The girl in green...

My house, like my teeth, is a ticking time bomb of decay.

I stepped on a soft spot on the floor today, and I thought it would collapse and I’d soon be under my house like Walter White grabbing his cash, covered in cobwebs and moldy dirt.

I don’t seem to have the want to call the landlord to get it fixed. It would mean weeks of construction workers ambling about my house, tearing up the floors and making my life miserable. I’d rather just not jump on my floor much. A simpler solution.

Speaking of, let’s talk drinking. Last night, I drank a few beers. It seemed like a very good idea. It ended up just being an idea. No great prose seeped out of my brain. No mindstorm. It ended up just being me, sitting on the couch, watching great old movies such as “Panic in the Streets” and “California Split.” At some point, I started sending massive Twitter messages. When those hashtag wars start, I just want Patton Oswalt to see mine. He doesn’t need to approve of it, or hate it. Just see it.

When I finally was ready to pass out, I went to my room and thought about masturbating. Key word being thought. I was asleep before I could spit on my hand.

I was woken by thunder sometime around 7 a.m. It’s a great feeling. The bed seemed to shake from one particularly large one. I laid there thinking about how nice it would be to live in the jungle, where such storms were an everyday occurrence and not a nice respite from the ordinary. Of course, then, thunderstorms and rain might become the ordinary.

A woman walks by my house. She’s wearing a green one-piece bathing suit. It makes her legs look awfully long – in a good way. I watch those legs the entire stretch of the block I can see from my window. I know if she saw me there, shirtless and in my underwear, she’d think about calling the cops. I guess luckily for me, she didn’t. I look at her car in the parking lot across the street. It’s a green Ford Focus. Her thing for green intrigues me. Does she like Green Day or even Green Jelly. Remember that song they did – “Three Little Pigs”? Maybe her mother read her “Green Eggs and Ham” as a child. Her favorite movies? Well, “The Green Mile” and “Soylent Green”, for sure. I decide to put on some clothes and go stare inside her car. I put on a green shirt and green shorts. If it were cold out, I’d put on green soccer socks. My Adidas Sambas have green stripes. Maybe we are a perfect fit, I allow myself to think for a moment as I walk across the street.

I hit the gravel of the parking lot when another car comes screeching in. They are playing “House of Pain” very loudly and drinking Coronas. My will to live is somewhat halted at the moment of their introduction to my life.

They park right next to the green car and get out. I decide to stop where I’m at and turn around. I get back to my carport and sit on my stool. Yes, it’s green.

The three clowns in the car get out. Two have Ed Hardy shirts on. The other has no shirt on, but appears to have Ed Hardy designs tattooed on his chest. I think of Brock Lesnar’s “sword” tattoo on his chest. I wonder if the artist did that on purpose? It really looks like a penis. Anyway, our parking lot villains proceed to take out their beach chairs and their cooler and place them in the parking lot ground. Instead of going to the beach – two blocks away – they have decided, it appears, to hang out in the parking lot of a shag dance club.

I sigh and go inside. I have to be leaving for work in about 45 minutes. So, I need to shower. I’ve already shit today, which was necessary after the night and day of drinking beer and eating shitty food. Of course, all of the turds floated. Too much fat in the diet when they bob around the bowl.

The will to go to work is not strong today. Not that it ever is, but lately, it’s been willless – to attempt to invent a word of usefulness. I wonder if Mike Ness would use them? That would be careless of him. I should send him the words in an envelope – but it would be fruitless. I really like Les Nessman’s newscasts. They do more with less.

At some point, I have to stop. The bills must be paid. The game must be played. Until it’s completion.

Do people ever use the world nadir? I used it the other day, and two people went “Huh?” with their eyes.

I’d like to use mulct in conversation. But I don’t want to talk politics.

I used to love politics. The first girl I ever fell in love with, we used to talk politics. I used to take the Republican side just to mess with her. I think she ended up believing I believed in the “cause”. She and I didn’t date very long. I still send her Christmas and birthday cards. Her and her girlfriend. She thinks my birthday is April 1. It’s April 9. I don’t know when that shift occurred. I used to get the cards around the 9^th, then one year, it became the 1^st. I’m guessing it means at some point she decided I was a joke. One that had to keep being told. At least that’s what my warped mind wraps itself around. Seems to fit.

The girl in green comes back to her car.  She didn’t stay at the beach long. She is walking up the street. I wonder what she thinks of the douchebags hanging out around her car. She seems them. She starts running towards them. When she gets to the cars, she hugs the guy without a shirt on. Then kisses him.

Well, there goes another imaginary relationship. Time to get ready for work.

Credit card debt

A line in the politician’s speech made everyone do a double take at the rally.

“He had a lot in common with both Jesse Owens and Adolf Hilter,” the candidate said, then continued on about the man he was talking about.

Thoughts on Twitter instantly became a flood …

“He was once in Germany?”

“He’s skinny?”

“He’s a black Jew?”

“Who is this amazing runner/genocidist?”

All his campaign manager could do was shake his head and sigh. This moron constantly put his foot in his mouth because he had no idea what he was ever talking about. Here we were, in a room filled with 14 to 18 year old high school kids. None of them knew who either of them were either, most likely, so hopefully, nothing would come of it.

A beep on his phone, at that moment however, allowed him to no longer live in this fantasy.

“There’s already YouTube video of it,” a text from his tech-savvy guy at the campaign offices said. “It’s been view 4,000 times in two minutes. And linked to the Huffington Post and TMZ.”

It was going to be a long night, he thought to himself. He started to wish he’d pursued his father’s line of work – circus clown. But the jokes on that one were way too easy. He heard them every time he saw his ex-girlfriend who followed her passion and ended up owning a bar in New Orleans. She hated that town when he used to talk about it. Then she moved there. And unlike him, stayed there.

He saw her three years ago when the candidate he was working for then was running for president. He stopped in New Orleans and got drunk at a bar in the Marigny. He won the popular vote there. Not many other places. But, he did do better than Mondale at least.

“Why are you still doing this?” his ex asked him the night after the election. They always screw up. Or maybe you always screw up?”

“You know me too well, hon,” he said.

“Scary ain’t it?”

“Not really. You found out how full of shit I was the easy way.”

“Easy?”

“Yeah, I left. You didn’t have to be disappointed by me right in front of your eyes.”

He hadn’t seen her since.

And now he was sitting there watching another candidate flame out. This was supposed to be an easy one. A quick speech about the good of athletics and education. Now, he was talking about Hitler and Osama Bin Laden and Jesse Owens and Ric Flair all in the matter of 3 minutes of talking.

“Why didn’t I get a teleprompter for this?” he asked out loud to no one.

“Because you’re an asshole,” a voice behind him replied. He knew before the last syllable was out of her mouth who it was – Graina Johnson, the other candidate’s advisor. He fucked her one night after a rather intense debate between the two candidates about 7 months ago. She wasn’t a very good fuck, but neither was he. They were drunk. He woke up the next morning and she was gone. A week later, news leaked about his candidate’s out of wack credit card debts. As he watched the news scroll across a television screen while he read the morning papers, he knew exactly where the “evidence” of this “massive coverup” about the candidate’s finances – from his God damned desk. He’d left those accounts, which he’d just paid off with his own money, sitting out that night. And she saw them.

The polls shifted that week. From his candidate being up 11 percent, to his candidate being down 4 percent (plus or minus 3 percent). But, he quickly put out the statements with paid off balances – which conveniently had the date of one day before the statements that were on his desk – he’d printed them off with the balances still intact so he could get paid back later – and soon his candidate was back in the lead since the “leak” was obviously an attempt “by my opponent to attack my finances, when it is pretty obvious that I do not have any credit card debts.” The two fucked again the night after that.  This time, in a hotel. This time, he didn’t take anything, even his wallet or cell phone, to the encounter. The sex ended up being quite good.

So good, they made a pact to fuck every week – every Wednesday to be exact – the rest of the campaign. It proved to be a difficult task, one that ended up putting the candidates in the same place on a lot of Thursdays, something one intrepid reporter caught on to and took a photo for TMZ of the two meeting in a Motel 6 one night. He ended up paying that guy $44,432 to hush him up. An amount so specific, he had to ask.

“My credit card debt,” the sleazy photog said.

He wished he could pay off his credit cards so easily.