too soon?

His girlfriend was looking at her phone, Twitter most likely, he thought as he stared at her fingers. He moved up to her tits and then her face. Of course, the then went back to her tits. He wasn’t really a boob guy, but he just wanted to look at her tiny ones. He definitely liked ‘em smaller. Asses? Completely opposite.

“I can’t believe that happened?” she exclaimed.

He yawned. The Twitterverse was in a breaking news mode, obviously. He just wished the baffoons of the internet would just let professionals do the news breaking. Nowadays, everyone’s a journalist. So why isn’t there any respect for the profession, if everyone wants to be one? Guess it’s like athletes. Everyone thinks they can play. Everyone thinks “Hey, I could make at least one shot in an NBA game.” Or “Hey, I could at least complete one pass.” Fuck those dolts.

He looked at his girlfriend. She seemed truly upset.

“What is it babe?” he finally asked, more out of duty than true care. He knew it was probably just another oil spill or terrorist attack.

“Someone killed a bunch of people at a movie theater. Twelve of them. They were all just watching the premiere of “The Dark Knight Rises.” So sad.

“Another reason to not go see a movie on the opening night,” he said rather coldly. He was cold and callous now. Too many years of cynicism from being a journalist and seeing murder, death, rape, famine, AIDS every day and night of his life.

“You’re an ass,” she said giving him a mean stare.

She was right. He was an ass. To say something out loud like that will never be “acceptable” behavior as his third grade teacher told him after he called a girl a “cunt” to her face. He’d heard his dad use the word, didn’t know what it meant, but it seemed powerful. He realized that day that sometimes restraint was necessary. Even when you didn’t want to use. It.

Over the years, that ability had been eroded. Now, his face always told the tale and his mouth usually followed.

It cost him many things. Chances at getting laid. Telling a girl you think she’s stupid in a crowded bar usually won’t lead to blow jobs. More likely, it’ll lead to a punch in the face by some other clod. And that guy will end up getting his dick wet.

Jobs? Ha. If you tell a boss what you really think, it should get you promoted. And a good boss will do so. However, the problem with that theory is most bosses are not good bosses. They just lasted the longest. Or made friends or were members of the “Lucky Sperm Club.” This was more evident in newspapers than most places, he found. Yet, he kept going back to them. Until Twitter finally killed most of them.

“Too soon?” he asked.

She glared again.

“Guess so.”

It reminded him of the Virginia Tech sniper killings. He had plenty of friends and “Myspace friends” at that time who went to the school, worked for the school or just liked the school.

Later that day, after the news broke – more on television and newspaper web sites at that time than citizens, but not wholly at all – he put up a gif as his profile picture. Of a turkey in the crosshairs of a gun.

It was amusing to go to friends pages. Many dotted, some covered, with ribbons of “support” for the victims. A really nice gesture, I guess. But if he was a “top friend” there was the turkey in the sights, surrounded by ribbons. It was laugh inducing.

“Too soon?” was response to the criticism.

It got Howard Stern fired. “How much is a ticket to the 14^th Street Bridge?” Ha. That’s funny. And pretty damn daring.

But he had mojo. Getting fired didn’t hurt. It helped.

Being a douchebag to friends and such? Not much of a gain to be had there.

“My goal is to get as many people to follow me, then unfollow me,” a sort of friend posted on his Twitter feed a day before. He messaged him to say “then make fun of the movie shooting victims.”

His reply?

“Too soon.”

Who the fuck are these people. You are either a satirist who isn’t scared to offend, or you’re just another brick in the wall. Another wheel in the machine. Another cliché in a small town sportswriter’s shitty column.

“Guess we have a critic!”

Bad headline idea?

“Too soon?”

at least i wrote over 750 words ...

You know it’s bad when you struggle to cook.

It’s too damn windy out to be productive. Especially when it’s 89 degrees and humid inside the house. I rush to make four burgers, two for tonight, two for tomorrow and some broccoli. I know I’m rushing. I have to get up at 6:45 in the morning to go to work by 8:30. What the fuck is that? Then, I’ll be there until 11. Why do I do this to myself? Is meeting this guy worth it?

But, I want to eat. And eat well tonight, so I’m cooking on the grill. That adds at least an hour to prepare time. But, I soldier on. The bugs are flying inside since I opened up the door. It’s a compromise.

I sometimes wish I had a dog. But, then I’d have to keep the air conditioning on all the time so the dog didn’t burn up. Tradeoffs.

My car needs to be inspected. It needs new brake pads. Probably needs a new timing belt. But, I’m hoping that last one is just me being paranoid. But, I am usually right about such things.

A former colleague finished his book, I hear. I’m jealous. I can’t seem to get started on one. I have ideas, but no focus. I feel like I’m always on acid. Amazed by what’s going on inside and outside of my mind, but completely unable to focus. I have no idea if that’s what being on acid is like.

My nipples are raw. I wore a new shirt to work today it the damn thing rubbed on them all day and night. I kept looking at my erect nipples and wondering what the rest of the office was thinking. I do that.

The janitor was working today. Funny to see that.

Eating tacos is fun.

Eating tacos is great.

I don’t eat enough tacos.

There’s a giant pile of gravel in the alley between my house and the hotel now. The caretaker was shoveling that shit into the alley all morning. When I was trying to sleep. I almost was going to just hook my speakers up to my computer, find the worst bit of tranny on tranny porn that I could find and blast it out the window. I’d say that’s fair. Now I’m going to have all these dug up bugs scampering about my house due to this new pile of rubble and shit. And the giant hotel sign is gone. I wonder what he did with it? I do now know that a giant pile of bricks was behind it. I wonder if that’s where the feral cats were always fucking?

I still want a taco. But instead I’m cooking hamburgers. Three the normal way – Montreal seasoning and worstershire sauce – the fourth with those and some Crawfish seasoning. It’ll be interesting.

My foot itches. It actually feels like something is crawling on top of it and biting it. I’m wondering if I have ants. I don’t want to look because ants piss me off. And it would be the fault of the fucker dumping shit in the alley. It’s right near where I am right now. So, yes, I would blame that fucker with the ugly ponytail. I wonder to myself how many people called me the fucker with the ugly ponytail when I lived in Tempe?

I spilled a beer on my couch and carpet three nights ago. I didn’t clean it up. It still smells like beer in here. Maybe that’s where the ants are coming from? Spilt beer on the couch. That would not make a good band name.

I officially put out the invite for the Crawfish get together. I wonder if more than the 11 or so what showed up last year will show up this year. I know some will not, some will. All I can do is drink my Lone Star beer, cook the crawfish and see what happens. Sounds like a God damn good plan.

It amazes me the lengths some people will go just to snark. I used to be like that. And sometimes still am. It bothers me now. Is that a sign of growing old or just getting tired? Hell, I ain’t Don Rickles.

Somewhere right now, Adam Sandler is thinking about Bog Saget. Or maybe, John Lyndon is having sex. Still another possibility is Jose Canseco staring at himself in the mirror while trying to figure out why the Iron Sheik doesn’t like him.

Well, at least I wrote more than 750 words.