Ménage à trois: la historia uno

the red carpet

The moment had arrived. My 15 minutes of fame; my joyous frolic in the spotlight; my reckoning! Indeed, I had waited no short while for this - the previous ten years of my existence, every waking moment, had been consumed by an unrelenting and imperishable drive to divert the entirety of the world's attention to myself.

Granted, the achieving of such lofty goals could never be truly accomplished; and so I was obligated to settle for taking part in the societal ritual most analogous to my true desire: walking - nay, strutting - the red carpet.

The roadblock on my unpaved path to stardom and massive recognition, the bump in the road to attracting the idolizing stares and open-mouthed gawping of the hordes of insignificants, was my absolute dearth of acting chops. My struggle to act was, and still is, so debilitating that I fail to adequately inhabit the role of my own personage. I have instead drifted through life with the most burdensome of personality disorders - the lack of a personality itself. It has been an uphill battle of immense exhaustion, which I commemorate with the online psuedonym of Sisyphus.

But with the battle now concluded, I had been deemed the victor! And, to the victor go the spoils. I'd escaped my personal nadir to climp atop my apogee - a sensation more delicious I cannot conceive.

I did it! And not through acting, quite obviously, but with the power of my pen. Or computer keyboard, as it were. My script had become the basis of a cultural phenomon - a film, so exquisitely written, that it swept the nation. Critics were calling it the inauguration of a new golden age of cinema, and dubbed me its progenitor, bestowing upon me the responsibility for its subsequent and inevitable flourishing.

But this wasn't about the art! Not one single, tiny bit. It was about me. Me and the red carpet.

As I stared at myself in the mirror, three days before the nationwide release of the movie, I came upon the realization that my physical condition was in no way prepared for the furious flashing of cameras. I was hideous, a shameful specimen of the human form. Something had to be done with the utmost urgency.

Plastic surgery was out of the question. There was not ample time for a quick nip-and-tuck job and its consequent recovery period. The thought that my appearance would perhaps be most tolerable if bandages were, indeed, wrapped around my face, obscuring the monstrosity that lies within, briefly flitted across my mind. But that just wouldn't do - people had to see me! The real me! Not some elephant man impersonator. Acknowledgment! Attention! I craved it too greatly.

With this in mind, I compiled a list of the problems preventing me from my ever-approaching public promenade, ignoring the issues most easily addressed, such as my outdated haircut.

# 1: Ghostly Pale Complexion

This seemed the simplest to accomplish. Sadly, it had not occurred to me that with the help of a dashing suit and an industrial-strength girdle, the whole of my failed physique would be amply masked. And so I began undertaking the daunting task of developing a more human-like hue for my skin, when, in retrospect, the only epidermis that required my attention was that of my face.

Fearing the confined spaces of a tanning bed, I donned the shortest of shorts, tankest of tops, and dashed outside and into the blinding sunlight. I laid myself down on patio furniture and demanded the sun to unleash the full force of its rays onto my pasty complexion.

It had been nearly an hour of unbearable heat and boredom before epiphany stuck like the foot of scorned ninja. Glancing at my flabby legs, while simultaneously crying, I noticed a splotch. It was a bruise I had received after an unplanned crash into the kitchen wall - a result of madly spasming and jittering to rock and roll music of the most frenetic variety.

This bruise... the shade was perfect. This was precisely the skin-tone I desired. Therefore, all that had to be done was to bruise my entire body. None of this sitting idly in the dangerous and unpredictable outdoors. I would simply commence with the massochism.

I strode back inside my house and into my bedroom. I then proceeded to climb the bunk bed I shared with an irritable slouch who was also my brother and co-writer. Next, I jumped. I was not naive enough to believe one measly fall would be sufficient to make myself beautiful. So I carried on with the strategem, climbing and leaping, climbing and leaping, keeping in mind that I needed to crush all of my blood vessels to an equal degree. One flawlessly colored leg would only accentuate the paleness of the other, rendering the whole process utterly useless.

Four hours having passed, my brother offered to lay pillows down so as to cushion my blows. He claimed my incessant thuds were disturbing his focus on the television as well as damaging the flooring. I replied through bloodied lips that while it was a kind gesture on his part, such an act would defeat the purpose of this grand experiment. I asked if he would care to know the details of what may, at first glance, appear to be bizarre and self-destructive behavior. He told me "no" and to "get the fuck out."

Uncertain my methodology was entirely effective, I decided I'd oblige him. I got into my car and drove to the nearest bar, hoping a few shots of vodka would numb the pain that was currently racking my body without mercy. Disembarking from my vehicle, I caught glimpse of a bedraggled homeless man hovering about the nearby house of spirits. Epiphany had yet to pack its bags and leave me alone that day, because it struck once more.

I questioned the homeless man and ascertained he was suffering from a thirst that could only be quenced by gallons of alcohol. I then orchestrated a deal with the shabby figure; one in which he would repeatedly bash me with a rusting metal pipe in return for ale. He carried out his job most diligently and with an astonishing degree of professionalism. The beers, in fact, seemed to increase his level of effectiveness, fueling his faux-rage.

Having assuredly smashed every reachable fiber of my circulatory system, the task was considered done. But, just to be absolutely certain, upon arriving home I cut the breakline of my brother's Honda - knowing full well I hadn't the chutzpah to crash a car myself. I then announced to my brother that I was in desperate need of an Arby's roast beef sandwich, an idea that spawned in his mind a similar yearning. Salivating at the thought of delicious meats, my brother hopped in the driving seat as I occupied the passenger.

It was not long into our doomed voyage that he knew something was terribly wrong with his automobile. The ensuing panic caused him to awkwardly careen our transport into assorted stationary objects of great density. The punishment we endured left him dead and me indescribably battered. My pain, however, was consoled by the fact that my skin could now boast an ideal shade as well as thousands of glass shards.

Once back at home, I took a second look at my list.

# 2: Unruly Noisehairs

This, like the tanning, could be accomplished without much difficulty. I approached my bathroom cupboard, opened it, and sought out a pair of tweezers. Grasping them, I then targetted a nose hair for removal, gripped it, and tugged. A shocking sting ripped through my body. An unending stream of tears flowed forth from my eyes. This was more than I could handle. Some sort of numbing substance was in order.

I drove down to the local pharmacist in search of my solution. Whilst browsing the available drugs, I stumbled upon cocaine marketed as both a numbing agent and hunger suppressant. "Wonderful!" I thought. This would make the nosehair operation quite tolerable in addition to preventing my nightly pie-binging. With the product in hand, I made my way to the cash register until something caught my eye. I noticed that another package of cocaine was being touted as numbing agent only, with no word of its hunger supressing potential. Not far from it, a seperate packet of coke claimed to be an effective way to reduce food cravings. Each of these new discoveries was considerably cheaper than the two-in-one variety I had intended to purchase.

Operating on an ultimately correct assumption, I purchased the cocaine that advertised its diet-related usage, believing it would also numb my nasal passages, and thereby saved five dollars.

After having located a mirror of the appropriate dimensions, I poured out a line of coke and inhaled it through an aptly named crazy-straw. My nostrils now resistant to the piercing agony of hair extraction, I plucked with zeal only capable of a person in a drug induced frenzy. It worked like a charm; my nose was completely bare of its former unwanted residents.

Glowing gleefully from my success, or possibly from the coke, I again retrieved my list.

# 3: Formidable Girth

Admitting that while the cocaine would safeguard me from attacks of hunger, I realized I still needed proper exercise. With no gym membership, and lacking even the slightest inclination to run (or walk, for that matter), I decided that the most effective form of exercise would be one that I enjoyed, and would therefore continue to do past the point of fatigue.

Knowing that he would have no further use for them, I acquired my brother's collection of pornography and masturbated with untold fervor and dedication to a cause. I briefly paused and reconsidered my actions, feeling a pang of guilt.

Why is a writer, such as myself, using pornographic images to arouse his basest of emotions? Should not my imagination be up to the task of creating a vastly detailed encounter with a morally bankrupt woman?

I quickly shrugged off this way of thinking and ceased all further scrutiny of my behavior.

Having masturbated a greal deal, I unintentionally fell asleep, waking 2 days later, a mere hour from my impending glory. I rushed to my closet, put on my finest attire, and hurriedly drove to the magnificent Hollywood scene that awaited me.

I climbed out of my car, handed the keys to some hispanic valet, and began my much anticipated walk, cluthing the velvet ropes for support.

Due to the countless wounds I had recently received at my hands, a hobos hands, and my brother's hands, I was regrettably oozing copious amounts of blood onto the red carpet. But nobody seemed to notice. And not because the shade of my internal juices was identical to that of the carpet on which I now walked. In fact, they were two very distinct and easily distinguishable varieties of red. That isn't why I went unseen.

It was because nobody gives a shit about the fucking writer.

men-tality

There’s only one way to decide who gets to go on a date with Sheila.

Rock paper scissors?

Okay I was going to say no but you’re right, that’s a sanctioned decision-making ritual, completely viable. So there’s two ways to decide who goes on a date with Sheila. Rock paper scissors and…

Thumb war.

Right again, right again. In fact there’s myriad contests suitable for our purposes.

We could even ask Sheila.

God no she’s an ignorant bimbo. I’d feel much more confident the correct man was chosen for this task if some sort of adolescent determination of masculinity was carried out.

Agreed.

And as I was saying before, there’s only one… damn!... there’s a plethora of ways this can go down but the one I think could potentially cause the most physical and monetary damage, and therefore the most superior method, is a game of chicken.

Want to have a cock fight do you? Splendid choice. My cock will be ready for battle come this eve.

What? A cock fight? I’m not going to crudely wield my genitals as some sick organic rapier, parrying and thrusting against your hideous member.

My God, are you suggesting we fence with our penises?

No, that’s what you suggested.


Boys, boys, settle. What's taken place here is a terrible misunderstanding. See, you, Jimbo, have mistaken the vehicular testing of courage known as "chicken" with the base spectator sport we call "cockfighting" in which roosters, or cocks, attempt to fatally gouge one another for the pleasure of surrounding derelicts.

And you, Timbo, you have mistaken said cockfighting for a previously unheard of contest in which two confused males slap their penises together, presumably until one phallus becomes too fatigued to persevere.


Well if your knowledge of this subject is so vast, why don't you decide how we choose?


I never claimed any expertise in...


C'mon, tell us.

Yeah, pick something.


Let me think. Hmmm. Why don't.... how about you see who can amass the largest collection of insect specimen within a week?


I knew you'd say that you fucking entomologist.

disorganized crime

I play by a different set of rules. A set of rules that happens to be in direct opposition to the rules everyone else seems to play by. Well, tough.

Not that I don't earnestly believe there is a time and place for rules. Do I think cyborgs should be allowed in a boxing ring? Do I think outfielders should be allowed to wear rocket boots to catch fly balls? Do I think ice skating competitions should descend into blood-soaked kickboxing chaos? Do I think soccer players should be allowed to touch the ball with their fingers?

What was I talking about?

Rules. Who needs 'em. I sure don't. I learned everything I needed on the sidewalks, as a cop. I was on the streets at first, but that proved dangerous. It turns out most people on the streets are in cars. I wasn't. I didn't have much of anything really. No car. Or a gun. Just a blue shirt, a set of crutches and a bad attitude.

Also a half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Smuckers Uncrustables. It was an okay sandwich, but when it's not a homemade sandwich, you miss out on the most important additive: love. When I looked at the list of ingredients I thought maybe Azodicarbonamide was scientist jibberish for love. It just so happens that the two aren't all that dissimilar, because it turns to piss and is banned in some parts of the world.

I came to my senses though, and realized if there was love in a Smuckers Uncrustable, it would have to be machine love, because presumably there isn't an assembly line of mothers cutting off the crusts for me. And if it was machine-love, I would only be able to detect it if I was a robot. That's when I concluded definitively that I was not a robot and ceased all romantic entanglements with kitchen appliances.

Back to the story. Me. A copper.

I walked my beat like a lion prowling the jungle for prey. I never actually attacked anyone and ripped them apart with my teeth though. That would be ludicrous. And, as I said, I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, so my hunger never reached man-eating levels.

Police headquarters had assigned me to do what I did best: soliciting hideous women for sex and teenagers on bikes for drugs. Except instead of following through on the solicitations, I was supposed to say "ha! gotcha!" It was like telling a great joke. Except people don't usually respond to my jokes by having their pimp pulp me. It's usually more of a confused silence; pimp violence is rarely, if ever, involved. Additionally, for the record, while they are notorious for their slapping abilities, their baseball bats are what you really have to look out for.

Anyhow, when it came to soliciting, I was a pro then and my skill in the task has only improved over time. While the health of my genitals and chemical equilibrium are another story. And not a bedtime story. A really sad story. The kind of story you tell young people so they don't end up like you. The kind of story that gets you on daytime TV.

Yeah, I learned everything I needed to know those two days on the force. Crime pays. And being a policeman pays too, maybe even more than crime, but crime's hours are much better.

I was never booted off the force, mind you. I'm no disgraced ex-cop holding on to some juvenile grudge against the system. No, not me. If they had dismissed me, I would have been required to give back my knight-stick, which had demonstrated its versality as both a rolling pin and makeshift dildo. I found people respected the badge too, which was nice. Respected it a lot more than the badge I was issued for being one of the honored Aquaman Sea Cadets, which didn't make sense, but people rarely do. Instead I just told the captain I was going on vacation and I never went back. A trick I learned from my dad. And my step-dad. And my imaginary girlfriend.

At first I thought I'd go it alone. I didn't want any of my loved ones tangled up in my webs of lies, deceit and betrayal that go hand in hand with criminal activity. But mostly I was adamantly against splitting the loot with someone else.

However, it was only a matter of time before reality set in. It was precisely after I dropped and shattered my fifth stolen TV set that it occurred to me: fried chicken gives me greasy fingers. And a few hours after that I realized: if I had a partner, maybe I'd quit dropping shit.

So I began to compile a list of the ideal characteristics I wanted in a partner. The resulting collection of desirable traits consisted mostly of variations on "big hooters". That's when I thought: you know who else likes big hooters? My brother.

My brother! He would be the perfect accomplice. He was no greenhorn when it came to the world of professional hooliganing. He once scaled five stories to steal a pie from a window sill. And he wasn't even hungry.

living the highlight

Highlighting.

No. I'm not talking about the plasma lamps that provide that certain quality of ambience for your fungal forays into the next, or previous, dimension.

What I'm referencing is that futile act executed by your standard sad sack as he tries to cherry pick the most necessary of informations from some hefty tome comprised of barely discernible blatherings on topics so excrutiating the prospect of reading through them a second time, in their entirety, is so daunting he is willing to risk permanent ocular trauma.

Maybe highlighting works for you. Perhaps you've mastered this study tactic; you're a regular Billy the Kid, whipping out your yellow marker of justice, taking down page after page of villainous text. Or maybe you haven't got a fucking clue what you're doing. Maybe you've bought into the highlighter company's rouse. Everyone else seems to use highlighters, and if copying what everyone else does is such a bad thing, how could you explain all those kick ass clones, I mean music groups, you like? And your haircut?

Highlighting is a joke. How the hell do you know what's important and what's the decorative sprinkles and cherries on this cupcake of knowledge? Presumably the author isn't writing out of his ass and then, as an afterthought, hiding some important bits within a superfluous sea of sentences, like some heinous word-find.

Whenever I tried to highlight, I'd find myself coloring every other sentence. And it felt so ridiculous I'd intentionally not highlight things I needed to know, just to make the whole damned process seem like it had a purpose. And I knew I was an inept highlighter. I knew I had no method, only madness. So anytime I'd review the highlighted materials, I'd go ahead and read it all again, because who the hell knows what criteria I employed when I botched this highlight job like a twit.

Epileptic Seizer

Everyone is always telling me to "seize the day" - "Carpe diem!" Like it's quality age-old wisdom.

Yeah, they always acted like it was a fine idea until they found me in an alley, donning skin-tight, glittery leotards, my bare chest covered in a half-finished tatoo of my own face, fornicating with a box of day-old donuts that may or may not have been cream-filled when I arrived.

And that substance on my genitals wasn't raspberry jelly. If only it was raspberry jelly! You know what it was? Dragon blood. That wasn't part of the acid trip. I actually fucked a mythical beast. Nobody knows how it happened. Where the dragon came from, how it all worked out anatomically.

And drugs! The drugs! I stuck so many heroin needles in myself, I think I reverse-accupunctured a back problem.

The 24-hours I seized was a crazed, foaming badger of a day, wrangling and clawing to free itself from my diminished 3-fingered and thumbless paw. That's figurative. The literal badger was no picnic either. Opting out of a hand-based attack strategy, it was more entranced by my good looks. He tore open my face like a birthday brat attacking gift-wrap, and no amount of hollering could convince the feral douche there isn't a tricycle inside my head. My face, so irreparably scarred that my acquisition of the aforementioned tattoo appears an act of prescience, a conveniently located guide to whatever unlicensed surgeon recarves my skull with some playdough and a butter knife.

They don't tell you about any of this as they plaster the slogan across your brain. There's no asterisk and small print; they don't even exercise the courtesy of a sped-up chipmunk voiceover of some twat vaguely outlining the risks, the caveats.

It's carpe diem_ . It's a hell of a ride but your ticket's only good for one.

icing is enticing

I'm not going to circumnavigate the globe on a gay orgy cruise ship. I'm going to tell it to you straight.

That's right. Directly from the barrel of my knowledge revolver, through your cerebral cortex, on an unwavering path to your hippocampus, whereupon it will either become a new memory or trigger an epileptic seizure.

I want to discuss a phenomenon... Lectures: the soup kitchens for collegiates.

At the University, whenever there's some sort of speech or event that is assuredly boring as fuck, people will tack on free snacks to the end of it.

"Today we have guest lecturer Dr. Wilford Prinkmeyer, who will be discussing feeding habits of a now exctinct sea urchin and the impact of their absence from modern ecosystems. You are encouraged to attend... there will be free pizza after!"

Free pizza?! Well that changes everything! Chanellos has transformed this unbearable snoozefest into the party of the century! I'm busting out my agenda book and putting this bitch in bold, cuz there is no way I'm missing out on this shindig. Fuck! I might even get laid!

College students are pigeons, herding toward whatever old broad is throwing bread crumbs. Free food motivates us to such a degree that you'd think we're all one poorly placed bet at the dog-track away from blowing sailors for bagels.

C'mon people. You didn't hop in the Camaro when Terry the neighborhood pervert offered you a Butterfinger. Now is not the time to degrade yourself for warm pepsi and brownies.

in search of wisdom

As often happens in the lives of young men, I was once confronted with a crossroads. Coerced by the fates into making a decision, I did not trust my own judgment. My previous attempts at logic and reasoning had left me an unemployed virgin with chronic nosebleeds - I was beyond a square; I was a rhombus - my only real accomplishment being a Level 50 Paladin in an online gaming community. Sure, I had cybered with that druid a few times, and it was awesome, but who on the server hadn't? She'd do a half-orc in half a second.

But my purpose is not to weave erotic tales of e-debauchary; it is to enlighten to you of my quest for knowledge.

I had heard of a wise man living atop Mt. Mipleez, and worked up the courage to make the trek up to its great summit. Knowing I couldn't do it alone, I acquired the help of a local tribesboy named Lawrence. Sadly, Lawrence's presence was fleeting. Lawrence and I went our separate ways when I was seen feeding squirrels with his "trail mix." I argued that the Better Cheddars I had brought were enough for both of us, and it was silly to think we could subsist off squirrel-food. It was to no avail; Lawrence stomped off spouting jibberish in his native tongue that, while indecipherable, was hurtful nonetheless.

Now without my trusty Lawrence, I went on. For days I journeyed up the snowy cliffs, passing by the vulture-pecked skeletons of those with less constitution than I. Through avalanche I continued, through aching hunger I strove onward, till finally I reached the peak.

With the many crossed obstacles behind me, the feats of strength and determination conquered in my wake, I felt like a character from Greek mythology. And there, at the pinnacle, was the wise man of legend, masturbating. It was an awkward moment to end all awkward moments as he tucked his genitals back into his sheepskin loin cloth.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "The one time in twenty years I get bored and whack off, somebody shows up!"

"Oh my God, that's always how it works isn't it?! And nobody knocks anymore! Nobody!" I said, comiserating. We proceeded to exchange tales of interupted privacy. After an intense bonding session that revealed a mutual love of waffles, I turned around and contentedly left my mentor.

As I trotted down the slopes, a detectable perkiness in my gait, I slowly realized I left my Better Cheddars at the top (though, to be honest, they were dead to me the moment the wiseman dipped those grotesque fingernails straight into the box). And furthermore, I had forgotten to request the invaluable good judgment for which I had so desperately sought.

Some would say that I left without advice, without being enlightened, with no more wisdom than that with which I had began my pursuit. But I now know what that old coot knew then - it was through the journey itself that I learned all that I need to know:

Bigfoot is real, and he will rape you in a heartbeat.