I was born during that blackout a few years back so it was pretty dark in the hospital and no one really knew what was going on. Hence the horrific forceps scar on my face and the screwy spine and the weird foot. Doc used his zippo to see which gender I was and that didn’t work out too well for me either.
When I started junior high, kids couldn’t decide how to make fun of me so they went with calling me Just Generally Gross.
Last summer I got a job acting in a commercial for Coke White, a milk-colored soda that Coca-Cola hoped would resonate with the Caucasian market. All I did was sit there while the narrator said the famous slogan: Feel like this asshole looks? Maybe Coke White will turn shit around for you, I dunno. Then I sipped some through my special medical straw and was transformed by video trickery into an erotic white lady. That made me about $27,000 after taxes.
I used the money to pay my classmates to shorten my nickname to The General, and it mostly stuck. It’s a little thing, but names are important and I think it’s changed the way that one girl Melissa sees me. The winter dance is coming up and I really wouldn’t mind going with her. I’m not the greatest dancer but I can see us hanging out on the back steps, talking about our teachers, maybe I loan her my coat, maybe we can see some stars, maybe somebody says something funny.
I hear my daughter scream and am in her room in two breaths. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust but then I see the giant spider-leech creeping in through her window. I snatch the scythe I keep dangling over her bed for just such an emergency and am about to hack away when the monster puts up four or five twitching legs in defense and cries, “Don’t, man!”
I say give me one good reason and it chitters: “I just want to be friends. I’m so lonely. I’m the only one of my kind.”
My daughter tells the giant spider-leech to fuck off back to hell but I tell her to calm down. I invite it inside and ask where it came from and it says Phoenix originally. My wife sticks her head in and her hair turns white and she goes insane. The monster spies our dog Lt. Furpants and wraps him in some kind of gross cocoon and consumes him whole. Now my kid is having a full-on temper tantrum so I tell her to go get a fruit roll-up and take it down a couple notches.
I apologize for the histrionics and the giant spider-leech—sorry, Sha-Golgoth the Soul Raper—and I enjoy an invigorating, wide-ranging chat. It “accidentally” strokes my leg with a viscid tendril. We drain a box of Chablis. By dawn we’re across state lines in a rental car filled with the stench of nervous, giddy intercourse, driving full-bore into an unwritten future. I glance in its 1,000 eyes and notice a hint of doubt but decide it’s nothing, nothing.
KNIFE FITE Chapter 78
I’m at the salad bar tonging some cukes when I notice the maître d’ running at me, brandishing a dagger and bellowing syllables. KNIFE FITE, my mind cries.
I grab a butter knife and flip it into a reverse grip, pikal-style, to deflect his attack. It is a KNIFE FITE. Our weapons clang terribly. I block out the shrieks of nearby scared ladies. I use deception, feints, speed, ferocity and controlling tactics. I do a wild flip and sever the sciatic nerve in the back of his thigh, ending the skirmish.
Later, in jail, I have time to ponder why I get involved in so many KNIFE FITES. It seems wherever I go someone wants to challenge the king. I guess it’s kind of my burden?
I look up from my reverie and see my cellmate coming at me with a shiv made out of a piece of toilet. I shake my head and grin ruefully for it is yet another KNIFE FITE [to be continued]
—Did you just karate something in there?
—Why do you ask?
—I heard a girlish shriek and a bad noise.
—Come on in here and feast your eyes.
—I knew it. You’re out of breath and nude except for my bra wrapped around your head, I assume as some sort of makeshift hachimaki? And Bey’s crib lies in splintered fragments at your feet. Why did you do this.
—I had to karate something. You know how it is when you have to karate something.
—Where is our child going to sleep?
—I dunno, the futon? The woods? Who cares.
—You’re just like my father and that’s why I love you.
—Check out this boner!
Anyway I’m keeping it real at the OfficeMax, there in the printer paper aisle, feeling pretty good about being born and alive and in this moment. Not to brag but I’ve got some extra bills in my roll since the Lady Speed Stick settlement so I decide to splurge on the Premium Elite. I figure my beautiful words deserve to nestle their heads ‘pon something with a precipitously high thread count, so.
I go home and the glistening ream sits there for about a year because I don’t write anything, choosing instead to focus on eating lots of different kinds of cured meats and perfecting my crying jags. But then one day I type out a poem I think is worthy of being printed on the good stuff and staplegun’d to that one telephone pole out by the train yard where the tougher, edgier writers post their work?
So I open the package of paper and slide out a sheet and notice it’s covered with bloody fingerprints! I resolve at once to get to the bottom of this mystery. I fashion a magnifying glass from a shattered bottle of gin on my bedroom floor and some nearby licorice. I peer in close and immediately recognize the distinctive “tri-tittied” whorl pattern on the print—for it is mine!!
Then I realize I cut my fingies on the edges of the Premium Elite. They are extremely sharp! Clean-close-shave, cut-to-feel-something sharp. I nod, impressed. I feed the bloodstained page into the printer, which I got for free with the purchase of a 22 oz. Slurpee, convinced it would make my poem even better because what is poetry but one’s own passionate bloody gore splashed upon the page? Like, the page of society?
I pass out from blood loss, come to, reread the poem (Do you dare strike / Dat ass / And ride the quivering quake / To the foul Cauldron within), set the whole pack of paper on fire and then stare at nothing for a while, gnawing on a Hickory Farms Summer Sausage, vowing to try again next year.
Welcome to the latest installment of MyGiene or Bathroominations or ToileTreats or My Many Smells or I dunno I’m still workshopping the title.
As you all know, I’ve been an Old Spice man since small times, often smacking a generous handful of aftershave upon my prepubescent cheeks before letting a young lady beat me at Tempest. And the scent of its musk deodorant will always transport me, madeleine-style, to the night I became a man in Yosemite National Park (picnic, lightning, a glimpse of one boob off in the distance).
And I’ve gone on record about my turgid enthusiasm for the look of the Fresh Collection, such as DENALI, which I feel is something Indiana Jones would keep in his dopp kit alongside his stubble trimmer and whip wax and no condoms.
This enthusiasm extended to the Wild Collection and I eagerly snatched up the WOLFTHORN edition, assuming it would give me the heady scent of your average Tywin Lannister, say: hot blood, leather sweat, hooer stank, etc.
So you can imagine my disappointment when the resulting odor was playful, insouciant, even fruity. And I do not idly dispose of unused toiletries so I have stuck it out with this thing for weeks, doing untold damage to my rep in the Denver area.
It gets worse. I picked up the new soap from the Fresh Collection, in its signature FIJI scent. My hands trembled as I delicately opened the box with my coke nail. But the bar inside looked like the misshapen bone of some rightfully extinct dinosaur dick. Flat on one side, way too arched on the other, it neither felt comfortable when held in the hand nor when erotically stroked along my manly pink skin. Plus it didn’t wash off too good and smelled sort of yuk, which made me wonder if my devotion to Fresh was purely aesthetic.
So it’s back to Dove MEN+CARE for me, whose gentle, feminine curves and rejuvenating stench continue to be a delight.
Let me conclude, as always, with a shameful admission. For about five years I abandoned Old Spice entirely for … for Axe Dry. I know. But despite the shitty-tattoo design and wretched reputation of its Body Spray, the various smells of its deodorants were distinctive yet subtle, much like myself. I feel them calling to me even now.
Thus I find myself at an impasse, pit-wise.
My Teenage T-shirts
Back then I liked everything from college rock to alternative rock!!
(My mom paid me five bucks to never wear that Nirvana shirt again. She used it as a dust rag.)
About ten years ago, kfan wrote this:
When I’m old, here’s how I’m going to describe the early 21st century: We were always having to provide people with content.
I’m thinking the 2013 version might be: We were always wanting people to ask us something, anything.