In the spirit of that old saying "it seemed a good idea at the time," Jerry looked down at the right side of his body where his arm once was a part of. Nodding his head he muttered to himself, "damn motherfuckers."
See, as the story was relayed to me Jerry, in an act of desperate depravity, gave away his right arm, literally, to go watch his favorite team play a live hockey game.
He scored a ticket off an Estonian scalper who happened to work for the 'Pig' mob in the market for body parts.
Spotting a dumb fucking idiot like Jerry, he made him an offer that Jerry wasn't likely to refuse. They went into the Estonian's van and proceeded to make the transaction. Jerry's right arm for a hockey ticket. "Deal of the century!" he giggled. Two people, a doctor and a female, other than Jerry were in the van. The scalper stood outside looking out for, you know, cops.
Jerry noticed the doctor smoking and nervously inquired, "will second hand smoke kill me?" The doctor laughed mightily and slapped his thigh. "You! Funny!" as he took a massive puff. "It's medicinal."
All the while, his partner sat quietly looking at his watch. She soon broke his silence. "Rod. We're running behind." "Quit hounding me, Lolina." "What's taking so long? Just cut it already."
Rod was transfixed by Jerry's arm for some reason. "It's so soft. Yet, firm. I can't keep my hands off it." "We have a job to do!" Just as she said it, the Estonian scalper pounded the door. "You have arm? Yes?"
"Not yet, Vasily. Hang on." "Give me arm!" he shouted while sipping a cup of hot chocolate.
Jerry observed all that was going on and began to have doubts. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea. I mean, God gave us two arms for a reason, right?" "Yes, he did" replied the doctor. "For you to change hands each time you jack off." "I want out!" Jerry whimpered. "Now, now" Lolina interjected. "You came to us, remembered? Are you forgetting how badly you wanted to see your favorited team played? Imagine all those men...skating...and walking arounded naked at the ended of the game in the lockered roooooomed..."
Jerry said, "Fuck you're annoying how you talk."
"Lolina! Get a hold of yourself you whore!" Rod exclaimed.
"Jerry. A deal is a deal. You're not a squelcher, right?"
"No" he replied. "I do like hockey."
"Sure you do. I'm just gonna administer some "fun-feel-good" syrup in you, Rod will saw off your arm, and we can all move on with our lives."
"Some better than others" Rod said in a low, hush tones as they both snickered.
Soon, Jerry was sedated and only remembers sitting in the nosebleed section watching his team get pulverized by their opponents. "I don't like hockey so much anymore."
He waltzed out of the arena, looking every bit the chooch he is, dejected. He heard a kid crying, "I'd give my right arm" for a jersey.
He grabbed the kid and said while tearing as though he was cutting an onion, "don't do it, kid! It ain't worth it!"
"Let go of my kid, creep!" the father shouted.
"I will when you start being a father! See, see here? See this? I gave my right arm to the team! And what did I get for it?" The father and his son looked away in horror. One onlooker stood and laughed. He said, "Here's a hot-dog, guy."
Jerry took the hot-dog but it slipped through his left hand. He fell to his knees screaming, "Oh, I'm right handed! What have I become!"
He was taken home by the police that night and the rest was history. The team he so loved didn't even offer him a sock. Nothing.
Stirring a cup of tea in the morning, Jerry recognized the folly of his decision. He turned the TV on and so his beloved team on the news.
He raised his left arm and stared at it.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Chicago In Mind
*Takes bite out of cactus pear. Chokes.*
Growing up I had certain challenges.
Pop sez it wuz becuz I drank unfiltered orange juice infested with cockroaches when I was but a mere baby.
Bot I knows de reel troot.
Do you like my funny writing by the way?
I crack myself to sleep every fucking night.
No. Pop was an idiot. Cockroaches never hurt no one. Here's the real reason why.
My brain was invaded by animated cyborg-knights, who for no other reason except to impress a few slutty damsels, began hacking it. I can still hear the laughter and sweet eight syllable rhyming couplets of that old French Christian coot Chretien De Troyes in my head.
I know. Sounds "crazy." Who gets to define that anyway?
Perhaps because I was carefree, I was considered weird in the suburban Chicago school I attended in my dreams. I didn't make many friends, but I had a girlfriend. Oh, Lunetta and your cyrstal eyes peering through my creepy soul! "She was a bit surreal, she painted all her toes and on her face she wore dentures clamped tightly to her nose."
Why, I even brought her home for some good old style cooking. Flummery I think it was.
Mother, a committed Cubs fan, adored her. Everyday she read her stories about H.H. Holmes. We'd go for long canoe rides (Mr. Canoehead, where are you?) on Lake Michigan just to circumnavigate the cul-de-sac shouting, 'Du Sable est mon dieu!'
Pops never joined us because he was obsessed with that stupid, insipid goat. Incidentally, he coined the term 'bah.'
Eventually, I overcame all mental, physical (I was hunched and had two "left" feet) and geographical obstacles and got a job at a used diaper recycling company. I separated the shit from the diaper.
I never got any raises. People struggled with my floccinaucinihilipilification. They also found it disturbing that I kept listening to a recording of this ball game played back in 1932.
The psychologist could prove little.
Praise baseball for providing an escape. Feeling the Wrigley circus wind on my face filled me with much comfort and joy. Growing up, I would sit with my eyes closed, sucking in the Merion Bluegrass scent and absorbing it all. It's how I lost my front teeth thanks to a Johnny Kling liner.
Mother, me and Lunetta still get together to listen to the Cubs.
Although I'm not sure if they hear six feet under.
*Exits in Vaudeville dance*
Fin.
Growing up I had certain challenges.
Pop sez it wuz becuz I drank unfiltered orange juice infested with cockroaches when I was but a mere baby.
Bot I knows de reel troot.
Do you like my funny writing by the way?
I crack myself to sleep every fucking night.
No. Pop was an idiot. Cockroaches never hurt no one. Here's the real reason why.
My brain was invaded by animated cyborg-knights, who for no other reason except to impress a few slutty damsels, began hacking it. I can still hear the laughter and sweet eight syllable rhyming couplets of that old French Christian coot Chretien De Troyes in my head.
I know. Sounds "crazy." Who gets to define that anyway?
Perhaps because I was carefree, I was considered weird in the suburban Chicago school I attended in my dreams. I didn't make many friends, but I had a girlfriend. Oh, Lunetta and your cyrstal eyes peering through my creepy soul! "She was a bit surreal, she painted all her toes and on her face she wore dentures clamped tightly to her nose."
Why, I even brought her home for some good old style cooking. Flummery I think it was.
Pops never joined us because he was obsessed with that stupid, insipid goat. Incidentally, he coined the term 'bah.'
Eventually, I overcame all mental, physical (I was hunched and had two "left" feet) and geographical obstacles and got a job at a used diaper recycling company. I separated the shit from the diaper.
I never got any raises. People struggled with my floccinaucinihilipilification. They also found it disturbing that I kept listening to a recording of this ball game played back in 1932.
The psychologist could prove little.
Praise baseball for providing an escape. Feeling the Wrigley circus wind on my face filled me with much comfort and joy. Growing up, I would sit with my eyes closed, sucking in the Merion Bluegrass scent and absorbing it all. It's how I lost my front teeth thanks to a Johnny Kling liner.
Mother, me and Lunetta still get together to listen to the Cubs.
Although I'm not sure if they hear six feet under.
*Exits in Vaudeville dance*
Fin.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
The Chapel In The School
It was 1989 in the school's Chapel. Let's call it St. Ambroise for the pointless sake of it. Back when chapel's in public institutions didn't cause a silly, freakish uproar among pseudo-rationalists, secularists or pain in the ass complaining atheist taking the state to court over trivial bull shit. You heard me. Fuck 'em.
Not that I'm religious. I just don't like people forcing their views on others is all.
Our insane - though it could never be proven on a piece of paper signed by those who know how to certify such things - Irish catholic priest was at his priceless, vulgar best.
His weekly diatribes were enough to rile a pack of psychotic boys (again, no proof) revving and itching to stir trouble. After swearing his way through a moral fable (I swear. I fucking swear Aesop wrote the Bible and no one is telling us the truth), he proceeded to go and sit in his quarters to listen to Confession.
Confession. As in, forgive me Father for I have sinned. Now, it's a tough subjective game this confessing sins thing. I once asked a religion teacher for a play book so I can keep tabs of what human transgressions Catholicism deemed sinful. Without it, I felt aimless. I mean, is manipulation of stocks or a girl you want to bang a sin per se?
I get easily confused and when I'm messed up internally, I ask empty questions.
No one went into the Chapel. It's 1989 again, remember? We all sat in silence refusing to go. Then, we had the idea, and don't ask why, of doing a human pyramid...in the Chapel.
It was quite a bizarre endeavor. It's not everyday you get a rough and tough kid like Tommy Ferino seizing the artistic reigns for the sake of making trouble. He carefully selected which of us would be placed on the pyramid. Ponzi would soon beckon him in the future.
Just as they were getting to the top, the Priest, probably wondering what was going on, came out. My bad. Sorry. The priest had a name. I forget to formally introduce people sometimes. His name was Father Cox. No joke. He never had a chance.
My friend once told me a story of the time he went into the secretary's office and someone was behind the copying machine fiddling around trying to fix it. As he spoke to the lady, the man blurted as he was getting up, "somebody has been fucking around with the fucking wires."
It was the good Father.
Another story. Actually told by my brother-in-law who graduated, say, 12 years before me. He too had Father Cox. One year he took his class on one of those spiritual getaways in the woods to "find oneself." I forget what you call them but I'm sure some marketing asshole has. I think those things are bull shit. Wood, grass, ponds, pond scum, and frogs have nothing to say to you. They have their own shit to take care of.
While the kids were starving in the cold outside, a couple of them went walking around to find the old man. Turns out Father Spirit Guide was sitting down in a cabin eating steak and eggs by a warm fire.
Do as I say...
The pyramid was not a sound structure. A look of brief disbelief suspended in thin air as we stared at Father Cox waiting to see what this nutcase was going to do. I wasn't in the pyramid but I still remember watching the standoff with delicious contentment. Suddenly, he said just as our morals teacher walked in, "get these assholes out of here" and down came the pyramid crumblin' and tumblin' to sacred ground.
Next thing we know, it was Delta Tau Chi redux. Guys were scattering for safety trying to elude the teacher. Why, I'm not sure. The rebellelion spilled over into the hallways and soon the Principal and other teachers were in the hunt searching us.
Shows you how stupid we were. Instead of just sitting down we decided to scatter like brainless monkeys.
I found myself running with Eric who was eating a bag of carrots and celery.
It was an especially tough spot for me as I was in enough trouble that week. I had been kicked out of a significant amount of classes and it had become apparent to the professionals shaping the country's future perhaps I wasn't going to be all that productive for society. I hate the word "society." It screams "follow this blue print" and therein laid my biggest problem: Conformity.
I feared it. Still do. It has made my life a living hell because the basic premise of our "social" and economic and all other bull shit associations like political parties, is conformity.
Part of conforming is accepting orders from dipshit morons who have no business giving orders in the first place. Not for me, man.
I was afraid of getting expelled. Weird. I knew I wasn't taking school seriously and that my behavior was far from impressive. I never told a teacher to fuck off though. I just didn't find that had any comical value. Plus it just wasn't cool. Maybe I was afraid of trying...and failing.
I told Eric I couldn't get caught. So we returned back to the Chapel by that time existing in peaceful spirituality. In other words, it was empty.
I rattled off a few nervous questions. "What do we do? Where do we hide? Why do we need to hide? How did it end up like this? Maybe I should just quietly go back to class? Why can't I just be a god damn good student? What if..." Eric was quietly and calmly eating listening to me while examining a door. He opened it and said, "how about in here?" "Father Cox's private bathroom?" I asked.
"It's the safest place. Principal Mariano will not look in here." Sounded logical to me.
In we went.
While absurdedly standing in a cold, tight bathroom, all I heard was Eric biting into his vegetables. "Want a carrot?" he asked in the dark. We didn't even bother to turn the light on. "Sure." There we stood eating carrots for a few seconds when our logical plan broke. The principal swung the door open. He saw two students eating carrots in the Priest's bathroom. He was stunned and asked, "Wh-what are you doing in there?"
Now that I think of it, I hope he didn't think...
"Nothing, sir." Eric said. "Get to class this second."
Off we went.
"Not you!" he said to me. No, you go to room 1B right now!"
I was given a severe warning. I think they saw no point in giving anything more. It's called cutting your losses.
As I left the office, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Not that I'm religious. I just don't like people forcing their views on others is all.
Our insane - though it could never be proven on a piece of paper signed by those who know how to certify such things - Irish catholic priest was at his priceless, vulgar best.
His weekly diatribes were enough to rile a pack of psychotic boys (again, no proof) revving and itching to stir trouble. After swearing his way through a moral fable (I swear. I fucking swear Aesop wrote the Bible and no one is telling us the truth), he proceeded to go and sit in his quarters to listen to Confession.
Confession. As in, forgive me Father for I have sinned. Now, it's a tough subjective game this confessing sins thing. I once asked a religion teacher for a play book so I can keep tabs of what human transgressions Catholicism deemed sinful. Without it, I felt aimless. I mean, is manipulation of stocks or a girl you want to bang a sin per se?
I get easily confused and when I'm messed up internally, I ask empty questions.
No one went into the Chapel. It's 1989 again, remember? We all sat in silence refusing to go. Then, we had the idea, and don't ask why, of doing a human pyramid...in the Chapel.
It was quite a bizarre endeavor. It's not everyday you get a rough and tough kid like Tommy Ferino seizing the artistic reigns for the sake of making trouble. He carefully selected which of us would be placed on the pyramid. Ponzi would soon beckon him in the future.
Just as they were getting to the top, the Priest, probably wondering what was going on, came out. My bad. Sorry. The priest had a name. I forget to formally introduce people sometimes. His name was Father Cox. No joke. He never had a chance.
My friend once told me a story of the time he went into the secretary's office and someone was behind the copying machine fiddling around trying to fix it. As he spoke to the lady, the man blurted as he was getting up, "somebody has been fucking around with the fucking wires."
It was the good Father.
Another story. Actually told by my brother-in-law who graduated, say, 12 years before me. He too had Father Cox. One year he took his class on one of those spiritual getaways in the woods to "find oneself." I forget what you call them but I'm sure some marketing asshole has. I think those things are bull shit. Wood, grass, ponds, pond scum, and frogs have nothing to say to you. They have their own shit to take care of.
While the kids were starving in the cold outside, a couple of them went walking around to find the old man. Turns out Father Spirit Guide was sitting down in a cabin eating steak and eggs by a warm fire.
Do as I say...
The pyramid was not a sound structure. A look of brief disbelief suspended in thin air as we stared at Father Cox waiting to see what this nutcase was going to do. I wasn't in the pyramid but I still remember watching the standoff with delicious contentment. Suddenly, he said just as our morals teacher walked in, "get these assholes out of here" and down came the pyramid crumblin' and tumblin' to sacred ground.
Next thing we know, it was Delta Tau Chi redux. Guys were scattering for safety trying to elude the teacher. Why, I'm not sure. The rebellelion spilled over into the hallways and soon the Principal and other teachers were in the hunt searching us.
Shows you how stupid we were. Instead of just sitting down we decided to scatter like brainless monkeys.
I found myself running with Eric who was eating a bag of carrots and celery.
It was an especially tough spot for me as I was in enough trouble that week. I had been kicked out of a significant amount of classes and it had become apparent to the professionals shaping the country's future perhaps I wasn't going to be all that productive for society. I hate the word "society." It screams "follow this blue print" and therein laid my biggest problem: Conformity.
I feared it. Still do. It has made my life a living hell because the basic premise of our "social" and economic and all other bull shit associations like political parties, is conformity.
Part of conforming is accepting orders from dipshit morons who have no business giving orders in the first place. Not for me, man.
I was afraid of getting expelled. Weird. I knew I wasn't taking school seriously and that my behavior was far from impressive. I never told a teacher to fuck off though. I just didn't find that had any comical value. Plus it just wasn't cool. Maybe I was afraid of trying...and failing.
I told Eric I couldn't get caught. So we returned back to the Chapel by that time existing in peaceful spirituality. In other words, it was empty.
I rattled off a few nervous questions. "What do we do? Where do we hide? Why do we need to hide? How did it end up like this? Maybe I should just quietly go back to class? Why can't I just be a god damn good student? What if..." Eric was quietly and calmly eating listening to me while examining a door. He opened it and said, "how about in here?" "Father Cox's private bathroom?" I asked.
"It's the safest place. Principal Mariano will not look in here." Sounded logical to me.
In we went.
While absurdedly standing in a cold, tight bathroom, all I heard was Eric biting into his vegetables. "Want a carrot?" he asked in the dark. We didn't even bother to turn the light on. "Sure." There we stood eating carrots for a few seconds when our logical plan broke. The principal swung the door open. He saw two students eating carrots in the Priest's bathroom. He was stunned and asked, "Wh-what are you doing in there?"
Now that I think of it, I hope he didn't think...
"Nothing, sir." Eric said. "Get to class this second."
Off we went.
"Not you!" he said to me. No, you go to room 1B right now!"
I was given a severe warning. I think they saw no point in giving anything more. It's called cutting your losses.
As I left the office, I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
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