Wednesday, May 31, 2006

I'm just thinking out loud, but maybe I should introduce the new guy with Tourette's to Hockey Helmet Kid

I had this conversation with the new guy from work with Tourette's. It didn't go very well:

"Why 'Cupcakes!'?" I asked the new guy with Tourette's.
"What?" he said.
"Why do you always yell, 'Cupcakes!' in the middle of staff meetings?"
"Does it really matter?" he replied.
"No, I guess not... Hey, would you like to meet a kid on my street who wears a hockey helmet all day long? I think he may be retarded."
"William," he said, a bit perturbed, "I have Tourette's; I'm not retarded."
"Well," I responded, "let's not split hairs, okay?"

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Joey Coconut must think I'm poor

My eyesight has been getting progressively worse lately. Just the other day while driving to work I mistook a stop sign for an old woman and swerved violently out of its way. I crossed over in front of oncoming traffic, went up on two wheels, jumped the curb, smashed through a mailbox and came to a rest in Joey Coconut's livingroom, where he was watching daytime television. When I explained to Joey Coconut that I didn't see so well anymore, he suggested I take the bus to work from now on. "The bus?!" I exclaimed incredulously. "Do I look like a poor person to you, Joey Coconut?"

Friday, May 26, 2006

The more fingers, the better

"Son," my mommy used to say to me when I was young, "don't listen to the other kids. They're just jealous that they don't have 12 fingers and toes, too." Her attempts to reassure me would have been more effective if she hadn't always looked like she was going to cry when she said this. "Can they palm a basketball like you?" she'd ask. "Can they pluck all six strings of a guitar at the same time like you? Can they make shadows on the wall of 12-point bucks like you? No, I didn't think so." She always knew how to make me feel better. "Now," she'd say, "put your mittens on, we're about to go out in public."

Thursday, May 25, 2006

I think my psychologist hates me

I'm not certain, but I think my therapist hates me. For one, he responds to most of the insights I provide about my life with, "Well, you don't have to whine about it," or "Did you ever think about how having to listen to this drivel might make ME feel?" Then there was the time when he screamed out, "What a LOSER!" when I told him about how Bucky Finger made me kiss Paddie McLongjohns on the lips. He tried to cover it up by quietly asking, "Oh my God, did I just say that out loud?" I told him that, yes, he had in fact said that out loud and that I was not a loser, thank you very much. "You might want to leave that up to the experts," he responded under his breath.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Lenny Chookoo tried to resurrect my high school nickname: Mr. Big'uns

My nickname in high school was Mr. Big'uns, on account of the size of my boobs. Lenny Chookoo had learned of this from his niece, who had been in my class, and tried to resurrect the nickname at work. "Here comes Mr. Big'uns," he'd call out as I approached the lunch table. "Remember fellas," he'd say, pointing toward my head, "his eyes are up here." I got the last laugh, though, with Lenny being dead and all.

Monday, May 22, 2006

I have a perfectly good explanation for why I was touching Shirley LaFoiegras's ass

I had dropped a piece of a cupcake on the seat next to me at lunch the other day just before Shirley LaFoiegras sat in it. When she stood, I tried to swipe it off before she noticed it and blamed me. She felt my hand on her ass, spun around and yelled, "You better have a perfectly good explanation for touching my ass!" Before I could tell her that, yes, indeed, I did have a perfectly good explanation for touching her ass, she slapped me, hard. The entire lunchroom grew silent. I was furious. "Well, guess what, Shirley," I yelled at her as she was walking away, "sometimes it rains, sometimes it's sunny, sometimes there are clouds, and other times it snows. It's the weather, for Christ's sake. Who gives a shit?" Nobody had any idea what I was talking about, but Shirley knew. Oh, she knew.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

That kid with the hockey helmet is whacking that pine tree with a 2 x 4 again

Christ, that neighborhood kid who wears the hockey helmet all day long was out in front of his house all morning whacking that pine tree with a 2 x 4 again. I went down to ask him to stop, but, before I could, he jumped on his BMX and started riding around in tight little circles. Then he started hootin' and hollering' and ripped off his t-shirt and was waving it around over his head. "Are you some kind of retard?" I asked him. "Would a retard be able to do this?" he asked. It appeared as if he was preparing to pull a one-handed wheely or some shit when a brick came flying through the air and hit him right in the nose. No one owned up to throwing it, but my money's on Bucky Finger. That's just something he'd do - hit a retarded kid in the face with a brick.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Paddie McLongjohns' freak-show fat mother is always threatening to shoot me in the face

Paddie McLongjohns' freak-show fat mother is possibly the meanest woman I have ever met. Just about every time I see her, she threatens to shoot me, usually in the face. This is a typical exchange between us: "Hey, Big Dummy," she'd call me. "How's you like it if'n I shots you in the face?" To which I reply: "I don't think I'd like that too much, Ms. McLongjohns, if you don't mind me saying." "I do mind," she'd respond. "I do mind, because I wants to shoot you in the face somethin' terrible." How do you tell a woman like her that you ran over her cat a few weeks ago? Should I just blame it on the deaf kid who lives down the street? How do you think that would play out?

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Don't tell anyone, but the cat I ran over belongs to my friend Paddie McLongjohns' freak-show fat mother

It turns out that the cat I ran over a few weeks ago belongs to my friend Paddie McLongjohns' freak-show fat mother. The cat survived my hit-and-run, but, apparently, it's not been the same since. When he approaches you, his back legs swing out to the side, like a truck that’s lost control of its trailer. If he swings them out too quickly, the centrifugal force can knock him off balance or spin him in a circle. The former is sad, but the latter can be quite funny.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Holy crap! The next time I see Shirley LaFoiegras at work, I should just keep walking

The next time I see Shirley LaFoiegras at work, I should really keep walking. She loves to talk and talk about the weather. "Not too nice out there today, huh?" she asked me when I entered the kitchen this morning. "Tomorrow's supposed to be nicer though, with more sun than clouds, then it will get cloudier with a chance of rain again on Friday. They say it's going to last right through the weekend, so forget about cooking out. You enjoy cooking out, don'tchya?" she asked, but before I could answer, she said, "Then Monday's going to be hot, hot, hot; I never thought we'd complain about the heat after that long winter we just had. Tuesday's going to be cooler, though, with mixed clouds on both Wednesday and Thursday. Now Friday," she continued, "Friday's a whole different story. Sunny, with winds out of the north. Just beautiful. Then Saturday ..." Holy crap, I thought, this might go on forever.

Monday, May 08, 2006

My shaman healer is a total jackass

I went to the local shaman healer to have my forearms drained yesterday. He pulled out a huge needle that appeared to have rust on it. I asked him if that was rust on the needle, and he replied, "What's it to you?" Just as I was about to say, "Nothing, I guess," he stabbed that giant thing in my arm. After I yelled out in pain, he coughed in a way people do when they are trying to cover up a comment. "Did you just say 'A-pussy-says-'what?'' just now," I asked him. He looked confused. "What?" he asked. "Exactly," I said. "Exactly." Then I turned to his assistant and offered her my raised hand in a position ready to receive a high five, but, alas, none was forthcoming.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Lenny Chookoo was a real cheap bastard

I just got back from Lenny Chookoo's funeral, where everyone was telling their favorite Lenny stories. All I could think about was how cheap he was. Every time I'd ask him to buy me a sandwich, he'd be like, "I'm still paying off bills from my throat cancer surgery" this, or "I have to support my adult retarded brother in the group home" that. Man, he always had an excuse to get out of buying me stuff. I'd be like, "Lenny, it's $7 for Christ's sake - $8.50 with a soda. Do you really think that's going to put your retarded brother on the street or keep you from getting your synthesized voice box?" Jesus, he was cheap.