The Handsomes

Ed's Day Off

2005-11-04T09:50:00.000-05:00

"Sorry to scare you like that man," Ed says the next day. "Work was really getting me down, and I needed a day off. Did my boss believe your story?" He's whole, sitting on his couch in his Man-United t-shirt.

"Hell yes. People were freaking out. Why didn't you just call in sick?"

Ed sniffs, looking out the window. He's rested - he slept in. "I thought this would be more believable. The 'mental health day' story doesn't cut it. It had to seem real. Don't worry about work, they'll forget about it by Monday. The lemmings at work have the attention spans...uh, of lemmings."

"Well, it sure looked real to me."

"Oh yeah?" he laughs. "I had all these leftover pumpkins from Halloween...it's not like I was going to eat them. What a useless fruit, or whatever the hell they are. Imagine, growing those things all year just so some kid can throw them at cars! What a waste. Anyway, it took me about four hours to paint it up to look like my head. Good thing I have a giant, pumpkin-shaped head! Did it hurt when you fainted?"

"Naw, I landed on your dirty laundry here. What are you going to do now?"

Ed smiles. "I think I'll sit around again today and have some more hot cocoa. Sweet, sweet cocoa. An exploding head merits a four-day weekend, don't you think?"

"Fucking-A, it does."

He tents his fingers. "Goooood. Good. I rented the Family Guy movie. Let's chill, man. I even have some oven-roasted pumpkin seeds to eat. Or as I like to call them, 'jack o'lantern lobotomy offal.'"

"Uh - I think I'll pass on those. I think they've been spoiled for me for good."

"Don't be a pussy."

Ed Has Enough

2005-11-03T19:21:00.000-05:00

"ED! Don't do it man! You don't want this!" I scream. But Ed is past that, past the entire after-school special melodrama. I see it in his eyes.

"Fuck it, man. I don't even hate myself. I just don't want to be here anymore," Ed says. The shotgun, it's muffling his words. Slobber trickles down the barrel.

"C'mon, man. Let's go get a beer."

"No. You might want to close your eyes. This isn't like pissing - I don't care if you see it."

I don't, and he pulls the trigger, as promised.

And the last thing I remember is wondering why detonating brain matter looks like moldy macaroni casserole. That, and hearing the patter of urine as Ed's slumping corpse pisses itself. Turns out Ed didn't care if I saw that after all.

Olive Mash

2005-09-22T16:52:00.000-04:00

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do. I have the anal glands. You have the needles, right Tommy?"

"Yeah. They're for diabetes, but I think-"

"Shut up, Tommy, you don't get to think. They'll work fine. Austin, do you have that weird glowing fertilizer shit?"

"Yeah, but my dad's gonna kill me if he finds out I was takin-"

"Shut up, Austin, nobody cares if you get in trouble."

"Steve, where did you get anal glands?"

"I went to the animal shelter last night. They got all kinds of unwanted dogs there. No alarms. I just knocked a couple of em out and used my pocketknife to pry the butt sacs out. Dog ass smells real fuckin bad. Fuckin dogs. Their shit'll be lubed with blood for a couple days, but that'll win em even more sympathy. Mangy fuckers'll be adopted in no time. If I didn't accidentally cave in their skulls when I popped em. Now stop asking me questions. That goes for both of you."

"Why are we doing this again?"

"God, you really are dumber than a box of crayons, Tommy. I told you. We're gonna mix this doggy butt stink potion with this fertilizer. Then we're gonna go to the vice principal's house and throw rocks and smokebombs through the front window. When he comes running out, all we gotta do whack him on the head with a baseball bat. I dunno if he's got a wife or kids, so we all gotta bring bats. Then we shoot this stuff into his face with your sick kid needles, Tommy. That'll teach him not to give me detention again."

"I don't think this'll work. I think you're gonna get us in trouble. Big trouble. He'll see our faces."

"Fuck you Austin. You don't know shit. This isn't like the time I told you guys we could melt that payphone. This time I studied. I read through my fifth, sixth, and seventh grade textbooks, and I fucked around all week with that chemistry kit I got for Christmas two years ago. I'm an expert. I could probably work for the government now if I want."

"Whatever."

"Austin, look. Do you or do you not want to see Mr. Hamlin grow assholes all over his body? I know I do. He'll be shitting his socks, pants, and shirt all at once while puking even more shit. He'll have to quit and go to the hospital or to Betty Ford. It'll be great. I can just see him squeezing guacamole ducksnot out a bunch of brown rubber vaginas where his cheeks used to be. Come on guys. Have you no imagination? Have you no sense of wonder?"

"..."

"So who's with me?"

"..."

"Good. Let's get to work."

Bryce Laughs in the Bathroom

2005-06-13T21:15:00.000-04:00

"Argus! I didn't know you were here," Bryce says. He laughs the alarming goblin-like cackles I heard outside in the hallway. "It seems there has been a bit of an incident."

"What are you talking about?" I say. Bryce popped out of a stall when I came into the bathroom.

"I went to a barbeque this weekend," he says. "All you can eat. I must have put away a half-dozen big burgers on Saturday. Along with more than a couple beers. Well, I just laid the mother of all iceburg shits in the toilet. You're not going to believe it, but the toilet won't flush."

"That's great, Bryce. Do you want a medal?"

Bryce laughs, throwing his head back like a lunatic. I begin to wonder: Can people hear us outside? I hope not. I start to edge for the door.

"Wait!" Bryce says. "Do me a favour. This is the biggest dump I've ever seen. Can you get your camera and take a picture of it?"

"Jesus Christ, Bryce! What the hell for?"

"Please? This is historic - I really need this. Just one picture?"

Inspiration flashes through my mind. "Okay - but I want you in the shot, too. For perspective. Like when you take a picture of a mountain or something."

Bryce howls more laughter. "That's a great idea! Why didn't I think of that?"

"Probably because you're a moron," I mumble.

I'm back in a few moments with the camera. "Okay, get in close, now. You're not in the frame."

"God, it stinks! Am I in it yet?"

"No, get closer. Attaboy. Man, that log is as big as your head, Bryce! How did you manage this?" I say.

"Stop it, you're killing me! Just take the picture!"

"I can't wait to send this out on a group e-mail," I mutter.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, dude."

*snap!*

2005-06-09T22:48:00.000-04:00

Nobody Home

2005-06-09T22:24:00.000-04:00

"Hello," I yell. My voice echoes from distant walls. I have the vague sense of beams, spiderwebs, and windowpanes painted black just beyond my vision. A bare light bulb swings above my reach.

"Hello! Anybody here?"

"...ere-ere-ere..."

I hear a scuff of feet, and I shade my eyes to peer into the gloom. I see a slouching figure.

"I'm here, man. I stop by now and then. Not for a while, though," Bottle Rocket says. He kicks a piece of trash on the ground, and digs his hands into his pockets. "I get this feeling sometimes, like a worm digging through the hot sponge of my brain. I can't get at him with my fingers. I pry, and all I get are greasy fingernails. Coffee wakes him up. Booze makes him rowdy. Pizza is what he begs for. Loves pizza. And after a few drinks, I can't tell him from me."

"I have a worm, too," I say. "He tells me things. He says his name is Albert."

"He rocks and rolls, man. I woke up one morning, and he was there. I screamed. I cried. I reasoned. I moaned. Then I did it some more."

"After a while, you get used to it. It's like the ringing in your ears. After a while it's the sound of baby's breath," I say.

"The fancy way of saying that is, 'naturalization.' But there is nothing natural about it," Rocket says.

"I'm hungry," I say, pawing my belly.

"Let's blow, man. I know this great burrito place. I have a fearsome hunger for some burritos. I'm going to turn my 'innie' into an 'outtie'. And I want to listen to banjo music on the way."

"Deal. You got the lights?"

"Fuck it, man. Leave 'em on, and people will think things are going down in here. In cahoots and all."

"Nobody thinks anything," I say. "Nobody comes."

But Rocket doesn't hear me. He's already out the door.

Neopolitan Eucharist

2005-05-23T11:09:00.000-04:00

Now that summer weather has arrived, I like to sit out on a lawn chair, grill steaks, chug beers, burp, fart, and spit at squirrels. Most neighbors have given me the evil eye and tried to avoid me, but I'm the gregarious type.

"Howdy neighbor! Kin I intrist yew in a brewski or p'raps a fahn juicy steak?"

The women scoff and powerwalk away with clenched asses and upturned noses. The men always amble over after glancing back at the homestead to see if the wifey is lookin'. We always get on well, and I feed them. In return, they lose their money to me playin' poker.

I was sitting out one afternoon when the schoolbus dropped off a load o' younglings. One sweaty little fatboy with thick glasses ran up the street wailing at the top of his lungs. The stinky little bastard was probably more desperate for attention than actually in pain.

"Now quit yer blubberin, my young frien'. What seems ta be tha matter?"

He stopped and looked at me, eyes leakin', chest heavin'.

"huh huh huh they took away my huh huh lunch an' they took my Cheetos my bologna mustard cheese sammich my"

"Whoa whoa hold it there pard. Who took yer chow, and why?"

"The nuns. They said I was a, a, a,"

"Slow down. Nuns? Nuns are horrible creatures. They're mad at the world cause Jesus don't give 'em no dick."

He laughed and breathed. He seemed a bit calmer after my sparklin' gem o' humor. I was now a friend. I was cool. An adult who would say such a thing to a child is rare indeed, and beloved by children of all ages.

"It was Sister Francine. She said I was an overfed little lardball. I know I'm chubby, but I can't help it. Momma says I gotta eat to be healthy. Sister Francine says I'm gonna eat fire with Satan and that Jesus don't love no gluttonous pig boys."

"It'll be okay, son. Yew go on home and have yourself a big-ass bowl of ice cream and forget about Sister Francine. She's just another bully. Yew go ahead and sneak some candies in class so yew won't be hungry come lunchtime, and when she sees the little lunch you brought, you'll have her right fooled that yer eating like she wants yew to. Say, where you go to school young man?"

"St. Michael's."

"Okay then. You go on home. Eatin's good for ya, don't let no damnfool nun tell ya otherwise. Jest lookit me an' mah bleedin' steaks here. I speak only the truth, God's honest to ya son."

"Thank you sir!"

Later that day I went drunken driving over by the school with my camera. Just down the street there's an ice cream parlor where I knew the nuns would go jumproping and cone licking on Wednesday afternoon. I got me a doozy of a picture. One for me, one for the young lad.

I gave it to him at the bus stop the next morning. I said:

"Next time she tries to feed ya any bullshit, yew give this over and ask if she wuz pretending that ice cream was Jesus. You won't git in any trouble, I promise, and you'll git to eat whatever you want, any damn time."

I ruffled his hair and then he got on the bus smiling.

Afternoon Entertainment

2005-05-16T03:46:00.000-04:00

Ring-a-ding-a-ling-a-bring!

“Hello?”

“—Wino! You’ll never guess what’s going on around the block!” said Argus, who had left moments earlier on a beer run. The clatter of shopping carts I could hear in the background told me he was at the nearby grocery store’s pay phone.

“You’re right, since I’m not a fan of guessing games,” I replied. “Why don’t you just fill me in?”

“Well, I’m not too clear on what’s goin’ on down here, but it seems pretty serious! The SWAT team is outside the apartment building on the corner! And whoa!—two news vans just rolled up!”

“—This city has a SWAT team!?”

“Apparently. There are like, four or five guys with M-16s pointed at one of the balconies. You and Stogey should get down here and have a look! I have a feeling shells will be bouncing on the pavement before long!”

“Okay, we’ll be right over!” I said, hanging up the phone.

The building in question is like no other in the neighborhood. It’s like the Dark Tower in The Lord of the Rings, and ominously looms over the surrounding wasteland of projects and low-income housing. Unlike our walled, Shire-like community, which has the scent of fresh grass clippings and barbeque in the summer months, the apartment building is surrounded by drabness. The grass is brown even in the most fertile months, and the curb always seems to be lined with busted television sets, shards of linoleum and urine-stained mattresses.

“Stogey—feel like going for a walk?” I asked in a way that wasn’t really asking.

(Stogey Nightclub—fellow roommate, drunkard, and lay-about.)

“Where are we going?” he groaned from the other couch, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“No time for chit-chat!” I declared, standing up and accidentally knocking a few empties to the floor.

“That was Argus on the horn—some shit’s goin’ down at the apartment building, and if we don’t hurry we’re going to miss it!” I grabbed my Kodak Fun-Saver and crammed it in my pocket, because there’s nothing I enjoy more than someone else’s misfortune. But I suppose everyone’s like that to a degree.

We then departed, making sure to lock the door behind us. In a few moments we arrived at the apartment and weaved our way through the flashing cruisers to where Argus stood, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“Check it out!” he pointed. “These cops aren’t fuckin’ around!”

On the adjacent sidewalk a row of police officers leaned against their vehicles, pointing their weapons at a balcony two floors up. The porch was charmingly decorated in green, yellow and black, but there was no one to be seen.

Close by, a cameraman for a local news affiliate jogged about, trying to get a shot of his own.

“Maybe he can tell us what’s going on?” Stogey wondered aloud.

It was a good idea.

“Hey, Cameraman!” I shouted, successfully getting him to look in our direction. “What’s all the hubbub?”

“Gee, I don’t really know, fellas! I’m just here because somebody called the SWAT team!”

A blank stare.

“No shit? We’re here because someone called the SWAT team too! You’ve been a big help, jackass!”

Just then, there was another voice. “If you wanna know what happened, I can tell you,” it said.

Behind us there stood a snot-nosed kid of about eleven or twelve.

“You know what’s going on?” Argus asked.

“Yup, I saw the whole thing!” the brat announced. “A few minutes ago these two guys wearing red bandanas on their heads hopped out of a car carrying guns, and they ran up into the building! Then, when I heard the sirens, I saw them run out one of the back stairwells and into the field!”

“Thanks for the bulletin, kid,” said Argus. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

As we all snickered at Argus’ comment, there was a commotion across the street.

“Quit resisting, dirt bag!" shouted one of the cops.

“Yo, man! I aint resisting, yo! Getcho hands off me!”

It was one of the bandana-wearing young men, and he was being led to the cruisers with his hands bound behind his back. His dark blue jeans, which were far too large for his sinewy frame, had fallen to his ankles. This may have occurred when the officers tackled him, or perhaps, because his hands were no longer free, his pants simply dropped because he was no longer able to hike them up. In any event, the thug’s comic waddle did little to amuse the authorities.

“If you don’t stop resisting, we’re going to give you a dose of the Air Taser!” screamed one of the officers.

“Shee-it, man—I aint resistin’!” said the cuffed hooligan.

“Okay, I’ve had it with your belligerent attitude, motherfucker!” said one of the cops, pointing a gray box at the young man. Then, propelled by a blast of compressed nitrogen, two wire-tailed probes fired into the cuffed man’s chest. The other officers were quick to relinquish their grasps.

“Let’s see if 50,000 volts can teach you some manners!” the cop said with a smile.

He then pressed a button and the device emitted a steady pulse of electricity.

Ka-Thrak!-Thrak!-Thrak!-Thrak!-Thrak!-Thrak!-Thrak!!

The man in the red bandana gyrated like a palsy sufferer. It was evident that he had lost control of his bodily functions, since urine and feces fell from his boxers and into his pants. What a terrible embarrassment this must be for him, I thought, snapping a picture or two with my camera.

“Uh-Oh, Spaghetti-Ohs!” yelled Stogey. We then laughed uproariously, along with all those who watched from their balconies. The offender was soon tossed into the back seat of one of the cruisers

“Smell that, fellas?” said Argus, breathing deeply through his nose. “That’s the unmistakable smell of justice!”

“Smells more like fried bologna,” Stogey suggested, pinching a cheap, Indian reservation cigarette from the empty box of playing cards he carries them about in.

I shook my head.

“I just think this neighborhood’s degradation is downright shocking!”

Watching TV with Wino and his Brother

2005-05-15T23:17:00.000-04:00

"Look, if I had to pick between the two, I guess I'd do Pam Anderson. But if both of them have herpes, it cancels each other out," Wino says.

I point at a dog I see on the tv. "Would you eat dogshit for a hundred dollars?"

"No," Wino says.

"A thousand?"

"No."

"Five thousand?"

"No! Dog shit is toxic. It's waste from your body. I wouldn't eat it. I don't care what you pay me."

"Sure you would, for five grand. You're being silly. If someone is handing you five grand to eat the dog shit, I know you'd do it. Like, here you go, five grand, all you have to do is eat this dog shit. You aren't going to turn that down, no way," I say.

Wino's brother Stogey comes in. He just had a smoke outside. "Five grand? To eat dog shit? I'd do it!" he says.

I'm triumphant. "See? He knows he'd do it. You're being stubborn. For five grand, you'd be there with a knife and fork."

Stogey frowns. "I don't have to eat the whole loaf though, do I? I'll do it for a bite."

Wino's F.inal U.niversity Essay

2005-04-27T20:18:00.000-04:00

See below!!!

"Are you done school yet?" I ask. Wino has been holed up in his room for weeks. I'm vaguely aware that he has exams now, and essays to do. But he hasn't left the house for a while...so...?

"Almost," he says. "I have two more essays to do."

"No more exams?"

"No, I did those last week. This is all I have left."

"Wait, why are the essays due after the exams?" Because I gots ta know.

"Well...they sort of aren't. They were due a couple weeks ago."

"Don't they care?"

Wino has a slug of Coke. "Nah...I play these guys like a banjo. I just tell them how 'overwhelmed' I am with things, and I can hand them in when I please."

"Nice. Don't do that when you join the porno industry. They have strict deadlines, those porno guys."

"Meh."

"So what's this one you're writing?"

"It's my last one. Finally. I'm writing about feminism, because males can never give anything about feminism a bad grade."

I pretend to puke in my mouth. Feminism? "You'd better be writing on the 'con' side, or else I'll have to take your balls."

Wino sniffs. "The dog already got 'em. Nah, you write for feminism for the easy grade."

"Those fag professors," I shake my head. "It's like leading a donkey with a carrot. But think about it though, your last essay, ever, is going to be about feminism. Is that what you want?"

Wino stiffens. "I'm only acknowledging feminism. I'm not 'for' it. There's a difference."

"Acknowledging a point is a sign of weakness. I think you're showing your femininity. You're giving in to the pink side," I goad.

Wino tosses his can into his trash. It's heaping with others. "I'll become a card-carrying feminist the moment I'm as hairy as one of 'em," he says.

Deep down, a true feminist...
wants to be a MAN!!

Final Recollection

2005-04-20T14:49:00.000-04:00

I feel great. My period of grueling convalescence is over. My elbow is healed. My prescriptions are legal. Before I move on to brighter subjects and greener pastures, I must share with you the matter of Ed's final moments. I was there to witness his death.

Before I wrap up my podium time here at the wake... what, no laughs? Come on, don't you get it? Wrap up! A little bandage humor! Yikes. Nevermind. Not appropriate. I figured Ed would like it. He was so keen on puns and levity. Not a family trait, apparently. Anyways.

As I was saying, before I pass the microphone to Ed's mother so she can share his childhood triumphs, I have to tell you his last words.

He said "Fuck you! I'm gonna have your kidneys for breakfast aaaaaaaghghghhgkkkk-"

Allow me to explain. By this time I was mobile. I would say ambulatory but that'd be a crass choice of words. Ahem. Across the room, Ed was recovering steadily. He'd regained enough dexterity to pivot his forearms and point his fingers.

We'd been playing Monopoly. I was cruising to an easy win on the strength of full sets of Yellow and Dark Blue. Ed had picked the scotty dog, even though I warned him that the player with the battleship usually wins. Me.

I called a timeout and excused myself to the washroom. I excreted a frothy paste composed of bile, carrot, and white bread. Hospital food sucks. It took me forever to wipe my ass. I still didn't feel clean when I gave up. I gave myself an intentional wedgie before returning to the game. My underpants would be my surrogate itching fingers when my ass felt swampy or squirmy.

This unsatisfying voiding fouled my winner's mood. When I returned to the game board I saw that Ed had stolen all the orange 500 bills from the box and had removed my hotels from Park Place and Boardwalk. My mood soured further. I immediately accused him of cheating.

"You owe me four hotels and I'm taking every 500 in your stack and putting it back in the bank. Nice try, fucko."

As I leaned over to reach for his paper he poked me in the right eye. By reflex I stood up. He took the obvious opportunity and he clumsily punched my genitals. I would've fallen were it not for Ed's IV wire, which I grabbed to steady my balance. As a result I ripped a quill of needles from Ed's torso, resulting in him squealing in agony.

He shocked me by speaking those aforementioned final words. He'd been playing the drooling imbecile all week. Unbeknownst to me he'd regained his speaking capacity some time before, no doubt reserving it for requesting sex from Argus and Wino. He must have figured I'm out of his league, which is absolutely correct.

I needed to quiet his keening cries of agony. I also needed to quiet the furious demons rampaging within my mind, howling for retribution and blood sacrifice.

So I killed him. He wanted those 500s? I gave them to him. I stuffed them into his mouth, effectively muffling his noise and blocking his airflow. I flipped him off the bed and he splayed helpless and facedown on the cold linoleum. I ground my footheel into the back of his head, pressing his delicate face downwards to prevent him from spitting out the soggy fake cash. Then I got more enthusiastic. I started stomping, mashing all that careful reconstructive facial surgery back into shards and flaps.

I heard him sob and cry through the paper jam. I would not relent. This time, my choke job would be final. I knelt atop him and used one hand to cover his wet mouth and nostrils, and the other to cover his lone exposed eye. He would die in the dark. I will not tolerate cheating. I'm not proud of my actions, but in my defense...

He started it.

The Short Bus Test

2005-04-15T04:22:00.000-04:00

Back in the first grade we weren't given exams; instead we were given pink "activity books" that had to be returned to the teacher after we had completed them.

The questions were simple: Multiple choice style. Using our navy pencils we were to indicate the biggest circle in a series of circles; or differentiate between a cat and a dog. Easy shit, really.

Even at such a young age I understood the purpose of this test. It was designed to determine if any retards had slipped through the cracks. Its purpose was to weed out the buds that wouldn't blossom; the bulbs that wouldn't illuminate. The results would decide who would suffer the indigity of riding the short bus to and from school. These children would be forced to become friendly with the kids who had their names written in their underwear...the kids who had their winter mittens fastened together with a length of yarn between their coat's sleeves. They were the brats who would piss themselves during nap time.

Even at that age I was a shit disturber, I suppose. So I went ahead and filled out all the wrong answers.

Fond Recollection #3

2005-04-14T17:21:00.000-04:00

Despite my exhausted inability to move I remained conscious for several more hours. I averted my gaze from Ed, vainly trying to ignore him. I strived to deny his very existence with every fiber of my superior being. I failed. Ed bested me. His dedication to botheration was staggering and almost admirable.

He still had difficulty forming coherent words. His larynx had been severely bruised in his little accident. While his mangled throat slowly reconstructed itself, he dedicated himself to using me as the sounding board for his self-imposed physical therapy regimen. I heard him strain and wheeze with every lungful of air he laboriously forced through his purple esophagus. I heard his saliva sizzle and pop behind his uvula, where it would well up to near drowning depth and then finally surge down his throat when he deigned to swallow it in a massive slimy gulp.

That was nothing next to the words. He'd choose a single word and practice it for a five minute stretch before moving on to the next. He sounded like an elderly man with mismatched dentures and gout of the asshole chanting while willing out an undigested heap of rare steak through his blood weeping sphincter. So shrill and bubbly.

"Dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty........"
"Apple apple apple apple apple apple apple apple........"
"Bimbo bimbo bimbo bimbo bimbo bimbo bimbo bimbo........"
"Seahorse seahorse seahorse seahorse seahorse..........."
"Fucky fucky fucky fucky fucky fucky fucky fucky........"
"Sir Ian McKellen Sir Ian McKellen Sir Ian McKellen....."

I finally buzzed for the nurse and requested sedatives and earplugs. I could not stand the assault upon my brain. She condescendingly patted me atop the head and said "I think you've already had enough dear, you be strong and everything will work out just dandy, okay hon?" She gave me a disgustingly sanguine smile, pivoted, and casually strode out.

I had only one choice left at my disposal.

I turned to face Ed. He paused. I tried a smile but he flinched. Maybe I didn't appear sincere. "Hi. I'm Steve. You're... Ed, right?"

"Muh-huh, Mby nabe izth Ehhd. Yghew chjoked mbe lazth wheegk."

"Yes, well. I am terribly sorry about that. I have this friend, you see, and she has no insurance."

Ed waited for more. I knew this better be damn good.

"They won't give her medicine for her baby. His name is Pepe. Pepe's skin will come loose and shrug off if he doesn't get Epifixy. Epifixy is a special skin glue pill for children with loose skin."

He looked extremely doubtful. Well, as doubtful as a man mostly covered in bandages can look. To be fair Ed does have a very expressive eye and lipless mouth hole.

"You know how a tree without bark gets bug infestations, rots, and eventually dies? I didn't want to risk Pepe becoming a hollow log for raccoon birthing."

I could see my tree analogy wasn't hammering my contrived bullshit home with any authority. Time to ditch all subtlety. Time to yank his heartstrings.

"When you pointed at me in the laundry room, I imagined flies alighting on Pepe's raw exposed skinless little baby fingers. I imagined earwigs using their pincers to tease out his capillary veins so their little earwig babies could suckle from them. I imagined maggots squirming in his fontanel."

Ed's horrified expression went quizzical. I was so close now! Where had I lost him? Must be the fontanel.

"You know, a baby's fontanel. When a baby is born there's a hole in his skull right at the pinnacle of his bald crown. It doesn't grow shut for like a year I think. There's naught but soft glowing babyskin covering it. That's why people joke about brain damage and getting dropped on your head by your parents.

If Pepe has no skin, all his brainpan fluid will leak out! It'll spill into the bottle of Gerber apricot jelly he's gumming for breakfast! Maggots will fester in his head! Can't you hear him crying while insect larvae bubble out from his knobby little baby head?"

Finally my point had reached Ed. He nodded in sympathy. He also clutched his stomach, perhaps suffering from a slight case of nausea.

"That's why I had to make deathly sure you didn't rat me out. I needed to have that coat so I could impersonate a doctor and get those pills. And hey, let's be fair here. You pointed at me. You started it. I didn't want to hurt you, and I didn't kill you, did I? Here we are, ha ha! I just put a little scare into you. What a kidder I am. I did it for the children, you know? The kids are our future after all. They can't be our future without any skin!"

Oh how we laughed. Well, I laughed. He bubbled mirthfully. We were buddies now.

The Taco Incident

2005-04-12T20:03:00.000-04:00

The headlights slash through the darkness ahead of us as we cruise down the highway. Skynyrd is pumping out of the speaker as we roll, the beat chugging through the big bass in the back:

“…be a simple….kind of maaannn…”

For some bizarre reason, Taco Bell has a promotion on tonight, for a charity or something. Tacos are on sale for .25 cents. So, being the social-minded guys we are, we did our part and chipped in our shekels for the cause.

“Hey, I hope you guys finally find the cure for AIDS!” I yelled at the kid at the takeout window.

“It’s for cancer,” said the kid.

The sacks on the bench seat between us are filled with dozens of tacos. Never mind that they’ll rot, forgotten, in the sack overnight. We have all we want now, and that’s all that matters. In the distance, a hitchhiker materializes out of the gloom, his thumb hanging out for a ride.

“Wait! Stop for him, I’ve got an idea,” Wino says. The window hums into the door, sucking the armpit stench of the tacos into the night. I ease the car up to the guy. He looks like a dumbass, standing there in his jean jacket and everything.

“Hey man,” Wino grins. “Are you hungry? We’ve got about a million tacos here, we can’t eat them all.” He holds up one of the bags to prove it.

The hitchhiker is suddenly alert, stepping away from the car as Wino hangs out the window. “Uh, no man…I just needed a ride.” He looks up the road…no other cars. Fuck - trapped.

Wino’s smile disappears in a flash. “Come on, man. They’ll go to waste. You don’t want that to happen now, do you? We’re trying to cure cancer here. Think of those fucking kids!”

“What the hell…? Cancer? Listen, thanks anyway guys,” the hitchhiker says. He begins to trot up the road.

“LET’S GET HIM!!” Wino screams. I slam the car into park and take after the kid, who is now running away at a full sprint. Still on the soft shoulder though, the idiot. I stay on the pavement, and shortly, I’m on him like a fat kid on a Smartie.

“HOOFF!!!” The kid grunts. We roll into the ditch, out of the glare of the headlights, and I pin him down. He’s weak, scratching away at me like a girl.

“That’s enough,” I say, slapping his face like a tyke who’s gonna get tickled. “You wreck my shirt and I’ll rip your ass off.”

Wino huffs up, carrying some taco sacks, looking over his shoulder at the highway. Still no cars out there. Country life. Man, you can’t beat it.

“You’re gonna EAT these tacos! ALL of ‘em, and you’re going to LOOOVE it!!” Wino howls. He begins to unwrap the tacos, mashing them into the face of the hitchhiker, smearing hot sauce on his cheeks, and stuffing his nostrils with beef by-products. They are splattering down, a rain of beef, lettuce, and sauce, soaking his jacket and filling his mouth.

“Meeeef! Morf! MEEEEEF!” squeals the hitchhiker. Wino cups his ear.

“What’s that? You want MORE?! Why, you greedy boy! Well, allow me, then!” Wino grabs two of the tacos. “Double your pleasure! Heeeerrre comes the airplane!” He rams them into the hitchhiker’s mouth:

“EEEEFFF! EEEEFFF!”

And I’ll tell you, I’m laughing so hard, I’m having trouble seeing his eyes bugging out at me, what with the tears and everything. Poor guy, all he wanted was a ride…finally, I get off him, and he scrabbles away, spitting up the tacos. He spasms suddenly, and a roar of puke sprays through his fingers, soaking his shirt with chunks of vomit. He had pizza for lunch, looks like. "Aww, gawd...," he moans.

“Oh my, you’re not going to cure cancer that way!” Wino raves. He dumps the rest of the bag on the guy’s head, and kicks his flabby behind.

“Enough,” I say. “Let’s go, I’m thirsty.” Buddy is still crawling around in the dirt. Geez, what a mess.

We get back into the car, and I drop it into Drive. “Hey, look at that - we even have some tacos left,” I say. On the soft shoulder, the hitchhiker staggers to his feet, shielding his eyes from my high beams.

“I know…perfect,” Wino says. He’s got a thick, dripping taco in his hand, and he’s reaching back for the fastball.

“Noooooo!!!….” screams the hitchhiker.

The value of taking a sauna

2005-04-12T12:50:00.000-04:00

"My building is upgrading the saunas," I said, leaning in the chair to out-gas.

"So?" Argus asks, raising his palms to the sky, as if praising some mythological being.

"That means that when I feel a cold coming on, I can take a sauna. It means that I can boil the cold virus within my body."

Argus makes a face and says, "But your internal body temperature doesn't rise."

I smile and start thinking logically, "Yes, it does. Your body temperature can rise to over 100 degrees above normal."

My friend stares at me for what felt like a day, but was probably only a second. He leans in to me, within inches of my face and spits, "Why doesn't your brain explode then?"

I lean even closer and retort, "Who says it doesn't?"

Wino and I Have a Chat

2005-04-11T22:39:00.000-04:00

“Have you applied to any jobs yet?” I ask. I’m fooling around with my guitar, plucking the same power chords you hear in any so-called commercial “punk” song. Those chords, they’ve been used about a million times, and everybody keeps listening to them.

Wino, he’s kind of milling around the room in his filthy Homer Simpson slippers. Homer’s mouth is eating each of his feet as he does. He’s carrying the only wine glass he owns; he’s been drinking his grapey red again from bottles with no labels. He corked it himself at the liquor store for only three bucks a bottle. There are spigots on the wall down there, a wine buffet stretching to the back of the store, and a man with alcoholic designs can get anything he needs.

“Would you like a sample, sir?” the attendant had asked, offering him a plastic cup at the taps.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Wino had said, accepting the cup. His eyes had the desperate gleam of a man about to get what he wants for a very low price. “And, actually -- I’ll take a few of these, my good man!” he waved the attendant away. Shoo, fly. He reckoned his stack of cups would allow him to try each variety of the reds…or he would die trying.

He swirls his glass around now. “Not really…but I applied to be a bus driver though. I was talking to the guy on the bus, and I think it would suit me. I can take lots of shit without caring, really.”

I hear an old tune in my head and play the chords some more. “Sounds all right…and the money is good too,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, sipping the wine. I can smell it from here. “Did you see what I did to the tree?”

“No, what?”

“I put up some decorations,” he says.

I look out the window, and sure enough, a half-dozen bagels are hanging from the tree outside, thrown up there in the branches in the same way a kid would heave a pair of tied-up sneakers over a power line. It’s bait, you see. We need them to come closer. They’re getting wise.

Wino smiles at his handiwork. “Now…they won’t be able to resist. All those bagels, just hanging there…they’ll come. And when they do…” he trails off, looking to the corner where our rifles are. He doesn’t need to finish the thought for me. Yes, they’ll come…and when those fat, hairy bastards begin to gnaw on our bagels…they’ll get the surprise of their lifetimes. The guns, they are always loaded, leaning on the frame beside the window.

Wino finishes his glass. “Do you think I should take ‘paperboy’ off my resume?” he asks.

Fond Recollection #2

2005-04-11T15:00:00.000-04:00

Early last week I was shuffling aimlessly down the sidewalk enjoying my buzz when I nearly got flattened by a speeding ambulance. It came careening around the corner, sirens wailing, and it clipped my elbow. I should've been using the sidewalk instead of the bicycle lane, but my brain was addled and stupid on that particular day. I was also operating under a severe vitamin deficiency and possibly scurvy. The ambulance sped along to its destination while I stood there in my bathrobe and slippers, clutching my elbow, whimpering.

I followed the hollering siren. I knew the hospital was less than a mile west and made directly for it. I decided I would sue the ambulance driver for malpractice. Or some comparable offense. At the very least they would have to treat my elbow with some gauze and splint. There was no white or red paint on my limb to prove any guilt, but I wasn't a chrome bumper so such a telltale sign certainly wouldn't be required.

I ambled up to the foreboding stone edifice and urinated into the ashtray. I wanted to be calm when I entered the building. The last time I went into a public building hopping and clutching my genitals they called the police and I ended up urinating in the squad car. When you do that, the cops beat you with nightsticks but never touch you with hands. It's so impersonal.

I was enjoying watching the few whitish butts turn yellow when a spark of pain shot from my elbow to my fingertips. The spasm caused me to whip my penis to the left. Urine splashed off the ashtray onto my slippers but I quickly corrected my aim. Laserlike precision has never been my forte. Undeterred, I tucked away and marched into lobby where I boldly marched up to the check-in desk.

"The ambulance that got here eight minutes ago was piloted by a frantic and haphazard driver with no regard for pedestrians. Not only did he nearly tip the vehicle over onto the fragrant lilacs at the corner of Chestnut and Harmon, but he also nipped my elbow with his right rear tail light as he whipped by. I demand complimentary treatment for my damaged arm and you better pray to your insurance providers that I don't sue the pizzacutters off your headbands. Now! I demand ministration!"

"Sir, please calm down. You'll be okay. Slow down and explain to me calmly what happened."

I was understandably upset and pained. My patience had completely evaporated. I tried to crawl over the counter but she hit some sort of alarm button and swiped at me with a clipboard. She lacerated my forehead and I fell backwards to the marble floor. As I lay there clutching my gushing forehead howling for a lawyer and a sewing kit, three angry barrel-shaped women with hatchet faces and short hair muscled me onto my stomach and secured my wrists behind me with plastic wire ties. I tried to bite one but she slapped me with one of her heavy slab hands and scratched my right cornea in the process.

I continued to make ruckus until I felt a needle plunge violently into my right buttock. All faded.

.................

I woke. An undetermined block of time had elapsed. My wrists felt chafed and my buttock still pulsed in agony from the barbaric stabbing I'd endured right before I lost consciousness. I moaned and tried to collect myself into a sitting position but found no energy at my disposal to accomplish the task. To my satisfaction my left arm was in a cast. I looked beyond my arm and saw a sight that made my blood run icy. I was now sharing a room with the drooling man I'd nearly choked to death the week before during my prescription acquisition mission.

It was Ed. He was awake. He'd been waiting for me to wake and see him. I could see a merry dancing light play across his lone exposed eye, and he chortled out a bubbly laughter in a high, childlike pitch. I almost shat.

I thought my day could not get worse. I was badly wrong.

Fond Recollection #1

2005-04-06T07:31:00.001-04:00

Ladies. Gentlemen. Hello.

Ed has shuffled off into the long, dark night. I think a virtual wake would be appropriate, so I'm going to take my reluctant turn at the podium. I'll share my few brief glimpses of Ed's life with you. Today I'd like to share our introduction to one another.

I first met Ed when I got lost in the hospital two weeks ago. I was there trying to score some Dromazapan pills. I was rifling through the laundry desperately trying to find some doctor's whites so I could stroll about with impunity in my quest for keys to the prescription cabinet. I hoped to satisfy my cravings and, if I got lucky, snag some liquid morphine which would finance my gasoline for a month.

My only mistake was no fault of mine. No, it was the very hand of fate intervening to change my life forever. I did not securely close the laundry room door, and as I rifled through the used uniforms the door slowly and silently swung wide open.

I paid no attention to the sound of the squeaking gurney as it approached. I was intently smelling the armpits of one unstained overcoat when I heard something like a voice.

"Mrrrgellep!"

My body froze, but my eyes upturned to see a horizontal mummy rolling by. The pilot of the gurney paid no heed to the gurgly mumblings, but I saw one eyeball peeking out from a bandaged head, and one cockeyed arm tried to lift and point me out. It shuddered and collapsed back to the cart.

At this point I had no idea whether Ed was a friendly or not. He might rat me out. All it would take is one lone nurse taking the time to decipher his frenzied scribbling on a notepad and I'd be toast. Security would comb the house of healing with billy clubs and barking dogs. They'd find me and rip my face clean off. Then I'd be in the same boat as Ed. No good.

I stuffed the coat into my pants, creating a considerable bulge. The odds of finding a clean one in my extremely tall size are astronomical and unlikely to be repeated. I didn't want to risk it disappearing. I would've simply worn it, but it wouldn't match my Celine Dion 2002 European Tour t-shirt. Staff would be suspicious and my gig would be up.

I scampered after the squeaking trolley and discreetly followed it back to Ed's room. I loitered in his hallway for nearly an eternity. Finally Ed's nurse departed. As she/he/it walked by I whistled to indicate my innocence. My whole posture screamed "I am benign, I belong here, pay no attention, I am a good person." The nurse farted away.

I hustled into the room and Ed began gibbering again. A saliva bubble grew until it popped at the end of his feeding tube, which I had just disconnected. I jumped into his bed and straddled his torso. I leaned in very, very close to his wrapped head.

I began to whisper. "Listen, you mutilated sack of mealworms. If you talk about what you saw! If you try to tell them-"

I pointed to the door.

"-Anything! Then I'll get you. If you think you have the slightest chance of spoiling my fun, you are wrong. Dead wrong. Get it? I swear to you, I'll come back."

I will not be taken lightly. To make my point I strangled him for thirty seconds. I stopped and allowed him to breathe when the respirator started beeping. As he regained his breath he flailed his head up and down. He obviously wanted to indicate his assent.

I made a big show of reading his clipboard and writing down his name and room number.

As I made to exit, I stopped and turned back to the crippled shadow of a man.

"Remember."

Love is stronger than drugs

2005-04-05T18:36:00.000-04:00

From my hospital window, I saw clouds that carried a darkness that only Autumn brings. An ugly Spring greets this once handsome young man, wrapped in bandages like an ancient corpse. Reading reports of my death, a figurative one at that, slowly burns the fire within my writer's soul. That flame will erupt, not unlike the many pustules that spread on my back.

One Last Visit With Ed

2005-04-04T20:54:00.000-04:00

It's been a few days since Ed's traumatic accident. I thought I could stop by and sort of see how he's doing and everything. It's the least I could do, since he has been estranged from his family for the past eight years.

There was an incident, you see. Babies were involved, and restraining orders. And leather. It's all I can say, I'm sorry.

Anyway, as a Handsomes team member, I thought an interview with the original mastermind of the Handsomes project might be a fun idea. And besides, I had nothing else to do yesterday:

Me: Hey there, Ed!

Ed: Guh.

Me: Hey, you doin' okay, big guy? You maybe wan' a so-da? You wan' some ice-cream?

Ed: I have no lips, you dumbass.

Me: Sorry, I didn't catch all of that. Your mouth looks sort of like corned beef now, did you know that?

Ed: (moan)

Me: Man, my arms hurt. I've been working out a lot lately. Do my arms look bigger? I feel so strong today!

Ed: Nurse...

Me: Or maybe I'm just sore from all that sex I had last night.

Ed: NURSE!

Me: I'm just horsing around, take it easy. How's the hospital been for you?

Ed: Terrible. Just...just awful, it's so hard to describe.

Me: Really? Why, what's the matter?

Ed: The nurses. The...the nurses.

Me: Yes...the nurses?

Ed: They all look like men. They're so ugly, dude...(starts to cry)

Me: Oh...that's horrible, man. I'm so sorry.

Ed: (weeping) I thought...I mean, there's new, young nurses aren't there? Can't even one of them be assigned to old Ed? The horror...the horror.

Me: Yikes.

Ed: The pain meds they gave me have constipated me. I finally took a crap this morning, and I thought a brick landed in the bedpan. It was like sandpaper on my soft, baby skin.

Me: Hey, what skin? Ha ha ha! I'm just kidding.

Ed: I need a favour, man.

Me: Shoot.

Ed: Remember that five bucks I gave you? For breakfast that one time?

Me: Yeah, I gave that back to you...I bought you a pint, remember?

Ed: Oh...oh, yeah.

Me: What do you need though?

Ed: You're my friend, right? Say you're my friend.

Me: What? Yeah, of course I'm your friend...?

Ed: Clean me.

Me: What!

Ed: I'm dirty, man...down there...you said you're my friend, right? Don't make me beg, dude...you don't know what it's like for me here. Don't make me ask like this. I stink...I'm not even human anymore...look at me, man! I'm just a head! I'm just this goddam immobile head, stuck here under this blanket...and my stinking genitals make those ugly-ass nurses look at me like a heap of crap or something...

Me: The nurses...

Ed: I told you about them! Fuck the nurses! No more nurses...please, man...I need this. The sponge is in the drawer...be gentle. Use light strokes.

Me: I've got to go.

Ed: You're dead to me, man.

Ed's Dead, Baby... Ed's Dead

2005-03-25T01:20:00.000-05:00

I'd like to announce how shocked I was to hear of Ed's recent Bus accident, and more distressingly, the fact that he will no longer be able to post here at The Handsomes. I anticipate that we will have to search for many, many minutes before a qualified candidate is found to replace him.

But rather than dwell on the negative, I thought I'd share a few of the happier moments Ed and I enjoyed while he was mobile. For instance, there was that time the two of us got drunk on a bottle of Wild Turkey and then wandered to the dog park! We stumbled around the place like... like a couple of drunken kids on Easter morning! No, not in search of eggs, but dog shit--dog shit we planned to put in paper bags, which would then be set ablaze on people's porches. Unfortunately, we didn't have any paper bags, so as I rested on one of the park's benches, Ed scurried about filling his pockets with excrement. Man, we had some laughs that day.

And then there was the time Ed called me up one night in a panic:

*Ring-a-ling-a-ding*

"Hello?"
"Wino!! Shit, I'm so glad you're there, man!" Ed said between sobs.
"Ed--what's shakin'?"
"Wino, I fucked up, man--I fucked up bad! It's over! It's fuckin OVER for me!"
"--ED! Relax, dude--just tell Wino what's wrong, so he can get to making it all better."

Ed: "I told you never to look me in the eyes!! Argghh!!!"

Ed then related how he had accidently killed a Malaysian prostitute and that he needed help disposing of the body. Oh, Ed. What a character! I quickly devised a scheme to harvest the whore's organs, put them on ice and then sell them back to her own people through the black market. She netted us thirty-thousand dollars by the end of that day, and we both purchased luxury hot tubs for our houses with the money earned!

The Demise of Ed

2005-03-24T22:04:00.000-05:00

I am sad to report that Ed's short-lived contributions to this blog are at an end.

What happened was, he was getting himself a coffee the other day, and crossed the street against the light. He was tragically run over by a bus.

Ed was dragged about thirty feet before the driver could stop. Both of Ed's hands were crushed into pancakes under the wheels, and doctors were forced to amputate one of his legs below the knee. In addition, the skin of 90% of his face was erased on the pavement. It was an uncomfortable hospital visit:

Ed: Thanks for coming man...why are all these bandages on my face?

Me: (looking at the ceiling) Uh, I dunno. I guess you've got some bruises or something.

Ed: These bastards, they won't give me any pain meds. The doctor gave me Ibuprofen. What the fuck?!

Me: Demand the real meds. You lost a leg, for Crissake.

Ed: The way things are going for me, they'd just inject it in my butt anyway. The humiliation.

Me: That's a good thing, you get up to 10 times the benefit from rectal administration.

Ed: Yeah, that's what I told her!

At this point, Ed gamely attempted to give me a tough-guy "thumbs-up" but couldn't do it. I think he started to cry a bit, but I couldn't really tell, with the bandages and all.

Anyway, before he passed out from the pain and everything, Ed told me that he didn't think he could contribute to the blog anymore, not unless his rehab goes a lot better than doctors are predicting. He has to do a lot of exercises and things with his hands, once all the bones heal and the pins are removed.

"With these casts on my hands...well, it's going to feel like a stranger, eh?" Ed said.

Nobody is stranger than you, Ed. Good luck.

Blogging

2005-03-24T18:16:00.000-05:00

Gentlemen, I am done with public blogging (again).

Jesus Is Magic

2005-03-23T21:55:00.000-05:00

Watch Sarah Silverman's movie trailer. It will probably be more funny if the Pope was sitting on your lap at the same time. Or any time, really. He could call you Santa and say what he wants for Christmas. Probably, he wants your youthful blood. He is becoming a bit of a Montgomery Burns, is he not? Sorry, Pope.

Huge horns

2005-03-21T16:50:00.000-05:00

It was with great pleasure that I informed Argus that a "Spanish team found a direct link between the length and complexity of a buck's horns and the quality of its sperm."

As dominant males in our locale, we often discuss our height and strength advantages over the lower-status men. This may or may not involve routine bullying: Systematic yet unpredictable beatings which remind the boys who the men are.

Enough prison stories, back to the science. The Spanish researchers are only proving what evolutionary psychologists have been saying for years. Women are attracted to success, so men keen on passing on their DNA should display their potency.

And now you know why we put product in our hair.

The Nurse

2005-03-20T12:11:00.000-05:00

Imagine you're sick with a dreadful cold and you just can't seem take good care of yourself. Your nose is constantly runny, your throat feels like it's on fire, and you're coughing like there's no tomorrow.

Then someone tells you that they are willing to provide a nurse who will care for your every need. She will bring you hot soups, fluff your pillows, soothingly rub your back and make your life much easier!

The only catch is that you are not to look at this nurse--not even a glance. You are required to keep your eyes shut whenever she is around.

After a while, you feel a lot better. This nurse sure has worked her magic! You come to the conclusion that you've just got to take a quick look at her and thank her for all she has done.

The next time the nurse enters your room, you open your eyes and are horrified to see that the nurse is a corpse nurse! That's right! Her flesh is all green and black and her eyes are rotted and sunken. What a horrible sight!

Man, I wish I hadn't looked at that nurse!

The Dung Beetle

2005-03-20T03:17:00.000-05:00

The Dung Beetle has got to be one of the most fascinating insects! When it comes across the feces of other animals, it collects and rolls it into a ball. After doing so, it will lay its eggs within the dung and hide it. When the eggs hatch, the ball of shit becomes their food source. Talk about resourceful!

It's got to make you wonder if the Dung Beetle takes any abuse from his insect buddies, though.

Grasshopper: Hey, there goes Steve! What are you doing, you crazy fuck!?
Ant: It looks like he's...Nah, it couldn't be.
Grasshopper: No, I think he's really--he is! He's rolling a giant ball of shit!
Ant: I think I'm gonna puke!
Grasshopper: Steve, you lunatic!
Steve: Shut up, guys! You're just jealous!

The Inappropriate Office Chick

2005-03-19T15:29:00.000-05:00

I'm talking with one of my friends at work, visiting with her in her cubicle, and then in she comes.

The Drama Queen.

Every day, she has a new helping of woe to heap on the unsuspecting. She'll have an anecdote about her criminally-inclined ex-boyfriend to relate, or maybe something horrible and expensive that happened to her car over the weekend. But her favourite are immature gross-out stories, designed to shock or offend her audience. In her mind, talking about pus, ingrown hairs, fatness, mucus...anything that's exuded by her body is a way of expressing her unique and vibrant nature. This woman, she has two kids, and it's like she wears some kind of "run away from me" pheremone with her layers of whorish makeup. Anytime I see her coming, I pretend I forgot something in my office, and spin on my heel to go in the other direction. I don't care how obvious I look, life is just too damn short.

I'm trapped though, now, in my friend's office when she barges in. It's nothing to her to interrupt a conversation.

"Do you see a lump on my lip?" she asks my friend. She's poking her tongue around behind her lip, like a dog trying to get at a lump of peanut butter stuck to its soft palette. Lap, lap, lap.

"No, I don't," sighs my friend. Their offices are side-by-side, so interactions like these happen every day.

"I'm wondering if I'm growing a tumour or something. You think that's possible?" she says. Her belly pooches over her too-tight pants.

"I guess anything's possible, I mean, sure...there's mouth cancer," my friend says. She's looking at her through half-lidded eyes.

"Maybe that's it...I'm getting mouth cancer."

I'm suddenly inspired. "I bet it's herpes," I say.

One thing about people who think they're quirky and cool - for some reason, it's always okay to unleash the zingers on them. Beats me why.

The black bird

2005-03-18T19:15:00.000-05:00

Writing is like making music. You can be a solo artist, or join a band. Blogging is like being an independent artist, putting out free MP3s to create a buzz. You brag about how you will never sell-out, because you are in it for the love, not the money.

And you will not have to sell-out, because nobody will ever offer you that money. Why should they? The music is cheap, unoriginal. The blogs are insular, often completely boring. Either they strike a chord with you, to keep the music theme, or they offend you so greatly that you return every day to see the next outrage.

This entry is introspective. A blog entry about blogs, how unoriginal. Yet, I am not going to punish myself for it. For the first time, I am writing with others. Imagine us in a basement. We know how to play our instruments fairly well. We may have different musical influences, but we like each other enough to want to jam.

And so I sit at the keyboard, feeling my shoulder strengthen, trying to remember the brilliant ideas that I had just before I fell asleep. If only I had written them down, they were such good concepts!

Here is a question for you. No, let us make it a scenario. You are an aspiring writer. Your friends and lovers (all of them) say that you have talent. You can spell. You are at home say, recovering from a devastating shoulder injury, and you read The Maltese Falcon. Hammett's writing, his story-telling, is pure and terrifying. Do you feel encouraged to continue writing, or do you feel as though you can never write something as good as this story, and so give up forever?

Separated from the one I love

2005-03-16T20:26:00.000-05:00

Due to the March Break, my bus to work has changed its schedule. Why a bus that runs specifically to haul suburbanites to the downtown core would change to accommodate a reduction in high school student ridership, I do not know.

I was in a hurry and kept my eyes on the empty bus stop ahead of me. Nobody there, did the bus already come? Do I have a 45 minute wait ahead of me? Perhaps the bus -- OH FUCK! -- and I slipped on a patch of ice. I have not slipped on ice in years, and had forgotten the golden rule: Just fall and take it. Sadly, I thrust out my right arm to break the fall. It lodged itself into a solid snowbank. Instead of breaking my fall, my body broke. I heard tearing.

Rolling in agony on the ground, a witness to the entire scene drove off. Asshole. Using my three functioning limbs (I no longer count my "third leg" as a limb), I primitively stumbled home. Once in my apartment, I tried to assess the damage. Unfortunately, I was in too much pain to do so. I called my boss, left a message summarizing the morning's events. I called a co-worker and left a message, in case my boss was absent. It was now 6:50AM, you were probably still in bed, reader.

I called a few family members, did not get answers. I called a clinic, and expressed relief to the woman who answered the phone. She said that the office was open, but a doctor would not be present until 9AM. "I think I separated my shoulder," I plead. She coldly replied, "Then, sir, you should go to the hospital." Not a bad idea.

I called a cab, got into the cab, and experienced every pot hole my city had to offer. Screaming in anguish, my driver apologized and slowed the cab down. Other drivers angrily honked at us as they sped past. Assholes! Kill you!

Upon entering the emergency ward, or ER as you American readers might call it, I found a chair to grimace in. I only waited a couple of minutes. O! how great our medical system is in Canada! The receptionist asked me a few questions and arranged for a man dressed in green to put me in a wheelchair. The wheelchair took me down a hall to a stretcher. The man helped me take my dress shirt off. He cut my undershirt off. Then I saw what had happened to me.

My shoulder, upon first glance, was a sharp point. The arm was several inches below where it was supposed to be. I looked at the green guy, and said, "Oh, this is bad." He deadpanned, "It's not that bad." He is being paid to lie to me like that.

Blah blah blah, it took another seven hours for me to get out of the hospital.

Now I am typing this entry for your reading pleasure. These events occurred yesterday. Yes, this is how tough I am. I have wrenched my arm towards the keyboard so that I could painfully type this message to you. Just another reminder of how awesome I am!

The Work Blanket

2005-03-15T12:44:00.000-05:00

*
A woman of insufferable attitude here at work has recently taken to wearing a blanket around the office. It actually looks like a giant, plaid scarf, but I just like saying that word. Blanket.

Me: Hey. Why are you wearing that blanket?
Her: Tee-hee! It's not a blanket, it's a wrap! Tee, hee!
Me: (growing irritated already): Okay then, why are you wearing a fucking wrap? What are you, a burrito?
Her: Tee-hee! No, silly! I'm just cold!
Me: It's 24 degrees in here. I'm sweating, it's so hot, you stupid bimbo.
Her: Well, I'M cold! Tee-hee!
Me: You're retarded.

Turns out she's pregnant.

I suspect the Work Blanket is all about concealing her growing fatness, and has nothing to do with specious reasoning like, "I'm cold." I know I'm right, because guys like me are right about everything.

*

Bathroom behaviour (male)

2005-03-14T21:36:00.000-05:00

Argus is not the only one obsessed with bathroom etiquette. Bob has posted another entry regarding the sights and sounds of the office restroom.

My day off from the office saw me delight in the fortress of solitude that is my bathroom. And by delight, I mean that I used it as little as possible. Handsome men have no need to fuss in the washroom; we awake, adventure and slumber in a natural state of excellence.

Two invitations have been accepted. We may be hiring more writers, I have not decided to what limits this monster will grow. And yes, we all need limits. Some of you ladies need restraints, from the way you act around us. For shame!

Handsome powers for the cause of Good

2005-03-13T22:38:00.000-05:00

Years have passed since I last operated a web log. Emails by the dozens have landed into my inbox, demanding that I create something new. They wanted me to create a place where I could express myself, unfettered by my nation's laws against stupidity and the asinine. I knew that in my mentally weakened state, I could not undertake this mission alone.

The concept is simple: Assemble a writing team of the most handsome men in the four corners of the world, nay, the universe. Together, we would use our good-looks and witty banter to save bored websurfers from having to read the blogs of the ugly, lame, impoverished, and decrepit.

The first invitations go out tonight. You should bookmark this page now, before it becomes so popular that we cause the melting of each and every server that Google can provide.