with a police report. I started to think Bojangles was a liar. I knew for a fact that he was a liar when he said he comes to the library to read and I saw a really nice laptop in front of him. So there’s a homeless man giving out his sob story and he owns a laptop. I think his computers weren’t the only thing stolen by the landlord. I think that greasy Italian also took Bojangles’s sense of priorities. You can live your life however you want and prioritize it in any order. For me it goes Food-Shelter-Transportation-Phone-Computer. Something like that. Maybe toss in deep personal relationships with other human beings. I’m still undecided about that one. Bojangles has really turned me off from all human contact.

(Gee, I wonder what this evil landlord is going to get Betty Boop to do to him for her late rent payment)

Like any member of the downtrodden, Bojangles had complaints about politics. He went on and on about the city of Camden. You’ve probably never been to Camden. You’re reading this which means you’re alive. It’s not a very good city. Imagine an infant shitty blood. Now make that a city. You have Camden. Bojangles also made mention of how he used to own a pizza place in 1997. Well there goes my theory of him being 30. I was 10 when he owned a pizza place. The home run record was still 61. Fight Club was only a book. Osama Bin Laden was just a lanky Arab with bowlegs. How did Bojangles through all of this away to end up in the same place as I was? There’s nothing wrong with making mistakes. Starting over is sometimes the only way to get through a difficult time. But please, spare the sob story.

Oh us men! We hate asking for directions. Why is it? Because we dislike having to ask a 17-year-old boy at a convenience store or a foreign guy who speaks broken English for life advice. They know how to find the bridge you’re looking for. They are officially sexier in the eyes of your wife than you are.

I’m no different when it comes to directions. I rarely ask for them. I will though, if my life is in the balance. Still, asking for directions can be worse than death. That look they give you like you’re making up a place. They’ve never heard of I-95. I thought it ran from Maine to Florida. Did I dream up an interstate highway?

(It’s impossible to dream in color and since this map is in color, it cannot be a dream)

My sense of direction is pretty damn good in general. I could never get lost in the woods. If Heather Donahue (no clue how I still remember her name) from the Blair Witch Project had been friends with me and invited me to go along with them, I would have kicked the map into the river on the first day and said “It’s okay, I’ve got another map. It’s right here.” then tapped my temple. Nobody would have gotten killed.

I have a GPS system which I can’t really use for more than 5 minutes before it dies. My car’s cigarette lighter doesn’t work. That was never a problem because I don’t smoke. It’s only a problem because that’s where electronic devices should be plugged in. I have to rely on my own feelings to get around. Recently I was using my GPS system to try to get home and it died .2 miles away from the left turn I needed. I decided that I would turn around and sit in the parking lot of where I was and cry until someone realized I was missing. My over/under was 4 days. I think it would take me that long to go missing. Before someone actually noticed I wasn’t around. It’d be someone stupid that would realize too like the mailman. I get a lot of coupons in the mail and he’d realize something was up when they were starting to overflow out of the mail slot. I don’t think he’d do anything. Probably figure I’m on vacation. That’s why it’s imperative that I don’t get lost. Nobody will realize I’m gone.

(Is she not wearing pants or is the mailman a known Klansman and she’s scared?)

The worst times I ever got lost seem to be in Pennsylvania. This is a big problem because in New Jersey we have our gas pumped for us. I’m sure I could figure out how to do it if need be, but still it’s something new. New equals scary. One time I was driving through Pennsylvania trying to get somewhere. I won’t mention the place so let’s pretend it was a strip club for children. Not that the strippers are children, but they do things to entertain children while topless. I don’t know what those things might be. Maybe they squirt milk out of their breasts or dress up like Blue’s Clues characters. I got incredibly lost on my way there. I finally decided that after two hours of driving around I should ask for directions. I stopped at a Dairy Queen and asked them if they knew how to get to the Children’s Strip Club. They said they had never heard of it and asked what town it was in. I told them and the workers turned to each other like they had never heard of the town. The oldest and ugliest Dairy Queen worker said “You’re a long way from home sweetheart.” I didn’t have time to explain to her that I didn’t live in the area and that even if I was at the Children’s Strip Club it would be a long way away from home. Actually, is 30 miles a long way away? I don’t think so. I think she was trying to bully me into getting a Blizzard with Snickers on top.

(Those strawberries look so out-of-place in this diabetic disaster)

I continued driving hoping that I could at this point just find my way home. The problem with going from New Jersey to Pennsylvania is that there’s this cockface in between the two states called The Delaware River. You have to use a bridge at all times to get across from state to state. That really limits your options. This is the same stupid river that George Washington crossed to kill a bunch of Hessians. You know that famous painting of him in the boat with his foot up? Yeah, that’s the cockface river that I’m talking about. It’s caused me more anguish than any other body of water.

(The Delaware River isn’t nearly this rough. It mostly smells bad more than anything else from all the dead Hessians who were tossed into it)

I was still driving because that’s how I spent the last 5 hours of my life. My phone was dying, my car was running out of gas, and everything around me seemed to be closed. My dad tried finding directions for me but I don’t think he even knew who he was talking to. I found a bait shop that was closing. I frantically pounded on the screen door as it began to rain. The bait shop man took pity on me. He gave me directions without making me buy any worms. I guess he figured that it was raining now and that worms would be plentiful. Supply and demand.

Somehow I managed to follow his directions correctly. I crossed over a tiny little bridge and made my way back home to New Jersey. I was the first person to ever enter the state with a smile. Usually it’s holding your nose and going really fast hoping that you don’t get a flat tire in the process. There’s no real moral to this story other than don’t be a nag if you’re not the one driving. Eventually, we all find our ways back home. Except for old people. You should always worry about them. Sometimes they get in their station wagons and are never heard from again. Pretty nice of them. Burials and cremations are really damn expensive.

This is a story about coming of age. It was actually published in the children’s book series THE ADVENTURES OF TOOTSIE WOO!!! If you haven’t read it, you should check it out. It’s about a ghost who travels around with a carnival doing sexual favors for miners. And you thought Casper was friendly!

After reading this entry (or entrée if you figuratively eat words) you will think of me differently. I won’t be that cool guy you all aspire to be like. You’ll see me as a square. An awkward square. Such an awkward square that I’ve become a rhombus. That’s what I am. The biggest rhombus in the world.

I’ve only ever witnessed somebody do cocaine once in my life. It was scary. I was in the home of a stranger and there was a 5’4 guy there with a very round hat. A 4’10 girl that seemed to have an attitude problem came up to me and said that I didn’t have to be scared. Then a knife fell out of her pocket and I turned away, scared and scarred. How did I know how tall everyone was? There was a growth chart in the room!

What mistakes did I make in my life that led me to this place? How did I get here? (CUE: The Talking Heads)

I had been visiting a friend for the evening. The night started off normally. Girls were ignoring me, bartenders looked at me like I had no idea what I was doing (which I didn’t), and my allergies were bad. My allergies are always bad. Even in a bar filled with fag-hags. Maybe I’m allergic to a good time. Or more accurately, an over-hyped not as spectacular as I had imagined it would be time. Lets go with that second one.

I remember locking eyes with one fag-hag in particular. My eyes said “Let me come over there” and her eyes said “Is he looking at me or the window behind my face?” The answer was both, but I didn’t know how to properly respond with just eye signals. I hung out near the cigarette machine which still exist. That 4’10 girl came over and basically shoved me out-of-the-way. I was really turned on by this. She looked like she was 16 and was in a bar, pushing adults to the side, drunk and high on everything she could get. I should have married her right then and there. That way I’d know that my life would end up like crap and I would never get my hopes up.

My friend and I left the bar and found somewhere more quiet. A random woman sat in his chair and she left her cell phone there. He told me that her boyfriend was a douche bag. I continued to cock block him completely by talking to the girl in a friendly way instead of doing what I should have done, ignore her completely. I was young, I learned. If you want a girl to talk to you the last thing you should do is talk to her. Life is complicated and makes no sense like that.

We then went in search of another bar that he said was down the street. It apparently didn’t exist. I found this odd because he lived 5 minutes away and claimed that it was indeed there yesterday. This is why I don’t have trust others or believe what a GPS tells me. Buildings don’t just get up and walk away. Unless you live in Alabama where homes do it all the time. We returned to the first bar only to find that everyone was leaving. “House party!” someone shouted. So, we went.

The house party was at the home of the cocaine girl. She had a giant dog crate in the corner and a bird-cage. Both of them were empty. A tall man and a girl went into the bathroom and came out a half hour later. The fat guy there had to pee on a fence. Nobody really talked to me. One guy who seemed to also not know anyone stood near me and I asked him a few questions that strangers might ask. He lived about 10 minutes away and his favorite color was blue. I quickly ran out of questions and he left. Then a woman with a pixie haircut started talking to me. She had an overweight boyfriend who would scrunch his eyes like he was trying to shit whenever he would talk to me. He’d puff out his cheeks and nod during my responses to his questions about where I lived and what my favorite colors were. The house party stunk.

Someone informed us that the party was moving somewhere else. We all walked about 10 minutes to a bigger home, that of an overweight woman. There’s no reason to point out that she was overweight. Really, there’s no reason to write any of this. I already gave away the ending. A girl does cocaine and I get scared. But to sound smart and artistic, I will describe what was wrong with people who I encountered. The owner of this home’s problem, being a gigantic scary creature.

The “party” continued and I stood around awkwardly. Then I sat around awkwardly. Then everyone who was sitting got up and stood some more. I ran out of things to do. Sitting and standing are my go-to motions. I couldn’t lie down. That’s a real party faux pas.

I went outside and stood there for a bit. Then everyone went inside and I had to knock on the door because they had locked me outside. Hey it happens. Not the first and wasn’t the last that I was completely ignored. I came inside and saw the girl I wanted to have sex with. That’s kind of always what I do when I enter a room, leave a room, enter a car, leave a car, enter a stadium, leave a stadium, etc. She had marijuana eyes and I think it’s because she was on marijuana. She mentioned how she thought one of the guys at the party was cute and his name was Dan. I tried smiling at her and she left the room.

My awkward standing continued and that’s when I saw cocaine girl. She was sitting at a table bitching to a friend. “How am I ever going to find a guy that loves me? I can’t even drink. And that means he can’t drink because when he kisses me I’ll be able to taste it on his lips.” No. She wasn’t being a self-righteous prude. She had that medical condition where alcohol makes you sick. I think we all have that condition. She has it worse. She’ll die if she drinks a beer. We’ll put on a goofy hat and embarrass ourselves. I’m still undecided on which is worse.

Cocaine girl took a bag out from her pocket and then pulled over a magazine from the table. It was something about fishing. Or maybe it was a Playboy. I’m not sure. I couldn’t tell if the man in the picture was wearing a bucket or a cowboy hat. Cokey emptied her bag onto the magazine and without thinking twice closed up her one nostril and snorted with the other. All done! She cleaned up that cocaine like she was an anteater cleaning up whatever it is that those creatures eat.

I didn’t know what had just happened. I had seen cocaine done in movies. Never in person. This must be like when you give birth to a baby. You can know exactly what it looks like yet until it happens to you, you don’t know how to react or how it feels. I was flabbergasted. I wanted to leave. I felt uncomfortable that a woman who thinks a guy won’t date her because she can’t drink beer solves her problems by snorting cocaine. That’s a much bigger deal breaker. Cocaine involves bad tempers and Scarface references. She was a good-looking girl and I would have raised my eyebrows for her until I witnessed her commit a crime. She missed out. She broke our unsaid deal.

Now for the rest of my life I will be prepared for when I see someone snort cocaine. I hope you don’t have to go through the fear and confusion that I did. Cocaine is a dangerous drug. It blows your chances at taking a ride on the wild side with me. What’s scarier than that?

“I love the Cocaine.” – Buckcherry, a band who might have more than 2 hits if they laid off the hard stuff

I was witness to something awesome recently. So awesome that I’m writing about it. I only write about awesome things. That’s why most of what I write about is myself.

I was at a comedy show and while waiting outside noticed a fat girl near the front of the line. She must have been waiting there for 30 minutes already. The show doesn’t start for another hour and a half. My first thought upon seeing her was that she looked like actress Kat Dennings. Actually no. That was my second thought. My real first thought was that she was a fat chick who happened to look like Kat Dennings. And that is why I easily whispered “Hey look, it’s Fat Dennings” into my girlfriend’s ear. She agreed and I felt like a stud. I wanted to pass it along to others in the line, but the man behind me had a shaved head and a goatee. Then the man in front of me had glasses. I was surrounded by brains and brawn. If the joke bombed, I’d be fucked.

We got inside and the first thing I noticed was that Fat Dennings was seated front and center. I mean as front and center as possible. She lined herself up directly with the microphone stand. For the next hour or so (until the show finally started, do shows ever start on time?) she continued to look back, waiting for a friend to join her. It was annoying and creepy. Every 25 second I would have to be subjected to her chubby fat face with even chubbier whale lips. I don’t think whales have lips. It wouldn’t surprise me if they once did and Fat Dennings had stolen their lips to place them on her own face. Her friend finally showed up and she was a very frumpy looking girl. She didn’t look like any celebrities that I know of. Celebrities are usually good looking. This girl was not. She had tumbleweed hair and a scarf that I had earlier in the night seen a homeless man shining his penis with. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but later on I had a laugh about it.

Then came the big failure. At the end of the show, Fat Dennings who I am convinced is a stalker, stood up. She was giving a standing ovation. The thing about standing ovations is that they must start somewhere. It’s like all human life. It makes me think of that whole “which came first, the chicken or the eggs?” shit. F.D. was about to not only fail at giving life, she was having a miscarriage in doing so.

Her fat arms flapped together. A nice clap. She was officially giving a standing ovation. Standing, clapping, giving ovation to a show well done. I thought another man was about to stand, but he was adjusting his ass in his seat. F.D. turned around and noticed that she was the only person standing. It had only been about 10 seconds of her making a fool of herself, but I noticed it and being front and center, others must have too. She had failed at a standing ovation. For a second I thought of giving her a standing ovation for her failure. Or perhaps a round of applause. That is, clapping my hands in a circular motion. I learned that one when I was 5.

F.D. sat back down embarrassed. It must be like how those douches at baseball games feel when they try to start the wave and instead get peanuts thrown at them after they trip.

She should have seen the omen. The entire show she was shielding her eyes from the light that was shining immediately into her face. Front and center and the entire show you have a blinding light detaching your retinas. That’s a sign that you suck. Sit down, shut up, and stop being fatter versions of already questionably overweight celebrities.

This is a quick story about irony. It’s the story I tell whenever a child comes up to me and asks me what irony is. That happens more than you’d think. I remember in 11th grade a thin blonde girl asking me the definition. The emo kid in the group gave her an answer that didn’t seem to satisfy her flat-chested brain. It was my time to shine.

In elementary school, we had a guidance counselor. I’ll call her Doctor Z because her last name started with a Z and she had apparently been at school for so long that she was a doctor. The principal of the school was a doctor too. I think the whole school was full of doctors. Yet I still managed to break my leg during recess. Doctors love when people get hurt. I think they purposefully put grease on the monkey bars and paid off that kid to kick me off.

(Not Dr. Zaius)

Doctor Z was a very old woman. Fucking ancient would be the most accurate description. She was robust and needed a cane to get around. Still, that wouldn’t save her from the inevitable.

Doctor Z had one thing that she pounded into our heads. It was that we should always look both ways before crossing the street. She would come into our class and say “Left, Right, Left” to represent the direction your head should go when crossing the street. That’s why we all found it incredibly ironic that Doctor Z had to retire from her job after getting hit by a car.

(Not this guy either)

The whole story behind Doctor Z is unclear. She survived her brush with death and made one more appearance a few months later to say goodbye. She wasn’t well-liked by the students. She was a curmudgeon who would yell at the loud kids for being too noisy and the quiet kids for not speaking up. If we weren’t all 7 years old, I would swear that one of us ran her down out of spite while mumbling “Left, Right, Left” as she flew over the windshield.

If everything I heard about Doctor Z was true, she lived a tragic life. I heard that her adult daughter was the victim of a famous urban legend, the guy who hides under the car and slashes your ankles. It had apparently happened outside of a store called “Cost Cutters” whose symbol was a large pair of scissors, representing the fact that they cut costs. After the murder, they had to take down those scissors. Like I said, I don’t know how much of this was true and how much of it was the adults I knew lying. My babysitter told me that taxes were large spikes that came out of the kitchen floor and that was why I should hate George Bush Sr. No wonder Generation-Y’ers are so dumb. These Baby Boomers have been fucking with our heads since we could walk.

That’s my tale of irony. A woman who dedicated years of her life helping to protect children from getting hit by cars ends up getting hit by one herself. I told that story to the blonde girl who was in great need of a pair of tits. She looked at me, chapped her gum and didn’t get it. Oh well. Some people aren’t meant to appreciate God’s sick sense of humor.

(Dr. Zoidberg from Futurama, kind of looks like my guidance counselor)

You probably call them tart carts. I don’t. I’ll explain why later. Those short little buses where certain students ride on always capture our attention. They stand out despite looking more like a normal vehicle instead of a large stupid yellow bus. These automobiles are a strange thing. It’s wrong to call them tart carts. It’s one of the few things that offend me. Why? Because I rode on that bus.

To clarify, I only rode on the bus for about 2 months. I had broken my leg and my parents didn’t love me enough to drive me to school. A girl with cerebral palsy lived up the street from me, so it wasn’t that inconvenient to pick me up too. I was about to embark on a strange journey. A journey that few able minded children ever do. I was taking a ride on the short bus.

The first thing I learned about riding the short bus was that you shouldn’t look anyone in the eye. Those kids didn’t like that. They’d curse at me if I did. Here I was, sitting in a wheel chair, them having to sit on a sticky seat that matched their sticky hands. Put two sticky things together and you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

I don’t remember what the schedule was, but I do know that at some point I was the only one on the bus that went to my school. The rest went to a nicer school that had air conditioning. Maybe that’s why they didn’t want me looking at them. The sweat from my eyes might tamper with their 68 degree room temperature flesh. The kids that went to the other school were really mean. They didn’t bother me much, but they were not comrades. Not like the short bus riders that went to my school.

I liked the kids that went to the same school as me. They all knew each other. They had their little niche group. You think kids without autism are cliquey? Try riding a short bus with them. I had to remain silent for a month before they would accept me. It was terrible hazing. If you ask them, they’d say it was gentle ribbing. I knew better.

My most memorable thing about this clique was that they didn’t call each other by their names. They called each other by their street names. It took me a while to realize this too. I thought it was cool to meet a boy named Wolfgang, only to discover that his street matched his name. The short buses pull right up to your house so they all know exactly where you live. Maybe that’s why they all got along. If you pissed someone off, they’d take some goons and throw crayons at your bedroom window.

The day I belonged was the day that Fleetwood called me Overton. I was no longer Tim. I could throw away my slave name and go by my street name. My street name that matched the black guy from the UPN sitcom “Living Single.” Finally I belonged.

 

(Actor John Henton, whose character Overton was immortalized after the mayor of my town named a street after him, which I grew up on)

My leg eventually healed and I had to say goodbye to my new friends. The friendship was over before it began. Occasionally in the hallways I would still see Wolfgang, Fleetwood, Flock, MICHAEL CARGILL!!! ,Maple, and Route 33. They’d be going to their classes to learn and I’d be going to mine. I may have looked different now, no longer wheelchair bound, but to them I was still Overton. And always will be.

I wish I remembered more about my days on the short bus. It was brief and really for some reason has faded out of my head. Maybe it wasn’t as interesting as I remember it being. 10 minutes of everyday, trapped on the same vehicle as these other students might not be enough time to really develop into a great story.

Oh and for the record, I don’t care if you call it a tart cart. Coming from me, a tart cart alumni, I feel that my endorsement of the word makes it political correct to say. So go ahead and use it freely. We know we are. We’re whatever street we currently live on. You can’t take that way from us.