Archive | November, 2010

The First Thanksgiving

27 Nov

The water sloshed in the pilgrim’s battered leather boots. The pink fur along the brim was getting damp and it made him nervous. Those things cost a fortune then.

He looked out at the vast coastline of what would soon be termed “The New World.” New indeed, and frightening and brutal. The New, Frightening, Brutal World. A stupid name. Indulgent and decadent–two things the pilgrims were not.

Jacob began plodding through the shin-high water. He was carrying a leather bag full of gold coins and jars of oil and a few cans of Mountain Dew Code Red. His face was contorted in a frustrated and pained grimace–his cape of pure Indian silk had gotten wet. He’d just had it embroidered with his initials: “JS.”

“Where do we go from here?” Jacob’s first mate, Thomas asked. Thomas was the first person Jacob had had sex with. Thomas was Jacob’s first mate.

“We go to the shore,” Jacob said. Jacob wasn’t gay, though. He just liked butts.

Man butts.

Is that gay?

The sand beneath Jacob’s feet reminded him of the blonde hair of a woman he had once known as a boy. She was the village’s most prominent lunatic and her hair was always full of dead fish and twigs and stuff.

Roughly a hundred yards from where Jacob stood, Thomas still back on the sandbar thirty feet to his back (Jacob had never answered his question), the tree line shown verdant and strong. So straight and stark in contrast from the soft, sandy beach as to look almost man made. Like a great fence. Jacob, the pilgrim, stood contemplating the image. Was the fence to keep he and his kind out, or was it perhaps to keep something else in. He shuddered, imagining the illimitable number of unknowable dangers awaiting him. The rest of the crew was rowing in on row boats, unloading a few crates onto the shore. Thomas was still out on the sandbar. At some point in the night, a great wave swept Thomas away and he died an excruciating, lonely, gay death.

The first night was full of many things, but sleep was not one of them for the awestruck and weary travelers. They all lay awake, some talking, some simply staring into the sky, alight with a countless number of stars against the inky black of the night sky. Although they’d made camp at the tree line, the breeze was still strong of the sea and danced along their skin like the calming, gentle touch of a lover.

The next day, work began.

The men explored for hours for a place to create a more permanent encampment. Turns out nobody had had time to make a map of the New World yet–it was really new.

The day’s labors ended up being mostly fruitless, except for the guys who went foraging and found some fruit. Their day was fruitful. The entire camp ate fruit for dinner. They ate the delicious, juicy, orange fruit.

Jacob woke up in the night, something trembling in his gut. It felt as if some animal was trapped in his stomach and was attempting to claw its way out–through his butt hole.

Rolling over, Jacob saw that the fire that had been burning bright when he went to sleep had calmed considerably, bathing the area with significantly less warmth and a soothing, red-orange glow. Jacob got up from his pallet and began stumbling into the forest. He was careful not to step on anyone. He still stepped on three or four guys, though. Agility is hard when you have an anus clinched so tightly that you can feel individual oxygen atoms escaping it.

He broke into the quiet forest. He cared little for vanity, but did not want to wake his comrades with the doody splash and more than that, didn’t want to step in it later. He continued to trek a bit farther.

Finally, he found his precious rectal oasis. Twenty feet away, beyond earth dusted in pine needles, pecans, and seeds of the region’s mysterious plants, he spotted it. A softly trickling stream–and behind that–a port-a-potty. He began to skip toward it, but had to stop almost immediately, as he almost shat himself.

Jacob swung the blue plastic door, making sure to switch the sign on the door’s handle from “vacant” to “occupied.” He squatted (Jacob didn’t sit on public toilets) and released. As he was making his final wipe, a knock came from the door.

“Occupied,” Jacob said, pulling his pants up. The knock sounded again. “This room is occupied, I said,” Jacob repeated. The knock sounded once more. Jacob turned the sign back to “vacant” and opened the door. Before him stood an Indian man. His eyes alight with what Jacob could discern was a mix of terror and fascination. The man was well-built and young. He wore a necklace of homespun rope and on the rope were beads of various colors–all of them beautiful. “You might want to let that air out for a few minutes,” Jacob said, sidestepping past the stranger.

The stranger grabbed Jacob by the arm. Jacob yelped, frightened by the man’s sudden aggression. And Jacob thought he saw a mouse. The timing was actually quite incredible.

The stranger began to mime eating from a bowl. He then patted his stomach. Assuming he was asking about the settlers’ food situation, Jacob mimed eating of fruit then dealing with explosive, late-night diarrhea. The Indian man grimaced and did the same motions again.

“Ah, I understand!” Jacob exclaimed. “Yes, we have no food.” He waved his hands in a signal of negation, then performed the Indian man’s motion for “food.”

The stranger motioned for Jacob to follow. Jacob did. They walked for some time, the stranger at times moving almost too fast for Jacob to keep up. The man knew the lands like he had built them with his own two hands.

Jacob soon found himself among the tribesmen of the stranger’s origin. They fed him, attempted to communicate with him, and gave him many gifts.

That next day, there was a great feast. The Indian man, who would later be called Squanto, told his tribe of the struggling white men and their terrible hunger. The tribe immediately called forth all those who had a surplus and gave the pilgrims food to help them survive. The tribe taught the white men how to work the plow and how to plant and where all the good port-a-potties were.

“Wow, this is awesome,” Jacob said to his men, who murmured in agreement. “I think I know how I can make it better though,” he said, and proceeded to enslave, betray, and kill nearly each and every one of those people.

Happy Thanksgiving.


My Time at the Harry Potter Premiere

19 Nov

Thursday night at midnight, the latest Harry Potter film, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows pulled down its loosely fitting Adidas track-pants and shat all over countless American youths. As a journalist/satirist/satanist/blogger, I decided that it was my duty to my readers to cover the event.

With poop.

“WOW!” the boy calls to his mother. “Look at his costume!” Excited, bouncing up and down in his puffy jacket and mittens, the boy points at me and my costume. The mother looks confused.

“You like it?” I ask him. His mother eyes me with the same lost look.

“Oh yea!” he responds.

“It’s C-3P0. He’s not from this movie.” I walk away and get in line to buy my ticket.

One can truly see the reason for the Harry Potter series’s success by looking at the line for one of its films–people of all ages, races, creeds, Creed, Creed was there, and genders–Harry Potter seems to appeal to all of these groups.

“It’s truly a beautiful thing,” I say to the man next to me. He seems to be of about forty. He’s slightly overweight, but seems to take care of himself–his clothes are fashionable and clean. Like I said, Harry Potter appeals to every demographic (gays).

“What is?” he asks.

I try to place my hand on his shoulder, but the 3P0 costume is incredibly limiting. It keeps pinching me in places I wish it wouldn’t. From the outside, it looks like I’m trying to hold back a sneeze. The man takes a step back and puts his hands up, creating his own personal sneeze guard. What arrogance, I think, imagining all the tiny, brown children all over the world who don’t have a pot to piss in (because they all piss in rivers and most of their dishes are made of clay or the skulls of their parents), that would die to be close to C-3P0 (I’d imagine he’d look like some sort of God to most of them.), and now this guy is trying to distance because I might sneeze. I’m wearing a mask, idiot.

“I’m wearing a mask idiot,” I say. He begins to respond when my refried beans-nacho cheese-cereal-whiskey lunch dinner bursts through the mouth of the mask, covering him in a substance better used for removing rust from car batteries. “Oh god,” I say. He looks down at his chest and stomach, now glossy with vomit. He has yet to even start to speak. His expression is quiet horror. He doubles over and throws up, his vomit splashing against the concrete.

I waddle to the restroom and change out of my C-3P0 costume.

Now unrecognizable, I feel much better about the premiere.

Returning to my spot would be a dead giveaway of my identity, so I opt to take the hit and move to the back of the line. There, there are some kids doing magic tricks.

“Tada!” one boy says, and pulls and seems to retrieve a card from thin air. It’s quite believable. He tries to do it again and I reach out and swat  his hand out of the air, trying to grab the card before he could. I end up hurting him pretty bad, I think.

“What’s your problem, man?!” one impish, Indian boy yells at me.

“I j–”

“What a freak!” I hear another one of the kids say. I can’t see which one said it. My vision was blurred by my own tears.

In that moment, my life halted. How far had I fallen? I prayed that this was the bottom and that I had no further to plummet. A group of pock-marked preteens had just openly chastised and rejected me. Oh, Harry. Where are you now?

Where are you when I need you?

I return to the restroom and get a good cry out.

I come back, ashamed, and stand behind the group of pubes. I’m getting antsy. I’m ready to see the movie. I want to see the movie. I want to see the movie.

Finally, like a more insecure running of the bulls, the doors swing open and the crowd surges forward. I’m getting pummeled. Frightened, I call out a spell of protection.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” I call out, reaching up to the sky. “Wingardium Leviosa!” I call to my new god, but he answers me not.

I’m trampled by 126 Harry Potter fans.

I die.

Saturday Night With Pat

10 Nov

Have you ever had one of those nights that you look back on later and think “That was when it all changed for me”? Those sound so cool.

Saturday night wasn’t anything like that, though.

Lemme tell you bout it.





“What are you doing?” Patrick asks me (with his eyes).

“Nothing much,” I respond (with my butt).

Patrick and I are sitting inches from each other, Indian-style. Criss-cross apple sauce.

“Would you like to go out with me tonight?”


Patrick and I get to our feet and clean up our mess in the living room from our activities of the day. Patrick puts our wolf masks back in the closet and I make sure all the chicken bones are thrown away.

We get into his minivan and our night begins–not with a scream, but with a whisper.

“Would you like to get some breakfast tacos?” Patrick whispers from the driver seat. He does this sometimes. It’s because of something that happened to him when he was little, but every time he tells me I get bored and zone out, so I can’t really say what it was that messed him up so bad.

“Yea, sure,” I say, one hand stretched across my eyes and facing the passenger window. This is another weird thing Patrick needs because of something that happened to him when he was little. I need to ask him about this.

Turns out Taco Cabana has this awesome deal on breakfast tacos: a dozen breakfast tacos in a box for roughly ten or eleven or twelve bucks. Cheap stuff. We drive around the streets of Denton in Pat’s minivan, high on life and love and youth and nyquil mixed with whiskey.

When we get tired of that, we return to Pat’s to eat the rest of the tacos and watch clips of Good Will Hunting on YouTube. Our favorite is the breakup scene.


“Do you think I’ll ever be British?” Patrick asks, remarking on Scarlet’s delicious English accent.

“Probably not, Pat,” I say. Pat retreats into his room and from beyond the door are the muffled sounds of weeping and rapping about being sad.

“Should we go out now?” Pat asks, the door swinging open as if he was literally trying to rip it off its hinges.

“Sure,” I say, gently unwinding a length of wire from my throat.

The night air seems to be laced with the kind of hopeful exuberance of somebody with diabetes getting their insulin or whatever when they’re dying. [Editor’s Note: Kyle, what’s going on? You can’t say this kind of thing.]

The bar we head to–Lucky Lou’s–has, increasingly the last few months, become covered in douchey half-people. To make this environment more tolerable, me and Patrick buy single after single of Johnny Walker, play giant Jenga, and threaten to make out with each other if the other doesn’t start being nicer. Strangely, no women talk to us.

Dejected, Pat and I amble down Fry Street. We’re ambling to Crooked Crust, where we will ingest enough pizza to mix with the Scotch in our bellies to form a kind of concrete that will fill all the cracks in our hearts that women and life have put there. It’s at this moment, at our lowest, when two young ladies approach us.

I talk to the alpha-female for sometime before realizing that I hate her. I go get a refill. Her sidekick is much more enjoyable. She’s brown and thinks I’m funny and gives me a drink of her drink but I probably shouldn’t have taken a drink because I already had my own and bitch coulda had somethin.

“They’re closing,” Pat says.

“What’re you guys doing now?” the alpha-female says, her eyes suggesting a thousand forbidden pleasures to come.

Pat and I exchange a knowing glance.

“FREEZE TAG!” I scream and begin sprinting down the street.

Pat, with a child’s grin stretched across his face, chases after me into the cool night.

The Mystery of the Darkened Room

6 Nov

It is a dark, dark night. The sun is gone. The moon is out. High in the sky it shines, brilliant and bright and white as the crowd at a Sarah Palin book signing.

I hear a knocking at my door.

“Knock knock knock” my door says.

“Come in,” my mouth says.

Into my office strides a beautiful, beautiful female human. She has long, black hair that cascades from her head to her shoulders like a waterfall of black gold. Texas T. She’s wearing a tight little red dress that looks as if it were made just for her. She had the kind of beauty that a man can’t be sure even exists until you see it.

“Hello,” she say in a husky, breathy voice.

“Hello,” I say in a Cookie Monster voice.

She walks around my office like she owns it.

“Please, take a seat,” I say, getting to my feet and gesturing toward one of the seats facing my desk. She sits. I wink at my chair as her beautiful, cheese-wheel behind rests itself firmly on the chair’s cushion. [Editor’s Note: I’m sorry, I’m a bit lost on the “cheese-wheel” reference. Have you heard that somewhere before? Did you hear that on a television show?]

“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is smooth and her voice seems to be poured from her mouth.

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“Well,” she begins. “I seem to be missing something.” She pauses, baiting me to inquire as to what it is she’s missing. I find this conversational practice incredibly frustrating, but since she’s hot I forgive it, as I do any other flaw a hot woman has.

“What is it you’re missing?” I ask.

“It’s a very valuable diamond necklace. My mother gave it to me. She got it from her mother and my grandmother got it from her mother and so on and so forth.”

I pause for a moment, trying to figure out what the phrase “and so forth” means. “Ma’am, I believe you’ve come to the right place.” I lean forward and take a pen and pad out of my desk. I draw a big question mark on it surrounded by alien heads. She thinks I’m taking notes and thinking about the case. In reality, I’m just thinking about Roswell and ships.

“I think it’s been taken by a rival family, the Vanhorns.”

“Vanhorns, eh?” I murmur, eyes still locked on the pad. I turn the page and start practicing a new signature.

“Yes. They’ve been after my family and I for years over some conflict that I can’t even remember.”

“It seems they can remember,” I say. “Good one,” I write on the pad.

“Well, do you think you can help me?” she asks.

“Yes, I do.”

“What do you think you’ll do first?” she asks.

I turn the page and start doing some pre-writing for a blog about Good Will Hunting.

“I think I’ll look into the motivations of the suspects,” I say, absently. I circle the words “Matt Damon” and continue with my pre-writing, jotting down a few notes about Ben Affleck and the movie Daredevil.

“Thank you,” she says. She then shifts in her seat and asks, clearly trying to maintain an air of confidence, “How do we handle the financial aspect?”

“You pay me.”

We stare at each other for an uninterrupted period of six or seven seconds.

“You pay me with money out of your wallet.” As I say this, I begin to lean over the desk, gesturing toward her purse.

“Yes, I know that,” she says, hurriedly snatching her purse into her lap. “How much does it cost?”

“Like a hundred bucks,” I say, once again absorbed in inventing a new, Good Will Hunting-themed super hero moniker for Ben Affleck (Ben Aff-pecs. Ben Affleck with HUGE pecs.) I get up, grab my magnifying glass and leave the room–ready to solve the case.

My first stop was at the home of Thomas VanHorn–patriarch of the VanHorn clan.

My car is parked in front of the mansion. I’m looking at the vast beauty of the mansion. The mansion looks really neat from the outside–like a castle with indoor plumbing. I like the mansion’s looks.

“Lookin’ good, mansion,” I say.

I fall asleep in my car roughly fifteen minutes after arriving at the home. Stake outs are boring as hell.

[Scene missing]

And so I solved the case. VanHorn returned the time machine to the authorities and I found where that guy had hidden all my organs.

The End.

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