Monday, May 18, 2009

My First Beer Stand

I was pretty sure I had thought of (and usually done) almost every silly thing on Earth... until Saturday night. I'm as suprised as you will be that it took me until almost age 32 to take part in this caper:An an impromptu and illegal roadside beerstand!Let's back this thang up, and explain how it started, then we'll get to how it ended. Me and Pokey Pants and my roommate "Juan Valdez" were staying in drinking beer and watching metal videos on VH1 Classic at about 1:30 a.m. when our bright idea started to form.Pokes said, "It's about time for all the drunk people to start stumbling back from the bars and right by the house."Usually, we are those people, but when we're not them, we love to watch them. People are always fucking, fighting and fraternizing on the sidewalk in front of my house here in the historic neighborhood after the bars boot them out at two. It's always great fun, you never see the same dumb shit twice.Right after Pokey said this, we all kind of looked over at Juan's marker board that was sitting out in the living room for no apparent reason. Apparently, one bolt of mind-lightning hit all three of us at once and we were all laughing about how it would be fun and funny to set up a beerstand on my porch and sell the drunk people booze as they walked home. Then we stopped laughing. Uh-oh. Our dumbasses were suddenly serious. This was not good. But this was, in fact, very awesome.Juan, was the first to act by writing "BEERS: $3" on the marker board. At my suggestion, he made the "R" backwards. Pokey, who is a nurse and almost thirty and a girl and should know better, was suddenly decorating the sign up with pictures of beer bottles and little squiggly lines that somehow convey "buying roadside beer is fun!" I love her for not knowing better. Nothing is more annoying than girls that try to stop me from my antics. None have ever succeeded, none ever will. This one often out-me's me. Next thing we all know, the three of us were out in my yard scoping out the street. We knew the cops would be driving up and down the street, so we did a hilarious mafia style speed set-up. Whenever drunk groups of people would get within 30 feet of my raised front lawn steps, we would rush out, drop a table down put the sign in front, set up a box of Miller Lights and Coors Lights, put on our baseball caps all goofy like Dennis the Menace and then we'd start hocking our product like 1920's newspaper boys: "Bee-yahs! Get'chey Bee-yahs! Fresh and cold! Only Three Doll-ahs! Only beers in town at this hour!"The first few groups of people were too drunk or too horny with each other to buy a beer or even laugh at us. Then this pair of brown-haired girls came walking by and we thought we had a sale, then the big one almost fell down from an irregular bump on the old-ass sidewalk, and she said, "That's why we don't need to be buying anymore beer!" Touche.Then, two guys in a truck waved at us from the other side of 5th avenue, did a u-turn, parked in front of my house, turned their lights off, and got out. It was a white South African and a Southern guy. Africa said, "We were looking for drugs, but couldn't find'em, and we figured a fucking 2 a.m. beerstand had to be even more fun than drugs. How often do you see this shit! Put us down for two Miller Lites."While these guys turned out to be very cool, we suddenly realized how a roadside beerstand can quickly become just like a regular bar. First, these guys had to piss. My yard is too public to be pissing in (even if maybe some guy, I don't know who, may have accidentally done it on the front porch in the daylight once last year. I didn't say who, and I never said it happened,) so suddenly me and Juan felt obligated to let these two strangers in our house to wiz. At least these guys were, cool, But what if they weren't?Then we got a third customer. It was some cute, but very talkative, Irish girl. She was barefoot and in her pajamas and talking about how she was wandering the streets because minutes earlier, she had walked in on her live-in boyfriend shagging down with a girl that was not her. Just like real bartenders, we had to pretend we cared while she rambled on. This was getting too real.Then a fourth customer came up. He was a bartender from some high class bar I've heard of but never been to. He was the other roommate of Ireland Chick. Now we had four drunks, nice, but still drunks, on our front steps buying beers from us and making a mess. Shit, we forgot that if you have a bar, you gotta clean up a mess left by your drinkers. Me and Juan were now bartenders, bathroom attendandants, and janitors. This was becoming a job... and we had only been doing it for 25 minutes. And Pokey wasn't getting off easy, either. I said, "You're the sex-appeal in this operation. When the men order beers, you should serve them, that'll make'em keep drinking more. You're legs are prettier than mine or Juan's." She laughed and obliged.After 2 or 3 rounds, our drunks started getting louder. I said, "Guys, we gotta keep it down just a little. I have one neighbor, Mr. Wilson, who hates me and all people on Earth. He is always out to get me for having a good time."They laughed and said, "You guys are dressed up like Dennsi the Menace and you really have a Mr. Wilson that's out to ruin you? That's crazy!" I said, "That irony has never been lost on us. He even looks like he could play Mr.Wilson. He's always trying to stamp out my fun." So now we were, as bartenders, having to monitor noise-levels and the occupancy level of my yard. This was a job for sure. And then we realized that if Ireland's cheating boyfriend was to show up, we'd have to hire a bouncer as well. Between all of these things and having to flip our sign around every time the cops drove by, we decided our improvistionial beerstand had been a success. So we closed up the bar, sent our new friends/customers on their way, and watched two of the guys leave in a vehicle with beers we had sold, and decided we had just escaped trouble once and should never do this again. Then again, we're dumb, so we probably will.

(P.S. I finally got my PC fixed, but I can't use it until Juan returns from PA, so I can use his spyware copy. Then I can bother you guys back more.)

Thursday, May 14, 2009

I saw this happy fat chick walking by me pushing a cart full of food with her mom, and I noticed something bizarre. She was really happy! Even though she was really, really fat! (More on that a little later.)
This girl was one of those weird looking fat chicks that was super-fat, but still had a shape to her. You know how most obese people turn into some sort of shape that is a mix between a gumball and a meatball and maybe a little bit doo doo ball? Well this fat chick wasn't like that. She still had defined body parts like hips and legs and shoulders and things. It was weird. Don't get me wrong. She wasn't hot. In fact, she was very not hot, I'm just saying, at 300 pounds you could still tell her belly from her boobs. It was so freaking perplexing!
So back to her being happy. This chick had a glow. She was just beaming. It wasn't a regular-happy, it was a super-happy; a specific super-happy. Then I realized what it was:
"Oh my gosh, somebody is boning her. And not only is someone boning her, that person also loves her... a lot."
You'd think that would be a good thing. You think wrong. My advanced super-simean brain realized this was actually a TERRIBLE thing. I know you're gonna going to be all simple-minded and try to cock-block my reasoning before I explain to you why this fat girl being loved is a bad thing. You'll say, "Oh, come on, Withers. Can you just not be so damn, you know, "Withersy" for once and let things just be as they are? Can you just admit for once that something really is just the way it is on the surface? Why can't you just see things the way the rest of us do and simply admit that a fat girl being loved is a good thing?"
I'll tell you why I can't do that. Because it's not true! Now, if you'll shut up and quit preaching at me for a second I will explain why I'm right and you're wrong. And ultimately, why I am an overall better person than you, as well.
OK, think about it. This fat happy girl at Wal-Mart who is receiving wieners and love - she's feeling good about herself, right? And what do all people do when they are feeling good about themselves? They keep fucking living the way they are living. You're not gonna change it up when you've got a good thing.
So if that's the case (and it is) then what's going to happen to our extremely-loved and over-sexed superblob? She's gonna keep doing what she's doing. That's right, she's gonna keep eating. And we all know that when you keep on eating, you keep on fatting! And the fatter you get the more you risk catching terrible diseases. When you go fat, you increase your risk of diabetes, heart disease, ugliness, cancer, overall smelliness, and thyroid problems.
Do you really want our happy fat girl to lose a foot? Do you! Yes, I know that technically counts as losing weight, but it's still not right. And think about this, if this overly happy fat chick keeps being treated like an actual human being by her boyfriend, there's a chance she could wind up married and pregnant with his baby. I know that sounds good, but remember, the baby's Mom is a fat chick - so if the baby crawls out the front door it's over! Her fat mom will never be able to catch her and she'll end up being raised by river rats. Do you want rat babies roaming your yard at night? And let's say the baby doesn't escape, her mom's still a fat, fat, fatty and will likely die an early death due to a heart attack due to the strain caused on her heart by a strenous session of sitting. Now the baby is motherless and left alone with her dad. And lord knows that guy can't raise her! I mean, a dude that likes superfat chicks obviously can't be trusted to make decisions in serious matters like child care. And besides, he's the reason we're in this predicament in this first place.
If he had just acted like a normal guy and ignored the hell out of the entire existence of this fat girl, one of two things would have happened A: She would remain fat and die early and alone with a big tub of molasses, but no lonely offspring. Or B: She would do like a normal girl and hate herself for a while and then get her ass to the gym (or barf her way there) until she was in good enough physical condition that she was now deserving of the love of a man. And as an added bonus, her babies would never become river rats.
So inconclusion: it is immoral to love fat people. We should shun them for their own good. If not for them, at least do it for their children. River rats, people, river rats. I know everything. You heartless people that love the fat disgust me. How do you sleep at night?

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Unnnecccessarrry and stupid

I was leaving my day job as a newspaper reporter in Surf City to go to my other day job as a radio guy in Wilmington. On this particular day, I was to be the fill-in news/traffic/ and weather boy on a couple of radio stations. So the irony of me almost dying in a car wreck on my way to broadcast the location of deadly car wrecks was just one of the funny things about to happen to me in a matter of seconds.

I was on highway 17 behind two girls that were doing what every idiot driver in this lovely part of North Carolina likes to do: they directly beside each other!

That's so fucking unnecessary! And stupid.

Looking beyond them, I saw a big truck broken down in the emergency lane about 1500 feet ahead. Like a normal person, I moved over to the left lane to give the guy some room, in case he needed it.

Like every other idiot driver in this lovely part of the state, Miss Right Lane didn't even see the guy. She was becoming so unnecessary. And she was already stupid.

So as I was in the left lane, behind the two side-by-side girls approaching the part of the highway with the broken down truck on the side, I was pretty sure what was going to happen.

As we got about 75 feet from the truck in the emergency lane, Miss Right Lane predictably freaked out like that truck had just appeared and slowly swerved over (of course without looking) into the left lane that was occupied by Miss Left Lane.

It was so unnecessary for her to move over at that point because the truck wasn't crossing the line into her lane. It just would have been polite for her to have done it earlier. And it was so very stupid of her to have swerved into the left lane, since she had been riding directly beside the other stupid girl for two fucking miles! But she did it anyway.

Somehow, Miss Left Lane and Miss Right Lane (who were both in the left lane) had managed to be within inches of each other, but hand't actually made contact yet. What was even better?

They were both unaware of it. I was aware of it before it happened, and they had no clue during the actually happening of the damn thing. Neither one knew of the other.

I knew at least some minor dumb shit was gonna happen so I started putting mild pressure on the brake. However, I saw it unnecessary to believe some major shit was really about to go down. Looking back, that was stupid of me to believe any Eastern North Carolina drivers would have any lick of sense. Great! Thanks to them, I was now also in on being unnecessary and stupid!

It was funny at first to watch these girls look left and right into each other's cars catch the realization of each other's existence at the exact same moment. What wasn't funny was when these two dumb girls both slammed there brakes on that I estimate took there cars down from 70 miles an hour to a nearly instant 30 miles per hour! Stupid and Unneccessary! Stupid and Unnecessary! All they had to do was swerve apart and go two different speeds. There was no need to squeal to a near stop on an open highway as a team! You know why? Because the person that got fucked was me!

Because I assumed they weren't extreme morons, I had to check the median, and then take my chances since I now had no chance of not plowing into at least Miss Left Lane and maybe Miss Right Lane, too.

So the next thing I know, I am taking my Ford Mustang through an unkept flower field that quickly turned into an unkept field of weeds. At first it was fun. I remember thinking, "Damn, these flowers smell great. I love spring!" (Seriously.)

Then I looked over to realize how ridiculous it was that I was in a field and still passing a girl on a paved highway. And I looked in her window and was really mad that she never even saw me passing her five feet to her left in a field. She had no idea! How dumb can you be? The answer: that dumb! Thanks to her I just took a sports car 250 feet through a field!

Then it started to get tough. I was going through loose dirt with tight steering. I'd say 7 out of 10 drivers would've lost control. (I really think it's 9 of 10, but I'll be nice.) I hung on and fought the cars desire to freak out on me and came to a stop just left of the left lane.

I was amazed that I didn't hit any random median items like a drink cooler or auto parts or shit like that you usually see in places like that. I was not amazed at my great driving -that is forever. I can't fix'em. But damn, I can run'em!

As I was waiting to get on the back on the road (Miss Left and Right Lanes had re-passed me.) I saw that the Bronco behind me was going to let me back on the highway. I thought man, "They just got a hell of a show!

Just as I was pressing the gas to leave the median, I looked over and saw something I had never seen laying in a median. Something I would have run over if I had proceeded ten feet further through the field.

It was a dead bear!

A dead adult bear.

Every part of him was squished except his skull. I had no idea bears lift in this part of the state! Beach bears? Seriously? Wow.

Once I got back up to speed and got in the right lane, the Bronco passed by me and a 12 year Mexican fat kid gave smiled and gave me an "Arsenio Dogg Pound" to compliment my skill. I wanted to smile back and acknowledge him, but instead I figured I should do the adult thing and glare at him a look that says, "Boy, I just returned from hell," so he would take auto safety seriously when he grows up.

30 miles later, I got to the radio station and told a sales guy what happened and all about the bear and he said, "Really? Terri reported that bear accident yesterday. The city was supposed to dispose of it properly. Those bastards threw it in the median where they thought no one would see it. Sons of bitches."

The sons of bitches didn't think the only person to find their improperly disposed of bear would be the other radio guy who reports dead bears. Weird.

P.S. I have not the energy or the concern to learn to spell unnecessary properly. Who cares, it's stupid.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

My Fart

I wouldn't normally write about a fart. But this was no normal fart. It may have been the most violent fart of all time. And it happened to me yesterday.

I was walking out of the Pizza Place and to my car to deliver a pizza. As I got close to my car, I stopped to rip a fart in the parking lot. And rip I did.

It seemed like a normal fart at first. Then this awful burning sensation went up and around both of my butt cheeks. It left me frozen and burning all at once. I couldn't move, but my butt cheeks were burning. The most intense burning lasted about 8 to 10 seconds. Then it tapered off and stayed at a merely painful level for the rest of the night. Yes, my butt burned for the rest of the night - not my butthole. My butt hole was fine, it was my buttcheeks that burned. I'll admit it, I even stuck my hand down my pants to see if I had sharted them - I hadn't. This was all from a fart.

When I got home, I put Preparation H all over my inner-butt cheeks. They burned in a line on each side from my butt hole to near the top of my butt crack. I've never had a hemerroid, I just keep the H around, because it's our Wriscey Family Wonder Drug. I use it for days when my butt cheeks have rubbed each other raw from walking all day. Mom uses it for cracks in her feet. And I can't remember why my sister uses it, but it's not for hemorroids.

Anyway, I went out drinking with Pokey Pants and told her how that one singular fart had torn my butt cheeks up. She asked to see it. I told her no. I said, "I'm not bending over to show you the inner-workings of my ass and how it was affected by a fart!" She said, "But I'm a nurse, I need to see it......Fine! I'm just gonna look at it when you go to sleep."

God help me, I tried to outlast her, but apparently I fell asleep first. And I was drunk and h___.

The next morning Pokey Pants said, "I don't believe your ass!"

I said, "I don't believe you saw my ass. You're lying, right? You didn't look at my butthole and all when I was sleeping did you? I'd have felt it."

She laughed and said, "You don't believe me? Then stick your hand in your butt crack."

I stuck my hand in my butt crack and my eyes got big.

Pokey laughed harder and said, "You think you pooped your pants don't you."

I nodded my head yes. I was stunned.

Why did I shit myself? How did Pokey know about it?

Pokey kept laughing and said, "You didn't shit yourself. That's lotion. But that's proof that I got all up in your ass! I told you I would! After I looked at your poor butt, I felt the need to lotion it up. Your welcome."

Then Pokey gave me her diagnosis.

She said, "I seriously don't believe what I saw. That was all done from a fart? Those two long raised pink lines got there from a stinker? Wow!"

When I swore it was all from a fart, Pokey said, "You know I see shit that looks like that all the time. Just not on asses. I have no doubt then what happened to you. I know what it is. But you're not gonna believe it when I tell you...................."

".....................You're fart burned you!"

I can believe that. I lived through that fart! I couldn't forget that fart if I wanted to. That fart will haunt me forever. That thing burned, man. I mean, for real. I don't mean it burned like a match. I mean, that shit burned by a campfire. And I've got the scars to prove it. Something is way wrong with my ass.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

So I went to the Relay for Life Cancer Walk last night as an assignment for my newspaper. I already wrote a story previewing it earlier this week. My only assignment was to take photos. In fact, my editor told me I didn't even have to go. But something compelled me. My pizza job boss let me have the night off to go take pictures. Don't ask me why I felt I had to go, I would've made more money delivering pizza. But I went. I went determined, for what I didn't know.

The walk was at the Topsail High School Track about 30 miles from my house. There were probably 800 people there. I forgot my press pass. Which wasn't a big problem. No one stopped me from being there. The reason I hated leaving my pass was that it looks weird for a grown man without a press pass to be taking photos of kids he doesn't know. And you think being a woman is hard! Ha! You can photograph and play with all the kids you want and nobody glares at you.

As I took pics of the Cancer Walk. I noticed a tent for a team of walkers named "Walking For Julie." There were dozens of other teams with names and tents, but something told me to get a story from them. I ignored whatever was telling me that. Besides, I wasn't supposed to get a story, I was just supposed to take pictures. I continued walking around the track and taking pictures.

Then I passed the "Walking For Julie" tent again. And something told me to get their story. I ignored whatever was telling me that again and I continued walking around the track taking pictures.

I passed the tent a third time and all the same shit happened. Voice spoke. I ignored. Then ended up back there again.

After the fourth time in front of "Walking for Julie's" tent. I said in my head to the voice: "Fine. I'll get the damn story. I didn't even bring a notepad. I'll have to record the interview into my phone!"

I went up to one girl and an older lady that looked like they were the head of the group. I said, "Hi, I'm a newspaper reporter. Can I ask you about your team?" They said "sure."

I first asked them if they had purchased one of the luminaria bags that had just been lit up along the track in honor of cancer victims and survivors. The girl said, "Yes. We have one for Julie."

Me: Is Julie here?

Girl: Julie was supposed to be here.

Me: What happened?

Girl: She died Monday. She had lung cancer. She was 34. She was from Burgaw.

Me: My Pokey Pants lost her mother Monday to Breast Cancer. She was 54. She was also from Burgaw.

Girl: This is Julie's daughter. She's three.

Me: Can I photograph you guys with the luminaria bag lit up with Julie's name on it?

Girl: Sure, we'll have little Alyssa hold it.-----------------------------------------------------

I took three pictures of them for the paper. Two were great. Then I interviewed Julie's sister.

She was young, blond, and hurt. She spoke into my phone for about two minutes during the interview, then her voice cracked and I could hear too much sad in her. I'm a reporter. But I'm still a person. I cut it short and her eyes thanked me. She had already given me enough. Then as I walked by the little girl who was obviously too young know just how dead her mother was, I walked in the direction of Julie's husband, Bubba. I know that name sounds made up. It's not. Bubba was a big country boy. And his eyes were defeated. I politely asked him a question I knew the answer to. I said, "Do you want to add anything about your wife to the story."

He said, "What's there to say. It's not a matter of if it gets you. It's when it gets you. I think she already said all there is to say."

I don't know what Bubba meant, but I think I knew exactly what he meant to mean.

I was going to stick around and take pictures of the 9 o'clock ceromony, but I already had enough.

I went home and waited for Pokey Pants to come over. When she walked in, I felt compelled to show her my photos and play her my interview from my assignment at the Cancer Walk.

This was weird because Pokey shows almost zero interest in my radio or newspaper careers. She reads nothing I write, and she hears me only by accident on the radio. So I never share my work with her, because it hurts to see her not really care. It's almost the only thing annoys me about her. Anyway, last night I felt compelled to share with her my work.

She saw the photo of the two women and the little girl on Team Julie. Pokey said, "That little girl, Iknow her. Is her dad a big country boy?"

Me: "Yes."

"I know them. Her mom was my mom's next door neighbor at the hospital. She went in the same day as Mom. She was a young girl. She had lung cancer. How's she doing?"

Me: "She died. On Monday."

Pokey Pants: "Mom died on Monday. They went in the same day and died the same day?"

Me: "And there both from little old Burgaw."

I still don't know what to make of this. Why was I compelled to approach Team Julie? Why was I compelled to tell Pokey about it? What am I supposed to do with this?

A few hours ago, I produced a morning show for a preacher in this town. During commercial, I told him what I just told you. I said, "I don't know what to make of it? I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it."

He said, "I don't know, either. Maybe, you're not supposed to know, yet. But you're off to a good start. You are willing to recognize it, whatever it was. It wasn't a coincidence. You know you were supposed to talk to them. Just take it from there, and don't try to force what you're supposed to do with it. If you're supposed to know, you'll know."

He's right. And I don't know.

If I don't, then you can't

As you know, Pokey Pants lost her mother to breast cancer on Monday. The funeral was Thursday. I wrote a bit about it in the last blog. BTW, before I start this story, I want to give a quick story on last night.

Last night, me and Pokey were walking back from the bar and I told her, "Y'know, it's funny. When someone loses a parent they often say two conflicting things. They'll say, "I'll tell you one thing: I know that woman is definitely in heaven. And I'll tell you another thing: there is definitely no God." Hilarious.

I then turned serious and said, "Pokester, have you started hating God? Or maybe have you quit believing in him?"

She said, "Nope..."

And what she said next might make you cry. That's not my intention. And I may be wrong. But don't say I didn't warn you. It makes me tear and smile at once.

She said: "...I wanted to do a little of both. I wanted to hate him. And I wanted to not believe in him. But Mom told me from her deathbed that if she didn't feel that way, then I wasn't allowed to feel that way, either."

Typing that was almost too much. It was tougher than hearing it the first time.

I'll tell the story I was getting to later.

Thanks, yall.

Thanks yall for the nice wishes to my Pokey Pants. I still have a borrowed computer that won't let me comment on other pages. It's picky about where I can navigate. I hope to fix it next week. I got a bizarre story that's been tapping at me coming up. It happened yesterday. Stuff like it happens all the time to me, but I almost never get used to it. I'm bout to get started on it, while I simultaneously produce a live radio program at some forum.