I Won’t Read Your Books Or Look At Your Art

Seems I owe someone an apology.  To the degenerate who broke into my car, I humbly apologize.  It seems my cane was in the mudroom the whole time.  I was wrong.

*     *     *

I think playing Borderlands 2 is starting to affect me negatively.  Every time I go to power level, I usually do it in Pyro Pete’s bar.  Every half hour during my grind I’ll hear one of the architects holler “there’s that loser bandit!”.  I’m fine with that.  I get all kinds of demented assholes calling me names and quoting Shakespeare.  Name-calling has never affected me.

The only problem now is that I am getting sick of being called a loser bandit.  Even to the point where I want to freak out when I’m called a loser bandit on the street.

This one time, I punched a guy

*     *     *

The other day my friend Jessica blithely mentioned she needed a vibrator.  It’s not unnatural for her to say something like that to me.  We’ve been friends for many years.  I asked her if there was a used vibrator store she could get an inexpensive one at.  She was mortified and disgusted by the notion.

I don’t know man.  I think I’m onto something here.  You ever hear of some of the things women do to each other?  Well I’ve heard of many nightmarish and grisly things.  I haven’t watched any of the videos and rarely will I even let someone tell me the story in great detail.  That type of thing is just not for me.

A used vibrator store though.  Hmmmmm.

*      *      *

I went to read How To Win Friends And Influence People the other day.  I’m not one to read self-help books.  I came really close to opening it but then I got to thinking.  I’m a smart guy.  I can figure this out on my own.  Then I spent the entire afternoon thinking about it while hiking with Queen Hell.  I thought of the two most effective way to make friends.

1.  Become a coke dealer.
2.  Die.

*     *     *

The garden out back is coming along ok.  I’m impressed with the transformation.  I really wish I would have taken pictures of what it looked like before we started working on it.  I use the term “we” loosely.  Queen Hell has been doing most of it.  I just do the grunt work that requires my brute force.

I am a tree.  I have green fingers.

*     *     *

When we lived in Beaverton I used to watch the fat guy across the street, Bob Soper, beat his wife, Christine, from my studio window.  Apparently Bob was an ex-cop.  So he told me.

From the first time I witnessed a beating, I trained Edie to shit on his lawn.  He caught on after a few weeks and asked me politely to stop.  I tried.  But by this point Edie wouldn’t shit anywhere BUT on his lawn.  I explained this very eloquently to Bob.  He begrudgingly told me it would be fine as long as I cleaned it up.

Well I wasn’t prepared to let him off that easy.  So three times a day I would let Edie out and she would shit on his lawn.  I would go over after with a bag and pick it up, or so I wanted him to believe.
I was actually only pretending to pick it up.  I went through the motions of picking it up.  Like I would literally bend over with the bag and pretend to pick it up but I would just leave it there.

After a week of this he had my number.  One beautiful Saturday morning I went over for a pretend poop pickup and he was standing there smoldering with his arms folded.

“I know you’re only pretending to pick it up.”  He snarled.

I blinked innocently.

“That’s ridiculous.  What kind of idiot would go through the motions of picking up a benign turd as opposed to just picking the thing up?  That’s a hell of a lot of trouble to go through just to get out of picking up dogshit.”

Bob took a step toward me pointing a finger accusingly.

“You would!  That’s who!”  He growled through clenched teeth.

I shook my head incredulously as Edie took care of her business by the Bob’s prize winning petunias.  Bob pointed a fat finger in Edie’s direction.

“Go clean it up, smartass.  I’m going to stand here and watch you.”

I shrugged my shoulders and sauntered over to the poop.  On my way over I looked toward one of his windows.  I smiled and winked.

Bob exploded.

“You just wink at my wife?!  STAY THERE!”

He ran into the house with impressive velocity considering his girth.  There were the sounds of hollering and fist beating.  While this was going on I pretended to pick up the turd.  While I was bent over I slipped an unwrapped tootsie roll into my bag.

I waited patiently for the beating to end and the guy to come back out.  After a few more minutes the guy emerged from his house.  I waved the bag with the tootsie roll in it at him.  He nodded impatiently.

“Get the fuck out of here before you get a firewheelpaindeal.”

He punched the palm of his hand for effect.  Therefore an explanation for a firewheelpaindeal wasn’t necessary.  I went back to my studio.

I did what I usually did.  I wrote some of the best music ever written by man.  About a half hour later there was an angry knock at the door.  I answered it to the angriest purple face I’ve ever seen.

“Hi.”  I said.

Bob angrily showed me the poop in his bare hand.

“What the fuck is this?”  He demanded.

I did my best to look stupefied.

“Well sir, I hope it’s a fucking tootsie roll to be in your bare hand like that!”.  I retorted.

“It’s more shit!”  He thundered.

The rage in his gravelly voice was funnier than it was scary, and it took a lot to stifle my laughter.  It wasn’t going to work.

“Ok look, Mr. Soper.  I showed you the shit after you gave Christine the ultimate wife beating.”

He threw the shit on the ground in a rage.

“There!!!  Now it’s on your fucking yard!  And if I find another piece of dog shit on my yard I’m going to weld both of your assholes shut!  I’ll be watching very closely in between wife beatings!!”

Bob stomped off before I could get another word out.  As soon as his bulk lumbered around the corner and out of sight I let it all out.  I laughed until I choked.

The next morning I headed back to Bobs.  Edie crapped on the yard.  I picked it up and left a tootsie roll in its place.

Bob exploded from the house.

“A-ha!!!”  He screamed.  “I got you now douchebag!!!”

He yanked the bag out of my hand.

“What’s this?!  More chocolate?!”

Mayor John Grant rushed over having heard the commotion from his mayoral office/insurance sales/bed and breakfast.  He glared angrily at Bob.

“Look Bob.  The people of Beaverton are sick of your woman-beating ways.  You need to stop these shenanigans at once.”

Bob reached into the poop bag.

“Fuck off, Mayor John Grant!  Here!  Have some chocolate!!!”

Bob shoved the turd into John’s face.

Then the world exploded.

 

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Posted by: Doug Hell on