Tuesday, July 28, 2009
My Video Game For Girls
I have decided to make a video game for girls called, "Damn You, Toucan!" Here's why I'm doing it. You see, some of you girls can't stand when you have a great day. Yall know who you are. I call you "Crappy-Happys." Because girls like this are only happy when life is crappy. Seriously, we all know who yall are! When Crappy-Happys have nothing to bitch about, they bitch about that. Or they find their personal self-destruct button and do something to wreck their own shit, so they can be in a miserable bliss again.But for that pissed off happy girl that just doesn't have time to make everything around her suck, I've invented a video game that lets her live out lovely misery through television. It's called "Damn You, Toucan!" Here's how the game works:Your character is a young on-the-go attractive woman who is just trying to make it through the day. But for some unexplained reason, this damn toucan keeps showing up and happily telling her awful news. He really enjoys messing up your day.For example, the girl in the game is just trying to make it to yoga class, but as she's walking to her car, that damn toucan shows up and starts flapping his wings and hovering in front of her face and says this, "Hooo Hooo! Hooo Hoooo! You just got your period! Hee Hoo!" And then he flies away. But as he's flying away, there is one button you can push on the controller. It makes the girl shake her fist in the air and yell out, "DAMN YOU, TOUCAN!"And then just to be funny, a little later in the game, he shows up and say, "Hooo Hoooo! You DIDN'T get your period! Hee Hoo!"As your yelling "Damn you, Toucan," he turns around and says, "And the guy that did this to you is an artist! Hee Hoo!"FUCKING DAMN YOU, TOUCAN!"You're hating my toucan already, aren't you?Here are some other things the Damn You Toucan will say in the game:"Hoo! Hoo! It's your mother calling on the phone. She's calling to ask you if you're ever going to get your life together. She'll give you hell if you answer! She'll give you hell if you don't answer! Hee Hoo!""Hoo Hoo! That handsome, charming rich guy at the bar that's talking to you and your best friend is going ask you to agree with him that she is the most beautiful girl he's ever seen. What an accidental ass! Must suck to be you! You have to agree with him to be nice! Hee Hoo! Hee Hoo!""Hoo Hoo! You've gained five pounds! And you've been working out and dieting! Hee Hee! Hee Hooo!""Hoo Hee. You're waiter's about to tell your sister that she has a beautiful mother. He's talking about you! Heee Haahhh! Heee Hahhh!"Damn, even I'm starting to hate that Toucan. He's a dick. It's hard enough being a girl all alone in this world just trying to make her way. The last thing you need is some fucking Fruit Loop Bird showing up and wrecking your shit. That's your own job! I know! I'll make it where at the end of the game, you win a gun and you get to shoot that damn bird... and eat him. But you know he'll just go straight to your thighs. Heee Hoooo! Heee Hoooh!
Jokey Joke
Yeah, the first night of comedy went well. I got a good buzz on. Not because I think I'm only funny drunk. (I can be funny either way.) I was just worried the nerves would get to me up there.
So me and Pokey Pants and Kaveman went down there. I asked the guy in charge if I could go on, he said I could.
Man, I was nervous. Not on stage. I was just nervous waiting to get on stage. I drank a lot of beer and stepped out for a lot of cigarettes between comics.
Then he called me up. As soon as I got up there, the lights were bright as shit. I couldn't see anyone. (I couldn't see them unti ltowards the end when my eyes adjusted.) But I could hear them. They were laughing. I told a story about what happened when I was a teenager. When my friend wouldn't shut up about how big his dick was, and how I challenged him to a good old fashioned dick off just to shut him up. It's a great story. I don't want to give it away if you don't know it.
Anyway, the crowd laughed a good deal, but I could see their eyes looking at me in disbelief. Not at disbelief in my story, but at disbelief in the fact that I would tell it. Oh, they don't know me! Shame is lame, for me - that night was tame. They would elbow each other with looks that said, "Why would he tell us this?" Why not?
After the show, most of the comics were as nice as they were before the show. But some became dicks to me. I know why.
CUZ I DID GOOD!
They can be petty little girls all they want. I just want everyone to do well. But I will admit, I asked Pokey Pants how good I did while Kaveman was in the bathroom. She told me I was no doubt third biggest laugh-getter, besides a guy from Jersey and a guy from Raleigh. (Raleigh was a dick to me. Jersey became a dick to me the second week. Bitches.)
Then when Kaveman came back, I asked him. And he said the exact same thing Pokey did. And they swore they hadn't talked about it to each other. So if I can do better than 3 out of 12 guys my first time out. I'll take it. The second week went the same way.
If I can make it to the open mic this week, I think I'm gonna tell a story about how I ate German Shepard shit on purpose when I was 17. You think I'm kidding. I don't joke about joking.
So me and Pokey Pants and Kaveman went down there. I asked the guy in charge if I could go on, he said I could.
Man, I was nervous. Not on stage. I was just nervous waiting to get on stage. I drank a lot of beer and stepped out for a lot of cigarettes between comics.
Then he called me up. As soon as I got up there, the lights were bright as shit. I couldn't see anyone. (I couldn't see them unti ltowards the end when my eyes adjusted.) But I could hear them. They were laughing. I told a story about what happened when I was a teenager. When my friend wouldn't shut up about how big his dick was, and how I challenged him to a good old fashioned dick off just to shut him up. It's a great story. I don't want to give it away if you don't know it.
Anyway, the crowd laughed a good deal, but I could see their eyes looking at me in disbelief. Not at disbelief in my story, but at disbelief in the fact that I would tell it. Oh, they don't know me! Shame is lame, for me - that night was tame. They would elbow each other with looks that said, "Why would he tell us this?" Why not?
After the show, most of the comics were as nice as they were before the show. But some became dicks to me. I know why.
CUZ I DID GOOD!
They can be petty little girls all they want. I just want everyone to do well. But I will admit, I asked Pokey Pants how good I did while Kaveman was in the bathroom. She told me I was no doubt third biggest laugh-getter, besides a guy from Jersey and a guy from Raleigh. (Raleigh was a dick to me. Jersey became a dick to me the second week. Bitches.)
Then when Kaveman came back, I asked him. And he said the exact same thing Pokey did. And they swore they hadn't talked about it to each other. So if I can do better than 3 out of 12 guys my first time out. I'll take it. The second week went the same way.
If I can make it to the open mic this week, I think I'm gonna tell a story about how I ate German Shepard shit on purpose when I was 17. You think I'm kidding. I don't joke about joking.
Fun With My mini-review
I will now critique the critic from the Star News today about my part of a comedy show. (He wasn't really doing a critique, just a write up. Probably a nice guy.This excerpt is about me. He just didn't get my name.)
"Back at Nutt Street, a guy who's doing stand-up for the second time in his life is in the midst of a rambling but somewhat amusing story about a crazy, drunken night he and his friends had in Savannah, Ga.
Sherrill waves his lighted cell phone screen from the back of the house - a sign the fledgling comic needs to wrap it up - but he either doesn't see it or doesn't know what it means, and plows ahead with his story.
Sherrill doesn't seem to mind too much, however. He says one of his goals is showing the ropes to new comedians, who will bring their friends out to the open mics and, hopefully, to see touring comedians on the weekends, like Saturday's performance by Gene Renfroe, who's appeared on Comedy Central."
NOW CORY CRITIQUES HIS CRITIC
1. OK. He did get right that it was only my second time. Good job newspaper reporter!
2. Did I ramble? Probably. I was drunk. I'll start doing this sober after maybe the fourth time.
3. "SOMEWHAT amusing?" My story was damn amusing. Never trust a newspaper reporter to tell you what is and isn't funny. Newspaper reporters aren't funny. I should know... I'm a newspaper reporter! (Wow! Did I just blow your mind, too. I proved that guy to be wrong. And I proved him to be right. All at the same time. I just did a mobius band of logic. "He's wrong about what's funny cuz he's a reporter. But I'm a reporter, so I'm also not funny. Which makes him right me not being funny. But he doesn't know what funny is, because he's a reporter. So now I'm funny again? Maybe we're both not funny. That's the ticket.
4. "A crazy drunken night?" While we were, in fact, drunk in the story, that's still a mischaracterization. The story was about me pretending I knew Kung Fu to scare off an attacking drunken Australian who looked like John Rocker." Back me up, Byron.
5. "He doesn't see it or doesn't know what it means." Reporter boy is right, but he left something out. He's right, I didn't see the wrap light (no one told me we had one) at first. Then I did, but I just thought it was some jackass playing with his phone. Comedy lights are bright. I couldn't even see the audience. But what reporter boy left off was that I politely said into the mic, "Oh shit, am I stepping on other people's time. I'm sorry. Gimme sixty seconds and I'll wrap this shit up and make room for the next guy." I may be abrasive, but was still raised right. I'm Southern, you dick.
I give reporter boy a B-. He didn't get it all right, but he can't be expected to. Reporters are as detailed as they are funny. Translation: they wish they were both, but they'll never be either.
Example: I didn't even know there was a newspaper reporter there and I am one!
"Back at Nutt Street, a guy who's doing stand-up for the second time in his life is in the midst of a rambling but somewhat amusing story about a crazy, drunken night he and his friends had in Savannah, Ga.
Sherrill waves his lighted cell phone screen from the back of the house - a sign the fledgling comic needs to wrap it up - but he either doesn't see it or doesn't know what it means, and plows ahead with his story.
Sherrill doesn't seem to mind too much, however. He says one of his goals is showing the ropes to new comedians, who will bring their friends out to the open mics and, hopefully, to see touring comedians on the weekends, like Saturday's performance by Gene Renfroe, who's appeared on Comedy Central."
NOW CORY CRITIQUES HIS CRITIC
1. OK. He did get right that it was only my second time. Good job newspaper reporter!
2. Did I ramble? Probably. I was drunk. I'll start doing this sober after maybe the fourth time.
3. "SOMEWHAT amusing?" My story was damn amusing. Never trust a newspaper reporter to tell you what is and isn't funny. Newspaper reporters aren't funny. I should know... I'm a newspaper reporter! (Wow! Did I just blow your mind, too. I proved that guy to be wrong. And I proved him to be right. All at the same time. I just did a mobius band of logic. "He's wrong about what's funny cuz he's a reporter. But I'm a reporter, so I'm also not funny. Which makes him right me not being funny. But he doesn't know what funny is, because he's a reporter. So now I'm funny again? Maybe we're both not funny. That's the ticket.
4. "A crazy drunken night?" While we were, in fact, drunk in the story, that's still a mischaracterization. The story was about me pretending I knew Kung Fu to scare off an attacking drunken Australian who looked like John Rocker." Back me up, Byron.
5. "He doesn't see it or doesn't know what it means." Reporter boy is right, but he left something out. He's right, I didn't see the wrap light (no one told me we had one) at first. Then I did, but I just thought it was some jackass playing with his phone. Comedy lights are bright. I couldn't even see the audience. But what reporter boy left off was that I politely said into the mic, "Oh shit, am I stepping on other people's time. I'm sorry. Gimme sixty seconds and I'll wrap this shit up and make room for the next guy." I may be abrasive, but was still raised right. I'm Southern, you dick.
I give reporter boy a B-. He didn't get it all right, but he can't be expected to. Reporters are as detailed as they are funny. Translation: they wish they were both, but they'll never be either.
Example: I didn't even know there was a newspaper reporter there and I am one!
Friday, July 24, 2009
update, sort of.
I did some comedy last week and then this week. I'll talk about it when I have more time. I can tell you this. It went really well both times.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
I'm going to do it.
Next week, I am attempting my first real time doing open mic stand up. I went last week to scope it out. I honestly think I can be funnier than all but one of them. I may bomb, though. You never know. I can tell that if I do well, those dorks there will hate me. They are like some gang of snobby nerd virgins... who aren't as funny as they think they are. They weren't being themselves, they were barfing up shit they've seen on comedy central. Wish me luck.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Just one month into my first radio job, they asked me to fill-in as side-kick on this morning show for a day with some guy I had never met. Little did I know I was about to meet my "Let's destroy this fucked up world and laugh the whole time we're doing it" soul mate.
I showed up at 5 a.m. just like they asked me to. When I walked in the studio this bald guy who was about 30 was sitting on the floor quietly, but not peacefully, reading the newspaper. He looked up from the paper and said, "Nothing fucked up happened last night at all. Nothing! We're gonna have to come up with our own shit again today. I hope you got something to talk about, because we got four hours of show to fill. What's your name again?"
I told him my name and he went back to searching the paper for relevant material. (I don't know why - it was 2002; we had internet.) I stood over him scared and uncomfortable in the tiny studio and he looked up at me again and yelled, "What the fuck man! Everybody talks about how goddamn good these people are like Jerry Seinfeld. Fuck Jerry Seinfeld! That fucker writes one hour of material and repeats that same shit every night all over the country for a year. And everybody's all like, "Yay, Jerry Seinfeld. You're so great! You're one act is so fucking funny! You're the best! Yay!" FUCK JERRY SEINFELD! Jerry Seinfeld doesn't do what I do. I have to come up with four hours of shit every day, five days a week, and I have to start coming up with that shit at three in the goddamn morning! Fuck Jerry Seinfeld. He couldn't do what I do."
As the show started, I stood on one side of the desk at my mic, and he stood straight across from me facing me and handling the controls. As he did weather reports and traffic, he would sometimes stop talking, turn of the mics, bend down, puke in a trash can, come back up, turn on the mics and finish his traffic report, then puke again.
"Me and the wife got fucked up last night. I got four kids. When the wife wants to get fucked up, dammit, I don't care if I have to work the next day - we're fucking doing it."
Then he told me that he thought he needed to spice up his marriage by secretly having anonymous sex with other women. (Which was weird, because I went on to know the guy going on seven years, and he never once came close to even touching another woman's shoulder. Looking back, I know this was just one of his weird ways of testing me - to see if I would tell other people in the building what he said. He never, ever had any intention of ever cheating on his wife. This was the case for two reasons. He told me that he had banged enough girls when he was single, so he never felt like he got shorted. As a third party once told me later: "Most of us married guys lie and try to pretend we did nothing but bang hot women all day long when we were single. But most of us weren't that awesome. But that guy - I witnessed it. If he tells you a story about crazy things he did with crazy numbers of women, he's the one married guy that isn't lying! We had to issue him an official company memo barring him from contact with the sales staff. We hated doing it, but those girls weren't getting any work done. That guy's dick was gonna make this radio cluster go broke. Thank God he knocked that dear woman up and married her! It saved all of our jobs!"
The other reason the dude never cheated on his wife was this:
"Dude, if I even kissed another woman, my wife would stab me in my dick. What? Quit laughing. I'm not fucking with you. This dick of mine... would no longer be. But it wouldn't matter. She'd kill me, too. You think I'm fucking around. If I cheat on my wife, say goodby to me. I'm dead with no dick and my wife's in jail. You think I'm joking. You'll meet her. You'll know."
I met her.
I know.
She's a wonderful country woman. A wonderful country woman who would stab her husband in the dick and kill him for kissing another woman. She banned me from eating at her house because I didn't finish my chicken. It didn't matter that it was a sudden dinner invitation when I was dropping her husband off right after we had eaten 4 pieces of car lot pizza. I talked to her yesterday and she invited me to dinner and then immediately uninivited me because "you didn't eat all my fucking chicken." It's been seven years. That was yesterday. Still, I love her.
I eventually went on to be the third guy on that morning show. It was always my friend and some other guy (we went through 5) co-hosting the morning show with me out on the streets calling in to give out prizes to the public. I usually wore a costume.
The good thing about my friend being married was that he was constantly getting me girls from work. He was doing it because "Someone's gotta fuck'er. And I obviously can't. And I hate every other motherfucker in this building, so dammit you're gonna do it."
We even had a secret morning show-rule. As the third guy, I would usually come in and join the show at seven (to save money on payroll,) but if I had gotten busy with a new girl: I was allowed an extra hour to sleep in.
But there was a catch. In return for the morning guys letting me sleep in for an hour, I had to agree to tell them all about the sex. (Not on air. I'm not that tacky. And I'm only writing this because only one person from around here reads this blog. And I think she's unshocked by me by now.)
A couple of times I accidenally messed with the sanctity of the rule. I learned the hard way.
One day, I came into the morning show studio an hour late and the two married guys looked at me eagerly with jaw-dropped smiles on their face and both of them were holding out double-thumbs ups at me and saying "Yeah? Yeah? Yeah?"
I broke their vicarious married-guy hearts. I said, "Oh, no. I didn't get any new stuff. I just over slept. I got real drunk last night. Sorry guys."
They got fucking pissed! The older host (late forties) gave me a damn lecture like I've never recieved. "You have violated the sacred rule! You can't tease us like this. You know the deal. You only come in an hour late, if you got some pussy. And you better damn well tell us about it. Look, bud! We're married guys! Our lives boring. We live through you. And when you come in here an hour late without a story, it's the worst kind of tease you can imagine. We're counting on you. Next time you're late, it better be because you got your rocks off all night, and you better tell us all about it!"
And then another time I came in an hour late and the guys did the same double thumbs up retard smile and I said, "Yeah! Me and Nicole had us a session last night!" And they said, "Nicole? NIIII-COLE! You've been banging her for like two weeks. We're tired of Nicole. You can't come in an hour late for fucking Nicole. You better get your single ass back out there and pull in something new for us, if you value your sleep, you bastard! Nicole? NIIII-COLE!"
So back to my buddy that I first met puking in a trash can. We worked together for four and half years before I left that company. And while he was secretly one of the most moral people of ever met (he hates people knowing that), he became my misbehaving partner. We got in so much trouble for doing so much bad stuff; at the radio station and on remote location. I can't tell you how many conferences he and I got pulled into with the suits for acting up.
During one particular lecture he told the GM and the OM the folowing thing that you won't believe. He got in trouble for saying somone was a cunt. He didn't call her a cunt. He said she was a cunt at his desk to himself. Another girl heard it and reported him. Regardless, during the meeting with the two men in power, he got out of his chair and gave a speech. "Gentleman, I can tell that I'm not going to lose my job for this particular offense today. However, let's be real. You are the two men that will one day fire me. It could be tomorrow, or it could be in ten years. But at some point you'll have to fire me."
They looked back at him like they disagreed with him, even though he was telling the truth. So he giggle at them and dance with finger guns pointed at them and said, "Oh, come on guys! It's okay! Let's not pretend you're not gonna do it one day - you'll have, too. I'm at peace with it. But when you do - gentleman - promise me this: When you fire me, do it at night. I've been getting up at 3 a.m. everyday for ten years. Please don't make me get up early and work all day when you know you're gonna fire me at ten a.m. Just fire me at night and let me sleep in. Can we shake on that?"
And these baffled old men shook his hand in agreement. Those guys didn't get my man, but I did. And he knew that, too. He whispered, "I've worked for these fucks for ten years and they still don't know how to handle me. Wow! Clueless."
So my man got fired last week. And that part's fine. It's radio - we get fired. We get fired when we deserve it. We get fired when we don't. We get fired when it rains. But you know when they fired him? At ten a.m.! He didn't deserve that shit. I hope his wife stabs those two men in the dick.
I showed up at 5 a.m. just like they asked me to. When I walked in the studio this bald guy who was about 30 was sitting on the floor quietly, but not peacefully, reading the newspaper. He looked up from the paper and said, "Nothing fucked up happened last night at all. Nothing! We're gonna have to come up with our own shit again today. I hope you got something to talk about, because we got four hours of show to fill. What's your name again?"
I told him my name and he went back to searching the paper for relevant material. (I don't know why - it was 2002; we had internet.) I stood over him scared and uncomfortable in the tiny studio and he looked up at me again and yelled, "What the fuck man! Everybody talks about how goddamn good these people are like Jerry Seinfeld. Fuck Jerry Seinfeld! That fucker writes one hour of material and repeats that same shit every night all over the country for a year. And everybody's all like, "Yay, Jerry Seinfeld. You're so great! You're one act is so fucking funny! You're the best! Yay!" FUCK JERRY SEINFELD! Jerry Seinfeld doesn't do what I do. I have to come up with four hours of shit every day, five days a week, and I have to start coming up with that shit at three in the goddamn morning! Fuck Jerry Seinfeld. He couldn't do what I do."
As the show started, I stood on one side of the desk at my mic, and he stood straight across from me facing me and handling the controls. As he did weather reports and traffic, he would sometimes stop talking, turn of the mics, bend down, puke in a trash can, come back up, turn on the mics and finish his traffic report, then puke again.
"Me and the wife got fucked up last night. I got four kids. When the wife wants to get fucked up, dammit, I don't care if I have to work the next day - we're fucking doing it."
Then he told me that he thought he needed to spice up his marriage by secretly having anonymous sex with other women. (Which was weird, because I went on to know the guy going on seven years, and he never once came close to even touching another woman's shoulder. Looking back, I know this was just one of his weird ways of testing me - to see if I would tell other people in the building what he said. He never, ever had any intention of ever cheating on his wife. This was the case for two reasons. He told me that he had banged enough girls when he was single, so he never felt like he got shorted. As a third party once told me later: "Most of us married guys lie and try to pretend we did nothing but bang hot women all day long when we were single. But most of us weren't that awesome. But that guy - I witnessed it. If he tells you a story about crazy things he did with crazy numbers of women, he's the one married guy that isn't lying! We had to issue him an official company memo barring him from contact with the sales staff. We hated doing it, but those girls weren't getting any work done. That guy's dick was gonna make this radio cluster go broke. Thank God he knocked that dear woman up and married her! It saved all of our jobs!"
The other reason the dude never cheated on his wife was this:
"Dude, if I even kissed another woman, my wife would stab me in my dick. What? Quit laughing. I'm not fucking with you. This dick of mine... would no longer be. But it wouldn't matter. She'd kill me, too. You think I'm fucking around. If I cheat on my wife, say goodby to me. I'm dead with no dick and my wife's in jail. You think I'm joking. You'll meet her. You'll know."
I met her.
I know.
She's a wonderful country woman. A wonderful country woman who would stab her husband in the dick and kill him for kissing another woman. She banned me from eating at her house because I didn't finish my chicken. It didn't matter that it was a sudden dinner invitation when I was dropping her husband off right after we had eaten 4 pieces of car lot pizza. I talked to her yesterday and she invited me to dinner and then immediately uninivited me because "you didn't eat all my fucking chicken." It's been seven years. That was yesterday. Still, I love her.
I eventually went on to be the third guy on that morning show. It was always my friend and some other guy (we went through 5) co-hosting the morning show with me out on the streets calling in to give out prizes to the public. I usually wore a costume.
The good thing about my friend being married was that he was constantly getting me girls from work. He was doing it because "Someone's gotta fuck'er. And I obviously can't. And I hate every other motherfucker in this building, so dammit you're gonna do it."
We even had a secret morning show-rule. As the third guy, I would usually come in and join the show at seven (to save money on payroll,) but if I had gotten busy with a new girl: I was allowed an extra hour to sleep in.
But there was a catch. In return for the morning guys letting me sleep in for an hour, I had to agree to tell them all about the sex. (Not on air. I'm not that tacky. And I'm only writing this because only one person from around here reads this blog. And I think she's unshocked by me by now.)
A couple of times I accidenally messed with the sanctity of the rule. I learned the hard way.
One day, I came into the morning show studio an hour late and the two married guys looked at me eagerly with jaw-dropped smiles on their face and both of them were holding out double-thumbs ups at me and saying "Yeah? Yeah? Yeah?"
I broke their vicarious married-guy hearts. I said, "Oh, no. I didn't get any new stuff. I just over slept. I got real drunk last night. Sorry guys."
They got fucking pissed! The older host (late forties) gave me a damn lecture like I've never recieved. "You have violated the sacred rule! You can't tease us like this. You know the deal. You only come in an hour late, if you got some pussy. And you better damn well tell us about it. Look, bud! We're married guys! Our lives boring. We live through you. And when you come in here an hour late without a story, it's the worst kind of tease you can imagine. We're counting on you. Next time you're late, it better be because you got your rocks off all night, and you better tell us all about it!"
And then another time I came in an hour late and the guys did the same double thumbs up retard smile and I said, "Yeah! Me and Nicole had us a session last night!" And they said, "Nicole? NIIII-COLE! You've been banging her for like two weeks. We're tired of Nicole. You can't come in an hour late for fucking Nicole. You better get your single ass back out there and pull in something new for us, if you value your sleep, you bastard! Nicole? NIIII-COLE!"
So back to my buddy that I first met puking in a trash can. We worked together for four and half years before I left that company. And while he was secretly one of the most moral people of ever met (he hates people knowing that), he became my misbehaving partner. We got in so much trouble for doing so much bad stuff; at the radio station and on remote location. I can't tell you how many conferences he and I got pulled into with the suits for acting up.
During one particular lecture he told the GM and the OM the folowing thing that you won't believe. He got in trouble for saying somone was a cunt. He didn't call her a cunt. He said she was a cunt at his desk to himself. Another girl heard it and reported him. Regardless, during the meeting with the two men in power, he got out of his chair and gave a speech. "Gentleman, I can tell that I'm not going to lose my job for this particular offense today. However, let's be real. You are the two men that will one day fire me. It could be tomorrow, or it could be in ten years. But at some point you'll have to fire me."
They looked back at him like they disagreed with him, even though he was telling the truth. So he giggle at them and dance with finger guns pointed at them and said, "Oh, come on guys! It's okay! Let's not pretend you're not gonna do it one day - you'll have, too. I'm at peace with it. But when you do - gentleman - promise me this: When you fire me, do it at night. I've been getting up at 3 a.m. everyday for ten years. Please don't make me get up early and work all day when you know you're gonna fire me at ten a.m. Just fire me at night and let me sleep in. Can we shake on that?"
And these baffled old men shook his hand in agreement. Those guys didn't get my man, but I did. And he knew that, too. He whispered, "I've worked for these fucks for ten years and they still don't know how to handle me. Wow! Clueless."
So my man got fired last week. And that part's fine. It's radio - we get fired. We get fired when we deserve it. We get fired when we don't. We get fired when it rains. But you know when they fired him? At ten a.m.! He didn't deserve that shit. I hope his wife stabs those two men in the dick.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Remembering My Friend (with mentions of butt-sex!)
I always figured one of my roommates would die young. It's just simple math - I've had like 30 of them. I just never thought it would be Cracker*. The reason I never thought it would be Cracker was because I fully expected it to be Cracker. And since stuff always happens the way you never think it would, I figured that meant one of my roommates that lived a safe life on the straight and narrow would be the one to go first. Yeah, I thought it would be someone like Alison. But it actually turned out to be Cracker: the top candidate for early death of the 6 or 7 people I've shared a house with that have had extended periods of life where they were determined to off themselves by way of entertaining accident. That's what made most of them such terrific people. Cracker, umm, he was good and bad. More on that in a minute.
I just found about his death 35 minutes ago. Why am I writing about it so soon? Because I have no one to talk to at the moment. And besides, how often do you get to write about learning of a friend's death within the hour? Usually, you're too upset and your world is too rocked to do that. I'm not that way right now. Upset? Yes. Shocked? Oh, c'mon! I'm not gonna be phony with you, you'd see right through it.
I found out about Cracker's death when I was leaving my job at the radio station just now. I said hello and goodbye to our business manager who doubles as a our building cleaner. (She knows all of our "dirt" in two ways! Wokka Wokka Wokka.) After I said goobye, I picked up a crappy publication called Bootleg Magazine. I'm sorry, I just don't really like it. But I started reading it ever since I heard Cracker started working there, just to see what he was writing each month. Today, when I picked up a copy off of our lobby table, I turned to page 1 and saw a picture of Cracker, presumably standing in front of giant rocks in Iceland, and an article titled: "In Memoriam: Cracker B. Lastname." (C'mon, I've gotta change names here.) Don't you hate when you see an article with a name you have said out loud thousands of times, accompanied by the words "In Memoriam." That's never good. It makes me think of the times I've said the name other ways. Like nice ways: "Well, I'll be damned! If it ain't Cracker B. Lastname! How the hell are ya!" Or the ways you said it when you were mad. "Well, I'll be damned! If it ain't Cracker B. Lastname! If you don't fucking get the fuck out of my house right now...." But when it's in memoriam, the names just look boring. Like all the shit you did only led to that? How lame.
I know everyone that knows that guy expects me to tell the story about how I successfully predicted he would kick my door in looking for beer. Or how he flipped his truck over in a residential neighborhood after he did it. Or how I had to change the locks on him permanently. While those stories are good, they've been told. I'm not really giving that much thought right now. Instead, for some reason, I keep thinking about a day when we lived together when we had lots of beer and lots of time to drink it.We ended up in beach chairs drunk on the side of Racine Drive waving at traffic. Eventually, a crowd of people we didn't know had joined us. Cracker confused me because he spent the whole day acting like we were closer than we were, especially when he spent hours talking me up to this girl with curly red hair named Annie. (I actually didn't change her name. It's just too funny. If I changed her name it would lose it's humor. Sorry, Annie. If you're still alive. And reading some guy's blog entry you knew for a day. From ten years ago.)
Anyway, all these guys were hitting on Annie, but Cracker kept talking to her but saying nice crap about me. That day went on forever. I think I drank more beer in a day than I ever had.
Skip to the next day. Me and Cracker woke up in the apartment. And the first words out of his mouth were: "Please tell me you put it in her butt."
I was confused.
"Tell you I put what in who's butt?"
"That Annie girl. Did you do her in the butt?"
"I didn't do her at all."
Cracker was pissed! He laughed and said, "So I did all that work for nothing? I wanted you to put it in her butt and tell me about it!"
"Look dude. If you wanted something "put in her butt" so bad, why didn't you do it yourself, Cracker?"
"Because, I have a girlfriend in England. You know that. So I wanted to live through you. And I like buttsex more than a pirate! And I really love redheads. And you let me down."
"I made out with her, if that makes you feel better?"
"Thanks for trying dude, but that's not the same. Next time I send a redhead your way, you better buttram her the way I would."
"Ummmm, Okay?"
Yeah, so I guess Cracker was a sexual deviant. But then again, he wasn't a sexual deviant? Or was he a sexual deviant who loved his English girlfriend? I don't know. But he definitely had to be a schizophrenic. I don't mean that as disrespect. I just mean, had all the signs.
Some days, I hated him, some days he was my brother, and some days I just felt sorry for him. It wasn't his fault that he was born fucked in the head. And he was definitely just put on this earth fucked in the head from day one. And as much as you want to, it's hard to hold someone accountable for being fucked in the head when they didn't choose to be fucked in the head. And you can't expect them to cure themselves of being fucked in the head, because they can't do it. Have you forgotten? They're fucked in the head!
So yeah, after a short time living together, he did some fucked in the head shit and I had to kick him out of the apartment. And he ended up in a D.C. rehab. His parents payed the bills for the rest of the lease and I threw away all his shit and kept his clothes. I never got an apology. We were no longer friends. And I was sure I'd never see him again.For eight years, I never saw or heard a thing about Cracker. I thought I saw him hitchhiking once but that guy was smiling in a way Cracker never would. I always thought if ever saw him again, we'd fight or ignore each other.
We actually hugged each other.
It took eight years, but one night less than a year ago I ran into him at the Blue Post. We accidentally found ourselves standing face to face in the by the door of the bar. After all those years had passed, we found ourselves staring at each other, both trying to believe that the other guy was, in fact, not the other guy. Then I hugged him.Then he apologized for the shit he put me through back in the day. And I apologized for one of my famous overreactions. And we bought each other beers. It was fun to find out that we had both become writers since we saw each other last. (Neither one of us had any interest in writing back then.) And it was great to see that he had seemingly gotten his shit together. He had been living in other states the whole time. It was crazy to see our friends standing a safe distance away staring at us in disbelief with looks on their faces that said, "I can't believe those two are not cutting each other open with pool cues right now."
That was a year ago, and I never saw Cracker again. It feels today like God set up that one chance night last year for us to hang out and make peace. I never really considered him a friend until that night we made up. But I considered him my friend ever since. And I never saw him again. So I guess, I knew a guy for nine years and we were only friends for a day.
I don't know what happened to end his life, but for his sake, I hope it was fucking fantastic. I mean no disrespect to those that are close to him. And I know he wouldn't get mad if I told him that. But he would get mad if I told him I've still never had buttsex with a redhead. Sorry, Cracker. But that's your thing. Now go do your thing.
I just found about his death 35 minutes ago. Why am I writing about it so soon? Because I have no one to talk to at the moment. And besides, how often do you get to write about learning of a friend's death within the hour? Usually, you're too upset and your world is too rocked to do that. I'm not that way right now. Upset? Yes. Shocked? Oh, c'mon! I'm not gonna be phony with you, you'd see right through it.
I found out about Cracker's death when I was leaving my job at the radio station just now. I said hello and goodbye to our business manager who doubles as a our building cleaner. (She knows all of our "dirt" in two ways! Wokka Wokka Wokka.) After I said goobye, I picked up a crappy publication called Bootleg Magazine. I'm sorry, I just don't really like it. But I started reading it ever since I heard Cracker started working there, just to see what he was writing each month. Today, when I picked up a copy off of our lobby table, I turned to page 1 and saw a picture of Cracker, presumably standing in front of giant rocks in Iceland, and an article titled: "In Memoriam: Cracker B. Lastname." (C'mon, I've gotta change names here.) Don't you hate when you see an article with a name you have said out loud thousands of times, accompanied by the words "In Memoriam." That's never good. It makes me think of the times I've said the name other ways. Like nice ways: "Well, I'll be damned! If it ain't Cracker B. Lastname! How the hell are ya!" Or the ways you said it when you were mad. "Well, I'll be damned! If it ain't Cracker B. Lastname! If you don't fucking get the fuck out of my house right now...." But when it's in memoriam, the names just look boring. Like all the shit you did only led to that? How lame.
I know everyone that knows that guy expects me to tell the story about how I successfully predicted he would kick my door in looking for beer. Or how he flipped his truck over in a residential neighborhood after he did it. Or how I had to change the locks on him permanently. While those stories are good, they've been told. I'm not really giving that much thought right now. Instead, for some reason, I keep thinking about a day when we lived together when we had lots of beer and lots of time to drink it.We ended up in beach chairs drunk on the side of Racine Drive waving at traffic. Eventually, a crowd of people we didn't know had joined us. Cracker confused me because he spent the whole day acting like we were closer than we were, especially when he spent hours talking me up to this girl with curly red hair named Annie. (I actually didn't change her name. It's just too funny. If I changed her name it would lose it's humor. Sorry, Annie. If you're still alive. And reading some guy's blog entry you knew for a day. From ten years ago.)
Anyway, all these guys were hitting on Annie, but Cracker kept talking to her but saying nice crap about me. That day went on forever. I think I drank more beer in a day than I ever had.
Skip to the next day. Me and Cracker woke up in the apartment. And the first words out of his mouth were: "Please tell me you put it in her butt."
I was confused.
"Tell you I put what in who's butt?"
"That Annie girl. Did you do her in the butt?"
"I didn't do her at all."
Cracker was pissed! He laughed and said, "So I did all that work for nothing? I wanted you to put it in her butt and tell me about it!"
"Look dude. If you wanted something "put in her butt" so bad, why didn't you do it yourself, Cracker?"
"Because, I have a girlfriend in England. You know that. So I wanted to live through you. And I like buttsex more than a pirate! And I really love redheads. And you let me down."
"I made out with her, if that makes you feel better?"
"Thanks for trying dude, but that's not the same. Next time I send a redhead your way, you better buttram her the way I would."
"Ummmm, Okay?"
Yeah, so I guess Cracker was a sexual deviant. But then again, he wasn't a sexual deviant? Or was he a sexual deviant who loved his English girlfriend? I don't know. But he definitely had to be a schizophrenic. I don't mean that as disrespect. I just mean, had all the signs.
Some days, I hated him, some days he was my brother, and some days I just felt sorry for him. It wasn't his fault that he was born fucked in the head. And he was definitely just put on this earth fucked in the head from day one. And as much as you want to, it's hard to hold someone accountable for being fucked in the head when they didn't choose to be fucked in the head. And you can't expect them to cure themselves of being fucked in the head, because they can't do it. Have you forgotten? They're fucked in the head!
So yeah, after a short time living together, he did some fucked in the head shit and I had to kick him out of the apartment. And he ended up in a D.C. rehab. His parents payed the bills for the rest of the lease and I threw away all his shit and kept his clothes. I never got an apology. We were no longer friends. And I was sure I'd never see him again.For eight years, I never saw or heard a thing about Cracker. I thought I saw him hitchhiking once but that guy was smiling in a way Cracker never would. I always thought if ever saw him again, we'd fight or ignore each other.
We actually hugged each other.
It took eight years, but one night less than a year ago I ran into him at the Blue Post. We accidentally found ourselves standing face to face in the by the door of the bar. After all those years had passed, we found ourselves staring at each other, both trying to believe that the other guy was, in fact, not the other guy. Then I hugged him.Then he apologized for the shit he put me through back in the day. And I apologized for one of my famous overreactions. And we bought each other beers. It was fun to find out that we had both become writers since we saw each other last. (Neither one of us had any interest in writing back then.) And it was great to see that he had seemingly gotten his shit together. He had been living in other states the whole time. It was crazy to see our friends standing a safe distance away staring at us in disbelief with looks on their faces that said, "I can't believe those two are not cutting each other open with pool cues right now."
That was a year ago, and I never saw Cracker again. It feels today like God set up that one chance night last year for us to hang out and make peace. I never really considered him a friend until that night we made up. But I considered him my friend ever since. And I never saw him again. So I guess, I knew a guy for nine years and we were only friends for a day.
I don't know what happened to end his life, but for his sake, I hope it was fucking fantastic. I mean no disrespect to those that are close to him. And I know he wouldn't get mad if I told him that. But he would get mad if I told him I've still never had buttsex with a redhead. Sorry, Cracker. But that's your thing. Now go do your thing.
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