I was at this big roller rink once my freshman year in high school. We all went there ‘cos it was really trendy and had the BEST Mr. Pibb. I had no idea how to skate, but I thought it would be a kickin’ good time. So I sat on one of those square things to put on my rented skates. I was pissed when I realized they had only given me one skate, but then I remembered I only had one leg. So I stumbled onto the main floor, where the vixens are, and started to play the field.
Getting up after my eleventh or twelfth fall, I noticed a sultry young red-haired love cat with glitter in her hair looking down at me. Her stare was inviting, and I asked her if she’d mind giving me a lesson or two. She smiled and, amused, began to giggle. I thought she fell for my innocence or thought my inability to skate was charming, and that boded well for things to come. But when she grabbed me by the locks of my dishwater-blond hair and swung me around ’til I was out of control, I knew my premonitions were faulty. The other girls joined in, and I became an unhappy one-legged billiard ball bouncing around the hellish pool table called Rollerhell. Eventually my torso hit the rink’s edge, shattering my pelvic bones. I lay doubled over, shot down in flames.
I don’t know. I guess girls just don’t dig me.
There once a boy who had a great lemonade sale with his friends and sister. This lemonade sale was not to be outdone by anyone on the block, or in the town for that matter. All these kids went door to door on this very hot Saturday afternoon, and they were getting all the neighbors to come out and support this local operation on Pratt Court. The little boy, we’ll call him Joseph, was manning the distribution of the lemonade while the others went to get customers. Well, Joseph became very thirsty on this hot Saturday, and so he poured himself a cup of yummy lemonade. Joseph poured his glass of lemonade and proceeded to drink his lemonade until he found his reward– money! There was glorious change at the bottom of the cup on that fortunate Saturday afternoon, and Joseph went home a happy camper!
Bernie sat in a room filled with her favorite food, sweet potatoes. She liked them any way she could get them. She had wished for this bounty, and the wish had come true. She got her sweet potato wish. She never had believed in magic, and there was nothing that made this wish different than any other wishes she’d made in the past that had gone unanswered: no magic dust, no flash of lightning, no Zoltar fortune-telling machine on a deserted boardwalk. She just wished for sweet potatoes one morning in her bedroom, and lo and behold they appeared.
“Holy mama jama,” she exclaimed. “Gold rush!” (This was kind of a play on words, since a Goldrush is a variety of sweet potato.)
She couldn’t wait to dig in. She grabbed a delicious-looking tuber and took a bite.
“Shit!” she realized. “These motherfuckers are yams!”
Bernie hated yams. To her, yams were sweet potato posers. Sweeter and moister, the yam is not even distantly related to the sweet potato. Who did this wish-giver think he was! Didn’t this asshole know that yams are from the Dioscoreaceae family and not the Convolvulacea? WTF!!! AMATEUR!!! The genie or whatever the hell might as well have sent her a room full of dirty grass.
Bernie destroyed all of the yams in a rage and vowed to never wish again.
Ted Baker knew that the only thing left in his life worth living for was his pet dog Bob. Bob was the pride and joy of Ted. Each day Ted returned home from work at the mortuary, Bob would greet him at the door, awaiting his daily walk.
One day, Ted decided to take Bob for a walk in the park two blocks away from his house. “C’mon Boy, we’re goin’ on an adventure,” he said.
The two set out toward the park. Bob wandered from side to side, smelling the fragrant grass and urinating every now and then. Across the street was a bakery. Bob caught scent of food and darted across the street. *BLAM!* Bob was smashed dead by a semi.
“Oh, shit,” cried Ted, running toward the corpse of his beloved dog. The truck driver squealed to a halt and walked over to Ted with a look of genuine remorse.
“Jesus, I’m real sorry. He just…”
“Fuck you, you mutated fuck nose!” interrupted Ted. Ted grabbed the truck driver and smashed his head into the street lamp.
The truck driver fell onto his back. Ted pounced on his stomach until his insides came out of his mouth.
Satisfied, he went to the bakery that had attracted Bob’s attention. There he bought a chocolate Bundt cake and smiled. Oh, how dear Bob had loved Bundt cakes!
Basically, Billy had about six hours to make perhaps the most important decision in his thirty-eight year-old life. To some, the answer would be simple. There would be no question for many as to what Billy should do. The storm was bearing down on his Gulf Coast sunshine state, and he was under mandatory evacuation.
After Katrina, no sane person would ever again doubt the powers of a category 5 hurricane. Billy, having lived more than fifteen years in Florida, had seen his share of lesser hurricanes, but had lived through at least two category 3 or above ones. And this one, already a strong cat-4, was predicated to make landfall right on top of his apartment.
To Billy, this presented a problem. Normally Billy would have been gone a day earlier. Having a sixth sense about tropical disturbances, Billy would have seen the track, and drove up to Tennessee to enjoy the cooler weather, mountain air, and Dollywood.
This time was different. This time, Billy was smack dab in the middle of the most important event of his life. As a kid, Billy had spent the time and dedication, taken the photos of his old tv screen as proof, and earned high-score patches for E.T, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Pitfall Activision games for Atari.
Thirty years later, in the year 2008, these games were obsolete. However there was still a following for video game high scores. There were still those who followed and worshipped. There were still games without a “master,” and Billy wanted badly to leave his mark on the video game society by claiming a Master spot.
He was not interested in besting known scores or titles. He did not choose Donkey Kong, PacMan, Frogger, Qix, Galaga, or Space Invaders. Instead, he chose what he felt would be a shoo-in. A game that many have heard of, but nobody had conquered.
Billy set his sights on Miner 2049′er, and he was on level 999.
“Fuck that storm,” Billy said aloud, as he moved Bounty Bob into position to clear the last and final level. “I can swim,” he thought, and smiled… “Oh my darling, oh my darling…” he sang…
For a group of heterosexual youngsters, a sleepover was a great way to have some weekend amusement. And when there was a sleepover at Mike’s place, you can bet there would be mealworm fights. All participants would stand erect and ceremoniously place their sleeping bags over their fledgling and kittenish bodies. Then the frolicking would begin. Blind as Al Pacino in his beloved role as Lieutenant Colonel Frank Slate in Scent of a Woman, we pretend giant romping larvae would wrestle and wriggle ourselves into a silly huff until someone hurt his head on the coffee table or broke one of Marge’s ceramic lamps. My pals and I would titter all the way to the 24-Hour Emergency Center where Darren would receive stitches in his right butt cheek. Oh how hopelessly I crave a second youth.
Often after school, if we felt the time was right, we would hunt birds. This meant we would set up a trap on my driveway and hope to catch a wild sparrow or robin. We propped up a box with a stick, tied a string to the stick, and waited far away in a secluded vigil with the other end of the string. Inside the box was whatever we considered to be effective wild bird bait- seed, birdy toys, or a female bird decoy that I fashioned out of Popsicle sticks. When the unsuspecting bird entered the box, we intended to pull the string, trap the warm-blooded vertebrate, and feel like real men. I don’t know what we intended to do with the egg-layers once caught, but as we never actually caught any, I suppose it doesn’t matter. The hunt was the fun part, a male bonding experience probably not unlike two cops at a stakeout, only instead of being hepped up on coffee, we were sucking down Lik-M-Aid Fun Dipⓒ.
Whenever the Johnson family finished a gallon of milk, I would exult. When I was done exulting, I would phone any number of neighborhood cronies and begin an activity that would inevitably provide endless hours of harmless diversion. First we would jump on the empty plastic jug, rendering it flat, and throw it onto the street. Then one of us would mount a bicycle and, after gaining the proper speed, approach the carton with an extended right leg. As the young shaver reached the milk vessel, he would firmly step on it and drag it under his foot as he rode the Bramble lane circuit. This would create an annoying noise for the neighbors to enjoy, and sometimes the participant could maintain the non-biodegradable lacto-corpse under his foot for several trips around the block! I become teary-eyed as I remember the carefree larks enjoyed during this blissful experience.
Oh but how I loved to invent little games and activities when I was but a piglet. No G.I. Joe dolls for me, boy, I had an endless collection of fun pastimes in my own head that required nothing but common items. Items that any young suburban kid could find around the house, like a tennis ball.
Sprinkleball was a summer sport that I invented as a pup. My young male white suburban friends and I would fill up a bucket with water and grab a nice tennis ball. Friend “A” would sit in the back yard on a lawn chair and wait for the fun to begin. Friend “B” would remain in the front yard with the bucket and dip the tennis ball inside the bucket, saturating it with water. Then Friend “B” would throw the ball over the house, hopefully to send it whirling over Friend “A” on the other side. He pre-calculated the flight path of the trajectory– assuming the position of the lawn chair was constant, success would occur if the ball was thrown over the ’2′ plate on the house front (from 325 Bramble, then my address)—Friend “A” would experience a delightful shower. No catching is required. No points were accumulated. Who wins? Everybody! Directly after the mission, Friend “A” would run to the front, usually delighted, and reveal just how much he had been sprinkled. What hilarious giggles would ensue! Imagine keeping cool in the summer heat via such a novel childhood experience. Oh how I miss pre-adolescence.
Long ago, next week sometime, maybe Wednesday, there lived a horrible smelling elf named Krüebert. He loved to make toys, especially crappy ones like table badminton sets, knockoff Silly Putty, and Drillbit Taylor dolls. Nobody wanted him or his lousy toys.
“Krüebert,” Bouncy would say, “you smell like bouillon cubes. Can you please go die or something?”
Krüebert would cry and seek comfort in making some plastic Dukes of Hazzard handcuffs.
“Krüebert,” Flouncy would growl, “the best smelling part of you, your hair, smells like the fetid dingleberries of Dasher, the most malodorous of the reindeer, smothered in afterbirth. Now please swallow one of these Polly Pocket dolls, which were recalled by Santa because they are a choking hazard and contain lead paint.”
Finally Bjugnakraekir, the Head Elf and Toymaker (who actually created the world) intervened and decided to make things right. He (or she) bathed Krüebert, only to discover that he smelled worse afterwards, and his remarkable stench ruined the North Pole’s supply of soap and Santa’s special bathing place. Realizing that, as creator of the world, the abomination of Krüebert was his (or her) fault, his (or her) only recourse was to destroy the Earth and start anew.
And to this day, the inhabitants of Og, the New World, are mystified by why just one of the billions of stars out there in the universe smells a little bit like rotten liverwurst. Little do they know, morons that they are, that within this star lies the remains of the wonderful but stanky elf named Krüebert and the lutefisk he was eating when the world exploded.