Of bendy things.

Me: Don’t hurt yourself, girl.

Girl: I won’t get hurt, I do yoga.

Me: Bendy chicks are hot. I’ll happily be [whatever the female Gumbi’s name is] horse.

Clever title describing a shit parade post.

-Well yeah but I don’t see what that has to do w…
-Most likely because you’re an imbecile.
-Oh thank you. I do my best.
-An imbecile is not a positive thing.
-I don’t have a knack for big words.
-Imbecile is not a big word. You’ve been called it so much you think it’s positive.
-Positive like HIV?
-Holy shit! Really, dude?!
-I’m in no position to ascribe or bestow titles of “holy” on inanimate objects so I am of no help.
-Did your brain give up the ghost? Have you no ability to communicate?
-It was not haunted. I believe that’s what we’re doing here, no?
-Are you a panderer of stupidity?
-I’m not Asian nor am I a bear. You like to ask questions. Any more on their way?
-Utter sadness limits me from talking to you anymore.

Foolishness

-Balls and sacks, man! Did you build your house upon the sand?
-I’m not an architect and don’t know anything about being structural soundness or unsoundness. Frankly I don’t see what that has to do with anything.
-I’m saying you’re a foolish, foolish man. Scratch the –ish suffix which indicates partiality or a likeness, you are a fool.
-It is my understanding that I am not a fool.
-Reality is never ordered but always served, guy.
-Pretend I’m Argentina and cry for me.
-Pass.
-Why am I so pathetic?
-Great question. I have some guesses. Genetics? Horrible luck? For other people’s entertainment? Take solace in your one achievement. You’ve superlatively completed fool training and are now unrivaled in your foolishness. Put that in your back pocket.
-None of those things make me feel better.
-You saying that makes me feel better. I wish a boxer would come along and beat my eyes shut so I no longer have to look upon you. Hopefully the punches jostle any memory I have of you out of my head. Please die.

Bitch.

A girl that once upon a time used me to make her ex-boyfriend jealous then hooked up with my best friend just recently contacted me via Facebook. What’s funny is that she remembers it as good times and that she wasn’t a total bitch. I vividly remember actual events. Performing the most minimal and cursory analysis by way of a couple email exchanges yielded ample evidence of her advanced retardation. Ha ha, silly bitch!! I’m glad we never ended up dating.

I can't help it.

Friend: Creep!!

Me: Not yet, I would need to grow a moustache to complete the creep ensemble. Meanwhile, any want a ride in my van? No? Well I’ll be at the local elementary if you change your mind.

Classy

Friend: That’s how I roll.

Me: You should try walking…less bruises, cleaner clothes, etc. All bonuses if you ask me.

Friend: Well I didn’t so shut it.

Me: Pardon me, I didn’t realize I was talking to a lady.

A made man.

“Hey you! You in the glasses! Come here! I need your four eyes to keep watch.”

Realizing the mobster was speaking to me, I pushed my glasses back up the bridge of my nose to their rightful spot and puffed up my chest hoping to add a few years worth of growth to my meager 14 year old frame.

“What’s the action?” I asked eager to begin my life of crime.

“Kids are still saying that these days? Unoriginal bastards,” he mumbled.

“Yessir!” I replied misconstruing it as a compliment. Mobsters swear amongst each other by way of showing respect. Being called an illegitimate child was a high form of praise. I couldn’t believe I was already gaining respect within moments of meeting this guy. I wonder if he was a made man. I surely would be in a few short months if I continued to garner respect at this rate.*

“You ever picked a lock, kid?”

“Yes I had to choose a lock for my high school locker last week. The store had a wide variety but I think I made an excellent decision.”

“I thought nerdy looking kids were supposed to be smart.”

“If you saw the lock I selected from amongst the myriad that were displayed, you would call me a genius.”

“Whatever you say, kid. What I meant was have you ever opened a lock without a key? I was going to have you play lookout for me but I can’t seem to jimmy this lock. My fat fingers disallow the dexterity needed. Too much pasta I suppose.”

“Why would you need me to look out if it’s your place? Why don’t you have a key, mister? This would be much easier with a key.”

“I…uhhh…musta left it at work cause I can’t find it in my pockets. I need you to watch for my friend that’s coming to pick me up. Make sure he doesn’t enter my house because he abhors hygiene and I don’t want him touching anything. The neighbors don’t like kids yelling around here so once I get in whistle if you see him or anyone coming. I have an important meeting that starts in a few minutes and don’t have time to run to the office and get my key off my desk. Be a good boy and help me out? There’s a shiny fifty cent piece in it for you.”

As one prone to losing things I could commiserate and understand his predicament. This man was not dressed like he was going to attend a meeting of importance. In fact he looked a little downtrodden. This man seemed like a good dude so I accepted even though a fifty cent piece was as worthless as tits on a boar. Vending machines and arcade games don’t accept fifty cent pieces. I could always get it converted to 2 quarters at a bank or convenience store. I didn’t want to let my fellow gangster down. We gangsters have to stick together.

My decision to help was not solely predicated upon aiding a fellow gangster; I admit I also wanted to show off my hand skills. I am very good with my hands. Just ask any of the girls in the neighborhood. I knead a mean set of boobs.

My nimble fingers quickly familiarized themselves with the tools he provided as well as the inner workings of the lock’s tumblers. Mere seconds later a simple twist of the wrist sprung the lock.

“A natural, huh? That could come in handy. Wait here,” he whispered as he vanished into the darkened interior of the dilapidated building.

I took a seat on the stoop and entertained thoughts of where I would live when I became a made man. Surely not in a shit hole like this place. The wooden door was sufficiently warped so as to not fully conceal the interior from the elements when it closed. A drafty house was something I’d grown up with but never became accustomed to. As a gangster, these and other manifestations of being poor would be recalled and recounted with humor over lobster and champagne. I didn’t know what champagne tasted like or what it really was but I’d heard that’s what wealthy people drank and so I imagined it was good. Lobsters the size of small children and rivers of champagne filled my thoughts until I heard a commotion upstairs. Clumsy bastard must’ve tripped over something in the dark. The thought that I’d just referred to him as a clumsy bastard made me feel good. I was starting to think and swear like a gangster. What kind of gun would I carry? A Dirty Harry .45 revolver or an easily concealed Derringer? Both? Why not? The right to bear arms is plural, right?

While I was practicing drawing my imaginary guns, a man rounded the corner and was headed toward me. In my excitement of becoming a gangster, I forgot to tell the man upstairs that I didn’t know how to whistle. That didn’t stop me from trying like hell as the man continued my way like I had a tractor beam on him. The man looked me square in the eyes, chuckled and asked, “You playing an imaginary trumpet or having a seizure?”

“I’m working on new O faces cause your mom says she doesn’t like my current one,” I replied fully enjoying my newfound gangster role. I felt embarrassed cause only feebly minded fools use mom jokes. Remember I was only 14 and had not yet cut my teeth in shit talking.

“Big words for a pipsqueak. Why don’t you get off my steps and run along before I clobber you,” he said as he rustled my hair.

“Sorry Charlie but you don’t live here and I can’t let you in. You’re unclean.” If I would have had my guns, I’d be poking deep dimples in his fat belly with the gun barrels to strengthen my words.

“You can’t let me in? You?” he asked as he grabbed his belly and laughed with all his might. His mirth annoyed me. I have been referred to as a sex machine, a tripod and many other things but never a punch line. This would not do.

“Glad to hear you at least cleaned the dirt out of your ears so you can hear me. Why don’t you run up the street and get us a couple doughnuts. I know you’re hungry. Better yet why don’t you run in place for a minute cause you look like you sweat doughnuts, you portly bastard.” I am definitely going to be a made man in a couple months, listen to me. I sound like I’ve been doing it for decades. Guys like me make moves. We ascend quickly. Surely this man was as convinced as I was. I swore appropriately and respectfully. No doubt he would tell the boss to promote me past levels usually reserved for peons. No grunt work for me. No sir.

SLAP!! Riiiiiiiinnnnnnnng. What the hell was that ringing and what the hell made that noise. When did I learn to fly? My brain was incapable of processing the questions for a few seconds.

I looked around from atop a summit of garbage bags. How did I get here? I looked up and saw the rotund man standing on the stairs yelling something in my direction. I knew he was yelling from seeing the protruding veins in his neck and the spittle flying out of his mouth but I heard nothing. Nothing but constant ringing. Did I just get bitch slapped off some stairs?

To be continued…

*Clearly the extent of my knowledge of gangstering was nominal.