You may have noticed that I rearranged the side panel there, to the right. I was trying to find an older post the other day, and it took me forever. This really pissed me off, and it helped me realize how useless my previous archival system was. So the posts/stories/shorts/whatever are listed by name instead of date.
Easier to find shit.
Word be bond.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
The Last Straw
You really are not in the mood for her today. Maybe if you refuse to speak, she'll leave.
“Hey I was using that!”
You have no idea what she is talking about. But then again, you never do. So the pointing starts.
“That. That right there.”
Oh. That. Right. So you hand over the salt shaker you were using to put some flavor into some luke and limp fries at Wendy’s. Man, you hate Wendy’s. The fries taste like cardboard. So you salt them until they resemble a winter wonderland. Then the sarcasm hits you like a weighted bat.
“Yes." Bug-eyed. "Thank you.” With a flip of her extensions.
The frantic salting of her own pile of fries begins, but she keeps looking over at yours with a raised brow, on the verge of speech.
“Jesus. Do you really need all that salt?”
Yes, fucker, you need that much salt. What a judgmental… trade can be like that. Trade treats trade like sisters, but with only one dad, the competition is always there. You continue to maintain your silence, as you don’t want to get cut today. She's always up to cutting something.
“So, like I was saying, there’s this guy from back in my neighborhood who says he can get the best shit. I mean, really good stuff. Like, two lines and you’ll be setting your neighbor’s yard on fire wearing your mom’s favorite pearls, type-of good. Know what I’m sayin’? Sheeeeit negro. That’s all I’m gonna say about that.”
Your nails are too long to deal with the fries. Move on to the strawberry shake. Ooooh, the strawberry shake. And at Wendy’s, you always get a spoon with it too. One of those long-handled spoons, with the teaspoon end. Better than those gift-wrap-tube straws from McDonald’s. You always get too greedy. It flows too easy, and you always get that throbbing headache from the fat straws. She is still chattering. Maybe if you keep quiet she'll just get up and leave. But she never does.
“So did you talk to your sister about that thing we discussed earlier? I mean, I don’t want to get into it too much here, cuz, you know, there are people around and shit but I need an answer on that before Friday. Friday is my CUT-OFF. For that. Straight? Because it is a bonafide one-time thing for her. Cuba’s been givin’ her the eye, and he doesn’t waste lots of time on tricks like her, so she better flip and flip fast if she’s lookin’ for a solid hustle. Cuba ain’t the one, so don’t get it twisted. “
There’s no way in hell you’ll let Alisha get into this game. She’s thirteen, and still has a chance. No need to waste any years on the boulevard of stolen cream.
Oh great, someone she knows.
“Hey, hey Damon, Slick! Over here!”
Slick? How charming. And he isn’t even coming over to talk. The shouting is ruining your shake.
“Hey, this is my girl Trina, she’s in from Miami! Come on over here muthafucka and say hello!"
He won't.
"Well fuck you then!”
Doubtful.
“Fuck him and his triflin’ ass. I hear he got a chinky dick anyways. Triflin’ ass…”
Clever. With the racist allusion. Cleverly put.
“So they say that there’s this cat up off Monroe, who’s got boo-coo bucks and he don’t even want to run it or nothin’. He just likes it if you dress up in this outfit like that coyote from the cartoons or some shit and suck him off while he’s in this rabbit outfit. Bugs Bunny I think. Haley says she copped like two grip off that fool for doing it. But the suit was hot. And his breath stank like pickles and onions.”
She always talks like that. The up-and-coming hustle. But you are busy studying her hands. Her garish display of nothing. Too much gold on those fingers. You should never advertise like that around here. You can only keep what you can protect around here.
“But then again, Haley does some stupid shit. Like that one time she went with that dude to Matamoros for the weekend. Did you see her when she got back? That puta had a cut all the way from her left ear…”
Those long fingernails look like daggers. She could be slicing her own neck right now while she’s talking, and it would not be surprising. Nothing ever is. Surprising, that is.
“…all the way around the back of her head. I think that cracker really wanted to kill her. Like those devil worshippers down there. Remember them on the news? White folks is crazy like that. Some got no god and shit.”
That is true. And these fries are awful. Too much salt.
“I’m tellin’ you girl, if this business didn’t have Cuba or cash, I wouldn’t be in it today. Cuz some of these muthafuckas just ain’t worth my time. I could be working at Foley’s or some shit. In the air conditioning. Cuz some of these freaks got no god. Some just don’t know god.”
Forget the fries. Tell her that her gold is too much and she will lose it because she is too weak. Tell her here, we can only keep what we can protect. Everything else belongs to Cuba, or whoever takes him. Tell her now. Tell her that she has nothing. Tell her about the gold. Tell her that your sister will always belong to herself. Tell her that you can and WILL protect something. Tell her. Tell her now.
Better yet, tell her that her god belongs to Cuba. Maybe then she’ll fucking leave.
“Hey I was using that!”
You have no idea what she is talking about. But then again, you never do. So the pointing starts.
“That. That right there.”
Oh. That. Right. So you hand over the salt shaker you were using to put some flavor into some luke and limp fries at Wendy’s. Man, you hate Wendy’s. The fries taste like cardboard. So you salt them until they resemble a winter wonderland. Then the sarcasm hits you like a weighted bat.
“Yes." Bug-eyed. "Thank you.” With a flip of her extensions.
The frantic salting of her own pile of fries begins, but she keeps looking over at yours with a raised brow, on the verge of speech.
“Jesus. Do you really need all that salt?”
Yes, fucker, you need that much salt. What a judgmental… trade can be like that. Trade treats trade like sisters, but with only one dad, the competition is always there. You continue to maintain your silence, as you don’t want to get cut today. She's always up to cutting something.
“So, like I was saying, there’s this guy from back in my neighborhood who says he can get the best shit. I mean, really good stuff. Like, two lines and you’ll be setting your neighbor’s yard on fire wearing your mom’s favorite pearls, type-of good. Know what I’m sayin’? Sheeeeit negro. That’s all I’m gonna say about that.”
Your nails are too long to deal with the fries. Move on to the strawberry shake. Ooooh, the strawberry shake. And at Wendy’s, you always get a spoon with it too. One of those long-handled spoons, with the teaspoon end. Better than those gift-wrap-tube straws from McDonald’s. You always get too greedy. It flows too easy, and you always get that throbbing headache from the fat straws. She is still chattering. Maybe if you keep quiet she'll just get up and leave. But she never does.
“So did you talk to your sister about that thing we discussed earlier? I mean, I don’t want to get into it too much here, cuz, you know, there are people around and shit but I need an answer on that before Friday. Friday is my CUT-OFF. For that. Straight? Because it is a bonafide one-time thing for her. Cuba’s been givin’ her the eye, and he doesn’t waste lots of time on tricks like her, so she better flip and flip fast if she’s lookin’ for a solid hustle. Cuba ain’t the one, so don’t get it twisted. “
There’s no way in hell you’ll let Alisha get into this game. She’s thirteen, and still has a chance. No need to waste any years on the boulevard of stolen cream.
Oh great, someone she knows.
“Hey, hey Damon, Slick! Over here!”
Slick? How charming. And he isn’t even coming over to talk. The shouting is ruining your shake.
“Hey, this is my girl Trina, she’s in from Miami! Come on over here muthafucka and say hello!"
He won't.
"Well fuck you then!”
Doubtful.
“Fuck him and his triflin’ ass. I hear he got a chinky dick anyways. Triflin’ ass…”
Clever. With the racist allusion. Cleverly put.
“So they say that there’s this cat up off Monroe, who’s got boo-coo bucks and he don’t even want to run it or nothin’. He just likes it if you dress up in this outfit like that coyote from the cartoons or some shit and suck him off while he’s in this rabbit outfit. Bugs Bunny I think. Haley says she copped like two grip off that fool for doing it. But the suit was hot. And his breath stank like pickles and onions.”
She always talks like that. The up-and-coming hustle. But you are busy studying her hands. Her garish display of nothing. Too much gold on those fingers. You should never advertise like that around here. You can only keep what you can protect around here.
“But then again, Haley does some stupid shit. Like that one time she went with that dude to Matamoros for the weekend. Did you see her when she got back? That puta had a cut all the way from her left ear…”
Those long fingernails look like daggers. She could be slicing her own neck right now while she’s talking, and it would not be surprising. Nothing ever is. Surprising, that is.
“…all the way around the back of her head. I think that cracker really wanted to kill her. Like those devil worshippers down there. Remember them on the news? White folks is crazy like that. Some got no god and shit.”
That is true. And these fries are awful. Too much salt.
“I’m tellin’ you girl, if this business didn’t have Cuba or cash, I wouldn’t be in it today. Cuz some of these muthafuckas just ain’t worth my time. I could be working at Foley’s or some shit. In the air conditioning. Cuz some of these freaks got no god. Some just don’t know god.”
Forget the fries. Tell her that her gold is too much and she will lose it because she is too weak. Tell her here, we can only keep what we can protect. Everything else belongs to Cuba, or whoever takes him. Tell her now. Tell her that she has nothing. Tell her about the gold. Tell her that your sister will always belong to herself. Tell her that you can and WILL protect something. Tell her. Tell her now.
Better yet, tell her that her god belongs to Cuba. Maybe then she’ll fucking leave.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
What Are YOU Lookin' For? Pt 2
Internet searches. People make them. And magically, then end up here.
They give me mixed emotions, and I feel compelled to discuss them with... myself, I guess. And you, if you bother reading. WORD.
u.p.*s entrance exam passers namely
Whoever was looking for a way to cheat on any UPS exams… you really suck. I mean, goddamn. How did you figure out how to use the interweb? Tool.
family inceasant [sic] pictures
My family is without ceasing too. Whatever that means. If you’re looking for photos involving family-on-family action… well… you need to know the password. That’s all I got to say on that. Boo-yeah.
hard muscle women fight photos
POW!
blogspot texas kicks fucking ass desperate white trash
I’m a bit confused on this one. Is Texas beating up poor trailer folk? Or are the trailer folk penning a blog on how badass Texas is?
More importantly, should I feel really, extremely, frustratingly maddened by the fact that someone did the search, and decided that my blog fit their criteria, regardless of what the hell they meant by it in the first place? Seriously. If someone asked, just generally, at no one in particular “donkey dick monkey peanut with strong red ribboned straw bags?” and the answer came back as you, you might feel as I do now.
she mooned me (twice on this one)
Yup. Twice. Two different people ticky-tapped that trio of words into google, and that’s how they came here. Birds of a feather, we surely are.
midnight monkey dildo (Five, yes FIVE goddamn times)
This is just too fantastic to make fun of. If I had a Japanese punk band…
monkey giving a gorilla an ex-ray
Great visual on that one. Maybe as good as “shark doing aardvark’s taxes”. Loons.
awful burps vomited
Yes, vurps. Tasty stuff. Especially if there’s broccoli pizza involved.
congolese porn (TWICE, AGAIN for the porn of Congo)
Jesus Christ. There’s something going on in the Congo man. Seriously. I get hits for this search every week, and they always come in groups. I might have to do some back-to-Africa travel here soon. Well, go-to-Africa travel. Whatever.
Donkey sex show carnival tent
For the record, donkey sex shows are never done in carnival tents. Usually it is done in an old bar, an abandoned warehouse, or my living room. The donkey tends to run if it sees daylight, so a tent is hardly a viable venue.
janky drug fuck porno europe
I have never seen someone else type the word “janky”. I thought I was alone there. Good to see that others are just as illiterate as myself. This is another case where I am confused as to how I should feel about this string of dirty nonsense beating a path to my door. It looks like I have no morals or something.
xray specs that see through cloths [sic]
On the back of every Boy Scout Magazine ever printed.
photos of jeanine garofalo (two searches for good ol' Jeanine)
Go to your high school yearbook. Look at any drama club pictures. You see that goth-ish kind of chick with no notable facial expressions who never looked anyone else in the eye? See her back there, in the rear corner of that one photo? The one who really had no friends but was always rumored to be dating thirty-year olds? There’s your photo.
They give me mixed emotions, and I feel compelled to discuss them with... myself, I guess. And you, if you bother reading. WORD.
u.p.*s entrance exam passers namely
Whoever was looking for a way to cheat on any UPS exams… you really suck. I mean, goddamn. How did you figure out how to use the interweb? Tool.
family inceasant [sic] pictures
My family is without ceasing too. Whatever that means. If you’re looking for photos involving family-on-family action… well… you need to know the password. That’s all I got to say on that. Boo-yeah.
hard muscle women fight photos
POW!
blogspot texas kicks fucking ass desperate white trash
I’m a bit confused on this one. Is Texas beating up poor trailer folk? Or are the trailer folk penning a blog on how badass Texas is?
More importantly, should I feel really, extremely, frustratingly maddened by the fact that someone did the search, and decided that my blog fit their criteria, regardless of what the hell they meant by it in the first place? Seriously. If someone asked, just generally, at no one in particular “donkey dick monkey peanut with strong red ribboned straw bags?” and the answer came back as you, you might feel as I do now.
she mooned me (twice on this one)
Yup. Twice. Two different people ticky-tapped that trio of words into google, and that’s how they came here. Birds of a feather, we surely are.
midnight monkey dildo (Five, yes FIVE goddamn times)
This is just too fantastic to make fun of. If I had a Japanese punk band…
monkey giving a gorilla an ex-ray
Great visual on that one. Maybe as good as “shark doing aardvark’s taxes”. Loons.
awful burps vomited
Yes, vurps. Tasty stuff. Especially if there’s broccoli pizza involved.
congolese porn (TWICE, AGAIN for the porn of Congo)
Jesus Christ. There’s something going on in the Congo man. Seriously. I get hits for this search every week, and they always come in groups. I might have to do some back-to-Africa travel here soon. Well, go-to-Africa travel. Whatever.
Donkey sex show carnival tent
For the record, donkey sex shows are never done in carnival tents. Usually it is done in an old bar, an abandoned warehouse, or my living room. The donkey tends to run if it sees daylight, so a tent is hardly a viable venue.
janky drug fuck porno europe
I have never seen someone else type the word “janky”. I thought I was alone there. Good to see that others are just as illiterate as myself. This is another case where I am confused as to how I should feel about this string of dirty nonsense beating a path to my door. It looks like I have no morals or something.
xray specs that see through cloths [sic]
On the back of every Boy Scout Magazine ever printed.
photos of jeanine garofalo (two searches for good ol' Jeanine)
Go to your high school yearbook. Look at any drama club pictures. You see that goth-ish kind of chick with no notable facial expressions who never looked anyone else in the eye? See her back there, in the rear corner of that one photo? The one who really had no friends but was always rumored to be dating thirty-year olds? There’s your photo.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Keep Your Footing, and Keep to the Right
It’s not that they don’t like you or anything, it’s just that they don’t have time for your ass. They’re probably late to something, and they aren’t going to stop and pat you on the head. Their wife has been waiting for them for two whole hours while the uptown six has been delayed by a jumper near Union. So they’re really fucking late, and they really aren’t interested in giving you an explanation as to why they may have slightly nudged your shoulder after you exited Barnes and Noble. You aren't the center of the universe you know.
I remember seeing some messenger-biker-guy clobber some pedestrian down in the village somewhere. The pedestrian, a small-framed collegiate-type (probably NYU) was making her way across an intersection against a red light, and BAM! Bike to the back. This bike just flew out of no where, the rider even tried to dodge her with an evasive right turn. But no. Futility on parade. She walked right into it. The biker fellow made the hit, and then kept wobbling beyond the laid-out pedestrian for maybe ten feet before he ate it too. All crumpled up inside his bike. He was beyond pissed off.
The girl got up slowly, laughed for a second, and then continued back on her way. Some delivery driver was dropping off some magazines at a nearby bodega, and helped the biker untangle himself. But he abandoned the situation before the biker even got completely to his feet. Magazines had to be delivered, with or without the good health of your fellow man. And after all that, the four-minute ordeal was over, and the delivery biker peddled himself back into the direction he was originally headed. Clean hands.
So it’s not that they hate everyone. Or that they’re out to get each other. It’s just that no one has time for this shit. Whatever “this shit” might be.
A friend of mine told me of a particularly sad story that occurred somewhere in Manhattan. I was not there, so I cannot vouch for its absolute authenticity, but based on the combination of: the (trusted) source, and my own experiences in New York, this is entirely plausible. But still sad.
He was exiting a subway station somewhere in southern Manhattan, and turning on to a busy street during rush hour. As he was moving through the crowded sidewalk, late as usual, trying to bust ahead of the pack, an elderly woman (early 70’s he guessed) fell down directly in front of him. Just dropped. Her legs said "fuck it" and that was that. Apparently, she just could not keep up with the herd. And what with him being a capable part of the herd, and egregiously late, he just stepped right over her and kept on truckin’. Bygones. He looked back and felt absolved to see that everyone else had done her the same lack-of service. But it isn’t mean, per se. Cold? Yes. But malicious? Certainly not. Malicious requires intent. Intent requires effort. Perhaps negligence is a better word. I'll let you judge. But I don't see mean as applicable in such cases. Most New Yorkers don’t have time to be mean to strangers anyway. What can you do? Darwin and such. I don’t know, maybe she should move to Jersey or something? Somewhere that is a bit slower-paced perhaps? Maybe stay at home during rush hour?
Again, it’s not like she was knocked to the ground. She fell. She may have needed help getting up, but no one’s boss will believe that story at work.
"Why are you late, again, you putz? There's a line a mile long begging for your admin assistant position."
"Well, sir, there was this woman who fell down, and the crowd was so thick that I had to really struggle to help her get to her feet and..."
"Is that the best you can do? An old lady fell? Worst lie I've ever heard. And even if it did happen, I don't pay you to pick up old folks from the pavement. Let their lazy families take care of their own business. You'd be out there all day on my dollar doing that, if I allowed it. You're fired. No you've got the time to pick up octogenarians... all damn day. Putz."
I'm just sayin'. Bygones.
So, it’s either 1) help the lady or 2) maintain a hard-to-find job. One feeds the soul, but the other feeds bodily functions and therefore takes precedence. No one feels that they have the luxury of time to tend to her needs. She NEEDS to move to the nice-n-slow ‘burbs. It isn’t personal. Believe me, as cold as I describe it, it is not personal.
NOT. PERSONAL.
It’s just that on the sidewalks of NYC, your feelings are just as valuable as everyone else’s: approximately that of a used match. Floating in a public toilet. No harm, no foul. Even treatment for all. So buck up, keep on your feet, and keep to the fucking right.
I remember seeing some messenger-biker-guy clobber some pedestrian down in the village somewhere. The pedestrian, a small-framed collegiate-type (probably NYU) was making her way across an intersection against a red light, and BAM! Bike to the back. This bike just flew out of no where, the rider even tried to dodge her with an evasive right turn. But no. Futility on parade. She walked right into it. The biker fellow made the hit, and then kept wobbling beyond the laid-out pedestrian for maybe ten feet before he ate it too. All crumpled up inside his bike. He was beyond pissed off.
The girl got up slowly, laughed for a second, and then continued back on her way. Some delivery driver was dropping off some magazines at a nearby bodega, and helped the biker untangle himself. But he abandoned the situation before the biker even got completely to his feet. Magazines had to be delivered, with or without the good health of your fellow man. And after all that, the four-minute ordeal was over, and the delivery biker peddled himself back into the direction he was originally headed. Clean hands.
So it’s not that they hate everyone. Or that they’re out to get each other. It’s just that no one has time for this shit. Whatever “this shit” might be.
A friend of mine told me of a particularly sad story that occurred somewhere in Manhattan. I was not there, so I cannot vouch for its absolute authenticity, but based on the combination of: the (trusted) source, and my own experiences in New York, this is entirely plausible. But still sad.
He was exiting a subway station somewhere in southern Manhattan, and turning on to a busy street during rush hour. As he was moving through the crowded sidewalk, late as usual, trying to bust ahead of the pack, an elderly woman (early 70’s he guessed) fell down directly in front of him. Just dropped. Her legs said "fuck it" and that was that. Apparently, she just could not keep up with the herd. And what with him being a capable part of the herd, and egregiously late, he just stepped right over her and kept on truckin’. Bygones. He looked back and felt absolved to see that everyone else had done her the same lack-of service. But it isn’t mean, per se. Cold? Yes. But malicious? Certainly not. Malicious requires intent. Intent requires effort. Perhaps negligence is a better word. I'll let you judge. But I don't see mean as applicable in such cases. Most New Yorkers don’t have time to be mean to strangers anyway. What can you do? Darwin and such. I don’t know, maybe she should move to Jersey or something? Somewhere that is a bit slower-paced perhaps? Maybe stay at home during rush hour?
Again, it’s not like she was knocked to the ground. She fell. She may have needed help getting up, but no one’s boss will believe that story at work.
"Why are you late, again, you putz? There's a line a mile long begging for your admin assistant position."
"Well, sir, there was this woman who fell down, and the crowd was so thick that I had to really struggle to help her get to her feet and..."
"Is that the best you can do? An old lady fell? Worst lie I've ever heard. And even if it did happen, I don't pay you to pick up old folks from the pavement. Let their lazy families take care of their own business. You'd be out there all day on my dollar doing that, if I allowed it. You're fired. No you've got the time to pick up octogenarians... all damn day. Putz."
I'm just sayin'. Bygones.
So, it’s either 1) help the lady or 2) maintain a hard-to-find job. One feeds the soul, but the other feeds bodily functions and therefore takes precedence. No one feels that they have the luxury of time to tend to her needs. She NEEDS to move to the nice-n-slow ‘burbs. It isn’t personal. Believe me, as cold as I describe it, it is not personal.
NOT. PERSONAL.
It’s just that on the sidewalks of NYC, your feelings are just as valuable as everyone else’s: approximately that of a used match. Floating in a public toilet. No harm, no foul. Even treatment for all. So buck up, keep on your feet, and keep to the fucking right.
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