I guess I never titled it, so the working title is Jackson Street until I think of something better, or you start pulling your weight and tell me what it should be. Enjoy. Or dont. Entirely up to you.
Prepare your eyeballs for an onslaught of awesome................................
Jackson Street
Mangos are good. I don't particularly like the taste of them as much as I enjoy buying them and telling people that I have mangos should their liking of mangos be greater than mine. I buy my mangos on Jackson Street. It’s one of the foods that I like very much.
Most time my mangos go bad and I have to throw them away but there’s going to be a day where I talk to a lovely young lady and she just happens to be in the mood for a mango and I’m going to say, “well, I just happen to have some mangos, young lady.” And that’s how our lovely relationship will begin. It will be based on mangos, something I don't like very much, but have because fate decided I should have them.
I figure she’ll be tall and slender; she’d have to be slender with her liking of mangos. You don't very well see many unslender folk eating mangos nowadays. She’ll like me for my excellent fruit judgment and will dismiss my clear disliking of fruit and love of chocolate milk.
Chocolate milk is good but I don't think I like anyone who also likes chocolate milk. It’s a corruption, really. It’s the purest form of drink made impure by confection and decadence. I don't think I’d even let anyone in my home that liked chocolate milk as much as I do.
I always have Mr. Imperio double bag my chocolate milk so that it’s a secret when I bring it in the house. Sometimes I think that if I don't double bag the chocolate milk my locks will stop working and my house wont have me anymore. It’s a ridiculous notion, but it’s better to be safe.
The chocolate milk gets double bagged and my mangos don't get bagged at all. Oftentimes you can see me strolling down Jackson Street with an oversized bag of secret chocolate milk and an arm full of mangos. I don't bag the mangos. How will the lovely young lady know that I have them if they’re sealed away in bags? Bags are dangerous things.
Bags are bad. I often think that if it weren’t for the sheer convenience of bags nobody would ever use them at all. Ugly brown things full of mystery and deceit. One time I saw a man on Dickson street walking with a cart full of cans and a bag full of bags and I thought I would faint from the horror of it. Why collect such useless things? I was able to right my walk when I decided that he was crazy and was only able to move after minutes of deliberation concerning his bag full of bags.
A cart full of cans is fair game. I like cans. They’re crunchable and fun. I used to throw cans at a stray cat that lived behind my house. I called him Target. Target the Cat. He was a nice little fellow and enjoyed the cans after I had thrown them at him. He’d bat them around like little tin mice. Tin mice would be a fun thing to have. So would miniature ducks.
If I had my druthers I’d put little miniature ducks in the ears of all my enemies. Nothing could be so annoying and funny as a duck. I don't dislike ducks but I figure having miniature versions in your ears would be the ultimate in torture. All that quacking, none of the echoes that accompany having little things in your ears, it would just be hell.
I have more enemies than I’d like. My mailman is one of my enemies. My aunt Doris is my second enemy. My landlord Pete is an inadvertent enemy and Target the Cat is an enemy that I secretly like.
My mailman is my enemy because he brings me nothing but bad news. Bad news and advertisements for things that I cant afford to buy. Most of the bad news comes in bill form, or from letters from the doctors telling me about this or that prescription and my lack of renewing this or that prescription. He also brings letters from my family who talk about the same things the doctors do. Oh! And when people die I tend to get letters from my family telling me about the fact that those people died. I suppose because my dead uncle Timmy can’t write letters anymore, they feel the need to fill in.
The advertisements are just as bad, and are starting to get just like the doctors letters too. Lots of fake letters about drugs that will help me do everything. They should put all the pills into one giant pill and then we could all take it and be what they think we should be. But pills are bad. Dangerous.
My aunt Doris is my second enemy because she killed my uncle Timmy. I loved my uncle Timmy and miss him very much. I was mad that he didn’t write his death letter himself. It would’ve been nicer. But Aunt Doris killed him, I’m sure of it. I don't know the details of how he died, but I’ve seen Aunt Doris drink chocolate milk so I know she’s not to be trusted.
Uncle Timmy took me fishing and ate mangos. He was a good man and shouldntve married a woman whose fondness for chocolate milk clearly outweighed her dislike of murder. I’ll bet she fed him poison. Poison mangos.
I hate my landlord because from what I can tell that’s what you’re supposed to do. I never really got a grasp of it because my landlord is a very nice man. He’s very open. Very polite. I like him as a person but dislike him because of the position he holds in my life.
Mr. Imperio tells me about his landlord a lot. He’s said this to me a hundred times “landlords are not to be trusted, they’re the devil’s handymen!” Mr. Imperio yells a lot. I don't exactly know what a handyman is or why the devil would need to have them, but I trust Mr. Imperio, he’s nice to me.
I told Landlord Pete that I hated him the other day. “I hate you Landlord Pete!” I said with full exuberance and he said “Oh.” Then he went about his way and I assume he was upset with me. Mr. Imperio says, “They’re pulling all the strings!” when he talks of landlords. Mr. Imperio doesn't know Landlord Pete but he swears that Landlord Pete pulls on strings.
Landlord Pete is nice enough outside of being a handyman for the devil. He has a tan and a truck with blue sides. I took a ride in his truck once. He gave me a ride to the post office and it was the most horrible blue-sided truck ride ever. A man I hate drove me to a place where a man I hate lives. It was a very bad day and I washed it away by not leaving my apartment for two weeks after. After two weeks I went to Mr. Imperio’s shop to stock up on supplies and he said “Where the hell you been!” Mr. Imperio yells a lot.
Target the Cat is my last enemy. He’s just a cat though, and is only my enemy because he sometimes cries at night. It’s loud and undignified. Uncle Timmy said crying was for sissies. Target is a cat though, so I think it’s ok for him to be a sissy. I just think he should be a little quieter about it. Like I am.
For about a month he used to cry just outside my window and I would throw cans at him. He eventually got used to my attention and I eventually got used to his. He lives under my sink now and doesn't cry so much. Until he came along I never realized how much I like things that move but don't talk or how many cans I seem to always have. I’ve become convinced that he sends away for cans in the mail. Maybe cans.com or something like that.
Sometimes I come home and I’m sure there are more cans than I used to have so I say things like “Hello Target the Cat, enemy of mine, quit it with the cans!” And he comes and rubs at my legs.
I like rock and roll music, books about the weather and adhesive tape. I have a bowtie but I’m not sure why. I think it was a gift from someone in the family who seemed to think I’d be the type of person who would like bowties. I don't though, they’re dumb and I hate them. But I keep it anyway as a reminder that I like the things that I like and hate the things that I hate and that’s just fine with people who are me.
My apartment is small but I like it anyway. I’m small, my things are small, target the cat is small, so it all fits together. I have a brown chair and a stereo and a TV set with bad reception. My bookshelf is full of books about the weather and one about breeding ducks. I never got around to reading the duck book.
I like the weather because it’s enormous and unpredictable but can be easily described in books despite its two main characteristics. It’s a lovely thing to have someone write books about something so big and un-write-about-able. Someone somewhere decided one day to write a book about something he had no business writing anything about and got it to a company and they said “that’s great!” like Mr. Imperio and went ahead and put it in bookstores so that people like me could read about it and laugh.
Clouds are made of water. Did you know that? I did. I read books.
One of my doctors once told me that I like the weather because it’s impossible to relate to. I agreed and stopped seeing that doctor immediately.
I have a bottle of talcum powder and I don't know why. I don't know what the practical uses of talcum powder are. I know what they’re supposed to be, but I disagree with them on a moral and personal level. Sure it’s soothing and slippery, but it’s also a rock. Would you put rocks in your pants? Of course not. I tried it once and it was immensely unsoothing. Where does talc get off thinking it’s so great? Baloney.
Plus if you don't use it properly, which is easy to do because there’s no directions on the bottle, you walk around all day covered in a fine white powder unable to relate to anybody within eyesight or nosesmell.
One time Target the Cat found the bottle and turned himself into Target the Snowcat! He wasn’t happy about it, but I told him he should go hunting for things in the snow, but we live in California so he quickly and accurately decided that it was a foolish suggestion and started crying until I washed him.
I was careful not to use caustic solvents when washing him because that’s what a vet told me. “Don't use caustic solvents!” I don't know what those are, so I just used water. I’ve heard water called a lot of things but never ‘caustic solvents.’ Water is what makes up clouds but you couldn’t order a glass of clouds. Trust me. I tried it once and the waitress hated me. Women are quick to hate me.
Coffee has a lot of nicknames. Like Joe and Java. Coffee has exactly two nicknames that I’m aware of.
I once met a girl on the tilt-a-whirl at the carnival, she was beautiful in spite of her face being pulled back from the spinning and seemed to hate me in each small glance I was able to catch from my car. Just. A quick. Glance. From. The other. End. Of the ride. And she hated me. Just like that. I went home and was upset until my upsdoors neighbor banged on the floor and yelled “Shut the fuck up!” Everyone seems to yell a lot.
Target the Cat likes me. I don't know how old he is. Today is my birthday I think. I’m older than Target the Cat and younger than Mr. Imperio. Target the Cat got me a can and everyone else got me nothing. My mother sent me a card. I’ve heard that people get cards full of money for their birthdays; my mother sent me a card full of concerns and angers. She’s angry a lot and ends a lot of sentences like this “…everything will be all right.” And starts a lot of sentences like this “If you just come home…” “If you just get back to Dr. Cornwald….” “If your father comes back….” Everything being all right is contingent on a large number of things going certain ways.
A butterfly flapping his wings can create hurricanes. Did you know that? I did. I read books.
-----------------------------
And that's the end. If I were a douchebag I wouldve written fin at the end of it, but I'm not. So it gets hyphens.
~fin~
Douche McBag
No comments:
Post a Comment