Toads and Baseball Bats

Well, for starters, I wouldn't suggest falling asleep with a Pink Lemonade Jolly Rancher sucker in your mouth while watching a horror movie. My cheeks feel like the inside of a garbage bag from that shit.

Secondly, never... Just fucking never do that.

Thirdly, I actually brushed my teeth earlier than normal.

STORYTIME MAINLINE:

When I was a kid we lived in a small towns. I bounced around between parents homes and hospitals.

Back and forth.
I was never truly stable... still ain't.

At one of the shits (home) our backyard gate would give us access to a large park.

The park had a couple of soccer field's, a couple of tennis courts, a gym and all that crap.

On occasion our block would have these parties. The kids would smuggle beers and shit from the garage fridges while parents would get hammered and probably fuck each other.

I would cop a buzz and hide out.

I loved taking my mother's red bike out into the park with a plastic bat and find toads.

They were so gross.

I'd find one, drop the bike and toss it in the air and slug it with the bat.

HOME RUN!!

Then I'd find the dead toad and stare at it and then find another live one to practice with.

What an asshole.

I watched my mom's hot "best" friend sunbathing nude from a pine tree limb when I was a kid in that neighborhood.

She was so very fucking fine to me.
I had known her since I was a child.

There was a another chick who would smoke all the time in the window. I'd watch her too. She was cute and close to my age but a couple of grades older.

I like to pay attention to things that I believe deserve my attention.

She busted me looking at her and invited me in once but I declined because I got nervous and she had a cigarette.
She was older than me and my buddy told me that she had sucked his dick.
Maybe I should've done it for the experience points and a proper suck.

Even a good suck is rare at 37.
I guess I need to pick them better.

I messed with a girl a while back that told me, "If you're gonna start it you better finish it."

I told her, "If you want me to finish then you better start it."

It was the worst blow job that I've ever had.

I't doesn't just "work" like that.

I ain't like all the other horny dudes and I can suck dick better than most women that I know.

Once, I threw a pot of boiling water on a bully for picking on my friends and I. All we wanted to do was ride our fucking bikes. He kept circling around the block, spitting and cussing at us. He was a lug.
Simple answer.
Boil some water, hide in a ditch and when he comes back around, soak his ass with the boiling water.

So, I did.
Tough guy dropped his bike and ran.

You have to be fearless in certain moments.
Especially when it comes to the ones that you love.

I watched my brother shit his pants at a coolie where I carved out a rotten tree to hide porno magazines that I had stolen from my father.
I put the dirty slips in plastic bags and rebuilt the area that I chiseled out.

I'd sit down there and whack it sometimes.

I taught my brother how to ride a bike. He probably don't remember that shit though.


~THE END~

Random Babble...

I am not even kidding in the slightest bit when I say that I've had Truly by Lionel Ritchie carved into my brain every morning when I wake up for weeks now.

I wake up singing that song.

I am almost scaring myself.

I love Lionel Ritchie's music but shit... not every fucking day.

There was I time for a few months that I would listen to him, Luther Vandross and Phil Collins every night and just draw for hours. 

I love that crap.

Those weird love songs and their voices.

Yes, I'm a yacht rock kind of guy but I like to play folk music.

I can crush a metal song's dick in the dirt but that shit is boring to me. I'm not in high school anymore and I don't wear make up because I own a penis, nor do I like sweaty drunken men slamming into me as they scream at nothing while listening to the same riff scooped over and over and over... 

I like how most of those dudes act all hardcore. Some try to be meatheads. 

It's funny.

I also hate "techno" stuff.

I like how people brand that crud to be different forms. 

Bullcorn.

Give me a fucking break already...

Grab your glowstick and cram it up your ass. Do some blow and freak the fuck out?

Folk, traditional country and yacht rock for me with a dash of R&B, Mowtown and some proper PUNK ROCK flavor.

I love punk stuff, just don't fucking touch me.

Not that bubblegum, crybaby, pussy punk stuff though.

I like it pissed off. 

There are too many labels on music in my opinion.

A Tale of Decomposition

Panic attacks are to me, the equivalent of mental armageddon.

Everything seizes except the heart rate.

The breathing pattern goes "ape shit" and the mind goes to hell.

...at light speed.

My first massive one lasted for about a month.

One big living nightmare.

I had this girlfriend for a while and we were at her parent's house.

She and her mother were cooking spaghetti and basically screaming in each others faces in some form of communication between two women.

It wasn't that they were angry with one another.

They were excited. It was happiness.

Sometimes there is nothing more annoying than that of an exclamation of happiness from a human's mouth.

Not always but...

Especially with a female voice behind it.

To me it's like a tree full of squawking birds going completely bananas and I hate it.

I haven't figured out a way to ignore or deal with that particular noise.

It's that high pitched sound of female excitement.

Nothing can be that good.

It's like listening to my neighbor scream repeatedly while getting fucked by a slew of guys over the years and pretending that she is an angel when her boyfriend is around. Then yelling at him and acting like a cunt a few minutes later.

How is that fun?

It's like trying to jerk off to some whacky porn while having to listen to the woman getting screwed and scream like she is on a fucking roller coaster.

Magic Mountain.

That is what her ass is going to look like.

It's unreal and quite distracting to me.

I like when I find the porn videos with no audio.

The kind that are too good for everyone to actually hear.

You can watch this young lady get her asshole stretched out by some crazy sized penis but you can't hear it. Usually you can't even see the guy's face.

It's usually some screaming girl.

Just look at the pain in her face.

I even watch gay porn sometimes  because I get bored with looking a vaginas, but I'm not queer.

I just grow curiosity.

Those are perfect for me.

Curiosities.

I'm not ashamed of who I am.

BACK TO THE PANIC ATTACK THAT LASTED FOR A MONTH:

So, my yelping girlfriend was yelling with her howling mother in each other's faces whilst making spaghetti as I was trying to draw in the other room.

Something came loose in my head.

A screw fell from my ear.

I got up from the chair and walked back into the main room as her dad was sitting on the couch watching television.

He used to show me his guns in a manner to strike fear.

How frightening...

"C'mon, man, that would be just the break I need!! Don't tease me!!!"

My chick was in the kitchen with her mom doing 'The Banshee Shuffle" at the top of their lungs.

I grabbed her hand and said "We have to leave or I am going to fucking die".

"Wait. What?"

Yank.

"We gotta split".

Out the door.

She drove me to the hospital and the doctor gave me a big, yellow pill.

OVER ~ THE NEXT MONTH:

After leaving the hospital we went to a store and bought a few magazines and I carried them around for weeks.

My days consisted of riding my bicycle to my job, working my shift and eating something.

Then I would ride my bike back across town and either end up in the park on a swing or in the hospital waiting room.

At the park, I would sit and wait for Death.

Just sit and wait on the carousel to bring me some fire ball.

Sometimes, I would go to this hospital just incase "something" happened.

I'd sit there for hours and watch people while I flipped through magazines.

I can't believe that my bike was never stolen because I didn't have a lock.

There was a Michael Jackson impersonator who tripped me out that lived in the hospital.

In retrospect, I wonder why they never kicked me out.


When I moved to LA my bike got stolen within a week.

That was a while ago though and I wasn't insane.

A Family Affair PT.5

There is a dude sawing some trees outside. It's driving me fucking nuts.

When you soak beans always be sure to use salt in the water.

GRAN MUTHA:

Unless you called her mother, you called her Gran Mutha, not to be confused with Grandmother.

She lived to be 96.

She used to live in Sunset, La.

I heard a story about her stealing her sister's boyfriend.
I wouldn't know.

That's how this tale goes and also how we were created.

I can't remember ever meeting her husband which would be my Great Grandfather because he passed on but I've met his sons. One of them being my Grandfather. We all call him either Dad or Papa. He is a cool cat.

Confusing?

Well pay attention.

If you can picture Popeye's dad then you can see Papa.

My Mother birthed me at a young age so I feel like we all kind of "grew up" together.

Mother is my Mother but almost more like an older sister in vision. Never denied as Mother though. Flesh and Blood.

I like the word Mother.

BACK TO THE STORY:

Anna basically raised all of us.

She is a tiny, black woman who fried the best chicken I've ever had.

She is an angel.

She worked for Gran Mutha at times and took care of her children.

Hers and her others.

Inspiring gal.

My Gran Mutha drove Cadillacs. I loved hanging out in her garage.

I wish that I had one but I ain't fucking greedy.

She researched our family tree.

I remember calling her from time to time out of curiosity about that shit.

From what I remember, we had a descendent of Welsh royalty with the last name McDougal.

He was unhappy as a prince and ran away for the mainland, changed his name to Dugal and here we are.

History repeats itself. Do not be afraid.

I HEART RUTH DUGAL aka GRAN MUTHA.

~THE END~

A Family Affair PT. 4

There was a creature wearing a gun around it's neck.

I just thought of that shit for some reason. Maybe it's the paint fumes.

Here's the story...


SOMETIMES YOU GOTTA TAKE A CHANCE:

There were a lot of shady people around me when I was growing up. Still are I suppose.

Looking back I realize that they were all on drugs at the time or drunk.

I like that.

Makes life less boring.

Well...

My dad had this friend named Chance, but that wasn't his real name. He had a girly name that he absolutely despised. I don't remember what it was though.

You know those people that are just naturally packaged in a fit, tight body? They don't really have to do anything to keep lean or whatever.

It's genetics.

That was him.

On top of it he was an ex military dude (not all but some of those guys go crazy after that bootcamp bullshit even if they never saw any time in the field and become/became assholes).

I call it "Tuff Guy Syndrome".

Chance was that guy. Chance was also some kind of Martial Artist (I don't remember what form) and would always flip nunchucks. Some times he'd carry them around and shit like that.

He once shattered our living room light with them in a hammered showoff.

He was a fine tuned idiot when I knew him.

That dumb, meat head crud blows my mind.

My dad was a Marine so he had that same weird (I'm a hard ass) shit in his brain but only when he got drunk.

That's what linked these two bastards.

Anyway, they would get shit faced together sometimes and try to out do each other in how hard their training stuff was.

Who fucking cares?

It was around 9 o'clock when I stepped out of our crazy house on this particular evening because my father and Chance were on a tear.

"Be back later guys!" ~hand wave and out the door I split.

I came home after the bar closed.

 My father was in his usual white robe. His hair was wet and slicked back.

He also had a lit cigarette hanging from his lips and was once again shaking his head in a not so positive fashion

Then I noticed that here were blood splatters fucking everywhere. Everywhere.

EVERYWHERE

"Dad, what in the fuck happened?" I asked calmly.

I was trying to keep my cool.

"Son...", he said as he pointed to the other room.

That was all he said then he shook his head again and stared at the floor.

I walked into the main room and there was Chance, sitting in MY fucking chair, covered in blood.

He was out cold and drooling.

"What happened, Pops?"

"He attacked me, son".

"What did you do to him?"

"I hit him with the stick."

"Okay, sit down and hold on".

(We had this shovel handle that my dad used as a door stop for a sliding door. He wrapped tape around it because he would get drunk, carry it around sometimes and think he was "tuff" too. Like a ninja or some shit).

I attempted to put the scenario together in my skull.

So...

Chance was whipping his ass, karate style in the corner. My father was lucky enough to grab the stick and crack him twice...

The first blow was on Chances' arm because he "macho karate style" blocked it and the second blow was right across the top of his dumb, fucking head...

Out.

Cold.

My dad split that shit wide open.

"Man, this is bad Pop".

"I know".

Then we sat for a minute to think...

THE PACE CHANGED:

Gabe came rushing into the house in a frenzy.

My father already called his brother before I got there.

Mayhem.

Gabe had trash bags, rope and duct tape.

"WHOAAAA!!" I screamed, "WAIT A MINUTE"!

"Let's get rid of this motherfucker", was what was on Gabe's mind.

He wanted to hack him up and chuck him in the basin.

Just wait. Have a smoke and sit down.

Jesus...

Calming those dudes down and figuring out that situation was one of the worst things I've ever had to mediate.

Three nuts and one bolt.

It all worked out in the end.

Chance didn't die that night but I've never seen him since.

I hope he is alright.

~THE END~

Be nice. It ain't worth it.

http://youtu.be/qsEZ2lpM0Yw

A Family Affair PT. 3

INTRODUCTION:

Years ago.

My uncle, Gabe, was staying with my dad and I in our weird house for a few months. He was a strange alcoholic.

Even the way that he would drink his beer was amusing to me. He would get a bunch of tallboy Miller Highlife cans. Some would go in the fridge and a couple would go in the freezer where he stored his frozen mugs. He would rotate the mugs and beers as he drank all day long to keep them ice cold. It was his plan. It was his mission. It was the way he worked it. It taught me a lot.

I always keep frozen glasses now.

Gabe used to work for a sewerage plant or something. A city job for Lafayette, La. I don't know exactly what he did but it had something to do with sewerage and "The City", as he called it.

He also believed that the FBI was watching him and that the governor of the state knew him by name because he worked for "The City". It was amazing.

His whole drinking process and rants were pretty wild though they were equally entertaining.

One afternoon, I arrived home from work and my dad was sitting in the kitchen having a cigarette and shaking his head.

"What's wrong Pop?", I asked.

He told me this story...


GABE VS. THE JEHOVAH WITNESS:

My father and uncle were drinking heavily on this particular day when there came a knock on the front door.

No one ever knocked on our front door unless they didn't know us. People we knew would always just walk in and out through the side door.

It was 2 men.

Jehovah Witness guys.

He told me that they were on bicycles.

Bicycles and suits.

My dad answers the door and one man handed him a pamphlet then started his "speech" or whatever.

My father was shit hammered and just plain lonely at the time so he started to chat with the man about whatever it is that Jehovah Witness people talk about.

Meanwhile, Gabe is freaking the fuck out in the other room. He was peeping through windows and shit. He saw suits outside and thought that the FBI was there to get him.

You see, all that Gabe knew was that he was in touble.

Fight or Flight type of shit.

My father told me that they were talking in the doorway for about 10 minutes and then Gabe came running in, screaming some nonsense while shoving my dad aside and then he dropkicked the man in the chest.

The man fell to the ground as Gabe cussed him out, then the man picked himself up and fumbled around a bit as he must've been in shock.

His friend or whatever did nothing.

Then two Jehovah Witness dudes rushed to their bikes and rode off.

My dad had sobered up a little by now and as he told me this story, I noticed that the front door was still opened, which was a rarity. The pamphlet was also sitting on the counter.

He wasn't bullshitting.

Gabe was on the couch passed out.

Pops and I stared at each other for a bit.

He lit a smoke and we started laughing our asses off.

We were cracking up.

"It was fucking cazy, son!", he exclaimed.

We laughed some more.

I then pulled the shaving cream trick on Gabe.

The one where you fill a sleeping person's hand with shaving cream and then suddenly wake them up.

Usually the person will swipe their hand across their face.

It worked.

My dad and I laughed some more.


I miss my uncle

~THE END~

A Family Affair PT. 2

THE SKUNK:

When I was in 8th grade I lived at my dad's house.

I always jumped schools growing up. Nothing for me was or has ever been very stable. Maybe that's why I'm so bad with love/relationships. I get bored pretty quick. I'm working on it though. Trying.

My father's girlfriend at the time lived with us. She has a grip of kids.

We all still kinda keep in touch to some degree.

Anyway, my dad's girlfriend and I would usually smoke a joint together while I waited for the bus to arrive in the mornings. One morning her breast fell out of her shirt but she didn't realize it. I didn't say anything though.

Our road was a dead end so the bus would make it's way to end and then have to turn back around which always bought me extra time for a few more tokes. Then I'd run across the yard to catch it on it's way back up.

Off to school.

I don't remember my "teacher" for that particular year but I do remember that she got sick with something pretty early on into beginning of that school year. I don't even remember what the deal was but it must've been bad because I had a substitute teacher for the remainder of that grade.

The substitute was really petite and had pretty eyes. She also had some weird highlight in her hair so all of the kids would call her "The Skunk".

Not me. I thought that she was pretty. I've had crushes on most of my teachers. I hated school though.

These were the same kids that would do that choke each other to sleep in the bathroom at recess for shits and giggles.

Not me.

I would watch them choke each other sometimes though. It was strange.
Why would someone want to get choked out and fall into a seizure?
That question I cannot answer.

I remember that "The Skunk" asked us (students) to keep a journal for a while.

I got a new notebook.

I would write about smoking weed with my dad's girlfriend before school and drinking booze at night.

I'd write about smoking cigarettes and chewing tobacco.

I'd write about jerking off to my dad's porno crap when no one was around.

That was my journal in 8th grade.

My dad's girlfriend found it and cried. It bummed her out and she didn't talk to me for a couple of days.

I wish that I still had it.

Guess things haven't changed too much though.