Whorin!
Phoney?!
Phoney?!
All right, the swingset story is a fabrication. In truth, I drunkenly immasculated myself with a pair of tinsnips so Dave wouldn't feel alone in his mutilation.
Here is a rumor: I am the founder of an underground cult of drunks. We pick up new recruits after AA meetings. We lean on our cars in dark parking lots outside churches and school buildings and pull open our jackets, revealing flasks.
This is the most quietly enraged I've been in months: Saturday night, Goodwill. I notice a hardback of Hearts in Atlantis, and I notice the Goodwill sign with standard flat pricing: paperbacks 25 centavos, hardbacks 50. Some previous owner or bookstore has written $5.00 and their initials on the bottom corner of the book, a la garage sale.
At the cash register, this big damn bologna ball of mental retardation grabs the book, looks at my dollar, and rolls his offset eyes while he taps the $5.00 mark. He keeps tapping and staring at me like I'm the one jockeying a counter at a thrift store. I was too annoyed to argue.
He's dead now. And so is his whole family. And everyone who was in that Goodwill, except for my companions.
Here's a phone conversation I just had:
Me: This is Tim.
Lady: Excuse me?
Me: This is Tim.
Lady: Is Rod there?
Me: Nooooo. What agency are you looking for?
Lady: (snooty) Thisis a personal call.
Me: Ah. Well, this is Iowa Vocational Rehab.
Lady: So are you telling me that I have the wrong number?
Me: Welllllll. Yes.
Lady: And what number is this supposed to be?
Me: 281.4786.
Lady: Well. (hangs up)
I hunted her down immediately afterward and stabbed her in the eye with a William Penn ballpoint. Then I pulled out the eye and popped it into my mouth. As she opened her mouth to scream, I bit into the orb, and ocular goo shot onto her face.
Guess what we're researching? Dead serious: Whorin'!
Phoney?!
All right, the swingset story is a fabrication. In truth, I drunkenly immasculated myself with a pair of tinsnips so Dave wouldn't feel alone in his mutilation.
Here is a rumor: I am the founder of an underground cult of drunks. We pick up new recruits after AA meetings. We lean on our cars in dark parking lots outside churches and school buildings and pull open our jackets, revealing flasks.
This is the most quietly enraged I've been in months: Saturday night, Goodwill. I notice a hardback of Hearts in Atlantis, and I notice the Goodwill sign with standard flat pricing: paperbacks 25 centavos, hardbacks 50. Some previous owner or bookstore has written $5.00 and their initials on the bottom corner of the book, a la garage sale.
At the cash register, this big damn bologna ball of mental retardation grabs the book, looks at my dollar, and rolls his offset eyes while he taps the $5.00 mark. He keeps tapping and staring at me like I'm the one jockeying a counter at a thrift store. I was too annoyed to argue.
He's dead now. And so is his whole family. And everyone who was in that Goodwill, except for my companions.
Here's a phone conversation I just had:
Me: This is Tim.
Lady: Excuse me?
Me: This is Tim.
Lady: Is Rod there?
Me: Nooooo. What agency are you looking for?
Lady: (snooty) This
Me: Ah. Well, this is Iowa Vocational Rehab.
Lady: So are you telling me that I have the wrong number?
Me: Welllllll. Yes.
Lady: And what number is this supposed to be?
Me: 281.4786.
Lady: Well. (hangs up)
I hunted her down immediately afterward and stabbed her in the eye with a William Penn ballpoint. Then I pulled out the eye and popped it into my mouth. As she opened her mouth to scream, I bit into the orb, and ocular goo shot onto her face.
Guess what we're researching? Dead serious: Whorin'!
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