Coffins & Cradles : Dive

A Review of the short story Dive

from Coffins & Cradles

"The events and descriptions are bizarre"

"It's super well written in that the descriptions are so good, you can really see the story unfold"

- Shannon Payne 

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Coffins & Cradles

Coming January 2014

Coffins & Cradles

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The Double Entendre

When the shit hits the fan, you don’t want to be in the room. Fact. Well, some people do. Rational people don’t. You want to land on your feet. You want to hit the ground running. You want to be far, far away from the blast radius. No rational person wants someone else’s shit on them. Anywhere. Fact.

It’s simple on Why. Nobody wants to hang around someone with shit on them. It doesn’t matter if it’s a tiny little smudge, or smeared all over your body like body lotion. Any scent of shit stings the nostril’s and conveys the general filthiness of the person of whom it’s radiating from. Conversations would get quiet. Awkward at best. Everyone would be searching for that special cue where you know it’s ok to just walk off. Moral of the story: Don’t be around when the shit hits the fan. 

Like most of the mindless babble I type, by now you’re probably wondering where I’m going with this. Some of you, some smart ones, may even have picked up on my knack for the Double Entendre, and are searching for the meaning behind the shit hitting the fan. And like previous posts, it’s doubtful this one is any different. 

Or maybe, just maybe, I could actually be talking about shit hitting the fan, and how insanely gross that would be. But that would be too easy. Too simple. Not clever. Not fun. Boring. It may be an easier read, but too wasteful an effort to write. So I’ll spare you something 2-dimensional in replacement for a few more dimensions. So try to keep up.

The blast radius of any shit hitting the fan is vital information for your survival. It all depends on the dimensions of the fan itself. Where it was purchased is a good indicator of its’ effectiveness. A fan purchased at Home Depot is a real killer. The blast radius of such a fan could paint the walls brown and leave no survivors. Beware. A fan from K-Mart on the other hand would give you more time to leave the room. You could even be at the door or one leg out the window and still survive. It’s possible. So, take notice of the quality of the fan, that’s Rule #1.

Rule #2 is there is no Rule #2. There’s no need, because Rule #1 is about as much common sense required for survival. Ideally, you can’t exactly screw up Rule #1, however the limited intelligence of humanity never ceases to surprise me, so at times a handicap sticker is needed; a “Get Out Of Jail” free card for being stupid. We all are in some moments. Some of us just have more of those moments than others. So maybe Rule #1.5 could be “Have Less of Those Moments”. Now that we’ve established the importance of not being stupid, we’ll get back to my point: The Fan. 

The quality of the fan is the real danger. A far-reaching, thick and sturdy fan is disastrous for anyone in the room. We’re talking an F-5, with winds well beyond 261 miles an hour. A 10.0 magnitude earthquake; Nothing survives. This powerful fan can cover everyone, and everything in the room from head to toe in thick, juicy shit. Corn off the cob. Pale white girls won’t have to go to tanning beds if they’re in the room, they’ll get their bronze on here. And once you’re coated, you’re coated. There’s no going anywhere. 

Covered head to toe in shit, that’s a long lasting effect. You can shower, you can bathe, you can run through the car-wash. As I mentioned before: one small smudge of shit, anywhere on your body, and you’ll sting the nostrils of anyone within a 10-foot radius of you. You’re tainted goods now; a dented can on the shelf, a bride in a yellow dress; everyone knows (they can smell the shit on you). 

And it’s all because you didn’t pay attention to Rule #1 (Taking notice to the quality of The Fan). You could’ve been spared, saved to another world, a dreamy existence in the sky. To be fair, being covered in shit isn’t the end of you, just a temporary cock-block that will remain locked and keyed until you wash yourself enough to really get all the dark crevasses of your body spotless and clean.

So be mindful of the room you’re in, and the quality of fan. It’s just that simple. And if need-be, use Bleach.

Constellations in the Sky

Have you ever met another version of yourself?

Maybe young, maybe old, maybe poor, maybe full of wealth.

Have your ever wondered what your life would've been had you turned left and not right?

Rather than mountains, you'd have oceans in your sight.

In another time, another place, you were something more, or something less

Maybe with these questions, I digress.

Far and away I drift

Too heavy a thought for anyone to lift.

Questions, these questions forever haunting

Too many to count, these questions are daunting.

And like a sweet piano rift, they'll dance

But just out of reach for me to take my chance.

They're uncanny and elusive

And they're all the world can give.

Because some questions must never be answered

Some questions end in Cancer.

Deep in a Beehive Cluster of light too bright for us to see

That you are yourself, the best you'll ever be.

Coffins & Cradles : The Elusive Masterpiece

Somewhere, you’re buried six feet under in a wooden coffin of Emotion and Self-Deprivation. The soil is thick of worms and gravity. The weight of the world is compressing on you from all sides, and you’re the one holding the shovel. You’re the one digging your hole, making it deep, making it the perfect rectangle you always imagined it would be. And for what? 

So someone can read that clever line you picked out for your own tombstone. You’re so smart. 

You don’t get it. Yet.

Now, the message you wish to share with generations to come is forever etched into that granite. Innocent onlookers will get to read your wit for years to come. Your body will eventually decompose, and you’ll be nothing more than dust in a box, but that intelligent line you thought up for years will never be lost. 

Sure, the memories of you will eventually fade with the memories of the minds you shared while still alive, your time will pass. But that one line won’t.  

Even when careless teenagers step over your grassy heaven on some Halloween night, searching for fright and sex, even when the lot next to yours is finally being filled and all attention is wavered to that red carpet that surrounds the brown box, you’ll still be there. In some way or another. Motionless. Timeless. Dead, physically.

That line is your Masterpiece, your Moonlight Sonata, your Raven, your Nevermind. It’ll withstand the storms of time. But for most of us, this Masterpiece eludes us like ideas of musical notes in the wind, always present, and always just out of reach. Only the truly wise can realize their Masterpiece. But most of us are fools.  

Fools of a feather.

But that doesn’t stop the hungry from striving. It’s out there. It’s visible. We can almost hear the faint notes of our ideas as melodies. A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere. We’re piecing them together. Forming our chorus. Forming our bridge. Like a puzzle that takes a lifetime, you’re just trying, always trying to find the match. And then another, and another. 

That line, oh that clever little line in the granite. Six feet above your forehead. Your final Masterpiece. 

But this eludes you. 

And without that line, no grave is ready to be dug. No shovel is needed, despite your best efforts. That coffin can only close when you’ve created a line so original, so witty, and so heavy that it withstands the storms of time. You get it. 

Now hold on.

With a coffin seven-feet long in a grave six feet deep under a granite stone with a line so clever that it stands the sands of time, you’re living forever. 

But do you really want to live forever?

The energy required to survive and endless existence is enormous. Like a treadmill that never stops, a memory that never fades gets old. Too much of anything is exhausting, like pop radio, or Sarah Palin. Imagine a day without the night, or a night without the day? An endless Ground Hog Day, or an endless moment that never moves on. Never shifts. Never un-focuses. Living forever would be a one-chord song where the beat never changes, or a one-word story that spans millions of pages. Over and over. 

All work and no play may make Jake a dull boy. But what about all play and no work? Such an uneven keel would cause the universe to fold in on itself. All Life, or All Death could cause a rip in the space time continuum. And you don’t want to mess with Marty McFlys 1985. 

Maybe, just maybe, that grave needs to hold your body down. Six feet under with dirt and worms above, maybe, just maybe, that clever line you’re already thinking about needs to elude you. Notes in the wind. 

Finishing your Masterpiece may not be a good thing.

The 26th Mile : Creation Rock

The following is a small piece of the fictional novel
 The 26th Mile

Coming Spring 2014

Creation Rock

When you’re the only one not in motion, you stand out. I stand out. In an amphitheater of a hundred steps or so, surrounded by Pennsylvanian bedrock and dozens of fitness freaks on a Sunday morning, it’s hard not to. Everyone is running. Jumping. Or pretending to do so. Like cocaine addicts hyped up on Red Bull, this world has gone mad. 

There’s a leathery middle-aged women in Inov8s hopping stairs in spandex and delusion. Each hop adds hope that next Friday night some white-toothed male will bang her head against the backboards of the bed. Wailing inconsistently into the night. Then there’s a top-heavy muscle man in five fingers and hair gel doing pushups. His ambitions are ironically enough more trivial than his leather-couch counterpart hopping stairs. He’s not just trying to impress some bland minded bimbo with a Corona and lime at the bar, he’s trying to extend the length of his dick with biceps of testosterone to overrule his male buddies. Dominate Male Monkey Motherfuckers in five fingers.

I look for rhyme or reason in this mess, but there isn’t any. Just a bunch of stir-crazy adults searching for Zen, or something of great importance. Just like me. What I’m searching for isn’t exactly the same as these freaks, but I guess I can lend a hand to the idea that we’re all out here searching for something, and what that something is, nobody knows. It’s as elusive as our goals and ambitions. The ones we’ll never achieve but we have them anyway. 

Goals that we share with our friends and family to make us feel special. So people think we’re bound for something big. Something great. But we’re not. It’s all a big lie, and we know that. But we like to believe our little lies, because they make us feel important. Like parking lot attendants. We wear our little ambitions around on our sleeves like we’ve already accomplished them. We like to live in our potential, we just never reach it. Like badges in Boy Scouts, signifying our intent, only never getting there.

Back to the steps. The shady red steps with the massive rocks on each side that make you feel so small, so insignificant. I sat. Just sat. No movement. No intentions of moving, running, or hopping anything at all. I just, sat. The world was moving enough around me, why should I need to move at all? With the sun peeking over the stage and hitting my skin, I couldn’t help but think back to what brought me here in the first place. 

At the dawn of some great decision, some great idea, or at least I felt that way, this is where I came. Searching for a resolution, an excuse perhaps to explain the events of the previous year. Like those leathery middle aged women searching for dates and rapes, I was searching too. 

And like them, I was lost on a never-ending stair master with no Off button. There’s no end in sight. As much as I didn’t want to care, I didn’t want to play this game, this never ending pursuit of happiness. Lies. I was drawn to it despite every effort. Every last effort of not caring. I had to care. I had to care because She did. And She loves me. And I love her too. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, watching leather run up and down these stairs. Watching beef flex and smile. What a waste.  

There has been a theft, I tell you, because I haven’t always been this way. This lost. This confused. There was a time when I knew every step I would take in a day, every corner, and every angle of every situation. There weren’t any grey areas of the unknowing. It was all knowing. Like God. And then it all changed. It was all lost. Gone. Away with the wind. 

The strange thing was I knew it when it happened. It wasn’t like I just woke up some morning this stupid. I saw the wind carry it away. Whatever “It” is, or was. It was like a feather in the wind. One moment it’s sitting on your shoulder, the next it’s carried off and away, down a few blocks, over the trees and the mountains. Gone. Just like that.

And to off the strangeness and the frustrations, I don’t even know what the hell I’m talking about. What’s lost, I have no idea. What’s gone over those mountains, no fucking clue. Just a piece of something I knew that’s gone now. I can feel the void of rationality, I guess that may be the best description of what I’m feeling. A void. 

Which is probably what these fitness freaks feel. Maybe they used to be crack addicts or doll collectors. Then they turned those strange, dangerous habits towards flexing every minute of every day to transform that mush in their obese bodies into machines. I wasted a moment wondering what they thought they’d find at the top of those stairs. Zen? A Soul mate? Money? Fame? Fortune? A parking lot? What a waste. 

Like my life.

Maybe I just finally reached the moment in my life where I noticed the disorderly state of my life. We’re born into perfection, or so it seems, and each day we just progress further and further away from that orderly state. Like the universe. Each day is tainted with microscopic bubbles of imperfections, and eventually they all add up enough for you to see them. Like pennies in the back, accumulating over time. One day you have one penny, several thousand days later you’ve got enough to really go out and eat and drink. Only this works the other way around. 

This goes backwards. And as of the present day, no time machine has been invented for us to go back and rewind all the faults to make them right. We’re doomed to a life where our mistakes must be lived with. And the older you get, the more of those you notice. Like pimples on the face of a overly-stressed teenager kid. Don’t worry, your grade in Concert Band II will not make or break you. What happened in the past will always remain, and there’s nothing anyone can do to change it. But that doesn’t stop you from wanting, or trying. 

Consider me some genius. I don’t know shit about Physics. But I can at least be delusional enough to see what I want to see, we all can, and do this on a daily basis. You check yourself out in the mirror before leaving your house. Everything looks good: Check. The fact is that you look like shit and if you didn’t you wouldn’t be looking in the mirror in the first place because it wouldn’t matter. You’re starting from the bottom and trying to work your way up, hence the mirror, the daily evaluator of your progress. But if you really were a hot piece of ass you wouldn’t need progress, hence you wouldn’t need the mirror. These are the little things in life you don’t think about. But I do. And in times like these, I feel the need to educate. But we’re done now.

Back to my point, Delusion. Now, I’ve been fairly successful at this art for my entire life. It came so naturally I didn’t even notice my talents. It was like breathing, easy and simple. It didn’t take any night classes at the local community college, no boot camp instructors screaming incoherently in my face. I could see the sun as a welcoming burn to my eyes, and convince you of it too if I felt like the challenge. Strippers weren’t sinners, they were artists to an blind crowd. Baby-Mommas trying to make rent. Life was whatever I felt like seeing. It could be sunny or rainy. 

But then She changed everything. And now I can’t exactly play stupid anymore, which is frustrating. She became my mirror, and just like that, I saw the piece of shit I really was. Brown and moist. Pathetic and stinky. The sun did hurt my eyes, and those leather couches sliding down the strippers poles really could’ve done something else if they wanted to. Like me. Strippers everywhere will hate me now. But we see what we want to see, until some immovable object moves us.

She moved me. 

She made me see the natural order of the world. The distorted chords of yesterday where now finely tuned. Everyone was looking for something. Everyone was wondering aimlessly around in their lives, gazing into night fires, hoping an answer would fall out of the flames and land gently at their feet. We’re all the stars of our very own VH1 reality hit show. We live in a filtered world of Instagram pictures, and we’re all the world’s best photographer. 

Like the mirror, if our lives really were that perfect, we wouldn’t need the filter. But without it, life was just a horse-pill too big to swallow. When She made me take the filter off, I could see that the leather couch climbing the stairs was no hotty. I could see the gel oozing down Muscle Mans face. There’s no photographer here. No one is filming you workout. So what’s the need for the gel, or the fake tan just to go and be seen working out? #filter.

No. I couldn’t be oblivious anymore. I couldn’t see sunshine and daisies in dead weeds and roadkill. The flattened Skunk you can still smell, even in death. Life without the filter was depressing, but it was real. She made me see that. And despite the change of view, despite the sunglasses coming off and un-filtering the world around me, here I sat. Motionless on those red steps. Watching a leather couch age and a Muscle Man who’s eyes were beginning to burn of sweaty gel. What a waste. 

I can blame Her for my current state of confusion. I can say it’s all Her fault. She opened my eyes and forced me to look at the world in another color. You see a lot more details in color. And when I trace this back to the genesis of this idea, this train wreck of a thought, as much as I’d like to paint this pretty picture of a man coming to grips of love or lust on the top of some beautiful mountain in the sunset, that’d be a lie. 

It all started over some wasteful tears and half a bottle of Parrot Bay Rum nearly three years ago, before She existed in my life.

The 26th Mile

When you've run 25 miles, one more mile is a long way to go. Talent doesn't carry you that last mile. Hope doesn't cary you that last mile. That mile is left for the heart. That mile is left for others. No one runs the last mile of a marathon for them self. They run it to find Something. They run it because of all they've endured to get to that mile. That something can only be found after 25 miles of pounding and sweat. We're all searching for Something, and in that last mile, we all find what we're looking for. 

Coming this Spring: The 26th Mile. 



Stay tuned for small tasters of the book to be released HERE.

The Karma Bus

The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round. The wheels of the (Karma) bus go round and round, round and round. All the way through town. 

Hopefully the bus driver isn’t drunk or high. Imagine an inconsistent Karma. How disappointing would that be? Days too long, nights to short, no difference between right and wrong. A drunk Karma would be too forgiving, or not. 

That bus, that Karma bus of yellow paint and black rubber wheels is rolling down the street, you know the song, that one you learned as a stupid little kid, that melody is ringing in your ears now. You’re welcome. What they didn’t tell you as a child is what I’ve already hinted at with some fairly extreme subtle clues in less than three paragraphs: That bus is an analogy for Karma. And the table is now littered with clutter. Now, don’t start pissing your pants or gasping is amazement, you knew this was coming. You’re not that stupid anymore. Hopefully.

On the Karma Bus (if you haven’t caught on yet: “Life”. Emphasis on the quotation marks), you’re safest on the bus. Sure, there’s some shady characters on the bus, and you’re one of them. But on the bus, your ego, your ambition, and your delusion are all in check. It’s all confined within the rational walls of that yellow torpedo trudging down the city streets. Safe and seatbelt-less. Once you grow some balls and step off the bus at one of the many stops, that’s where you enter the wild, where it’s dog-eat-dog. 

Don’t get off the bus.

When you step off that bus, you’re exposed. All the dirty sidewalks, the filth, the muddy banks and the caked on diarrhea in the streets will enter your nostrils for attempted filtration. But off the bus there is no filtration. No safety. No seatbelts.

Wait a minute...

Off the bus, you’re a sitting duck for The Game. What Game you may ask? Here you are, playing stupid again. The Game of Life. The Dog-Eat-Dog world of tossing others under the Karma Bus, or being tossed under yourself. Now you’re understanding why I said “Don’t get off the bus.” Off the bus, you’re forced to either play the role of Protagonist, or Antagonist. There’s no third option. No Switzerland. You’re a either Jedi. Or a Sith. An Angel. Or a Demon. Team Edward. Or Team Jacob. 

Wait a minute...

It’s Dog-Eat-Dog off the bus, and you’re hungry at first. This is your moment to shine. Like a plastic trophy above the fireplace, glimmering with Hope and Delusion. Everyone’s a Winner. Your ego grows in excitement, like in a dark room lit by a black light with a stripper named “Destiny”. The bass booms and you feel the vibrations between your thighs. You know this isn’t right. But you bob your head to the techno anyway and play along. Like the Game of Life. You’re not thinking about tomorrow. You’re not thinking about the consequences of pushing your first victim under the Karma Bus. You’re thinking about your growing... Ego. 

But like a balloon, it’ll eventually POP.

The next thing you know you’re face down in a pile of what you’re hoping is mud and not human feces. The street is cold when you’re placing your hands down to push yourself back up. And there’s no one there to help you up. You’re confused. Lost. Soiled. And betrayed. That trust you had for humanity has evacuated like the shit from your ass. Nobody’s safe when you exit the Karma Bus. Round and round, Go Karma! Go! Just like the tide; tide comes in, tide goes out. And there’s no explanation for it.

Wait a minute...

For every action there’s a reaction. For every cause, there’s an effect. For every excited body thrown under the bus at your filthy hands... Well, you get the picture. So take a number and get ready for the Karma Bus to run you over, because off the bus, nobody’s safe. 

The silver lining comes with getting run over. In an ideal world, you’ve learned something (don’t get off the Karma Bus). You’ve come to the realization that in tossing a known body under the Karma Bus, you’re sealing your fate and taking a number. You’re asking for trouble, you’re asking for some tire markers down your back and your face flattened in the streets. So hopefully you’re no idiot. Hopefully, you’re intelligent enough to learn something once, and remember it.

Otherwise, The wheels on the bus go round and round...

Lap Dance Refunds

              :: Reader Discretion is Advised ::

Money makes the world go round. It pays the bills. It buys the cars. And it pays for the lap dance at your local strip club. Without it, no one is dancing for you. Money moves those asses the way it moves the world. Round and round to a Ludacris song. Like putting quarters into a horse machine in front of K-Mart to make it jiggle. Or swirl around that greasy pole. 

Don’t laugh.

That leathery tan needs lotion. And that lotion is greasy as hell. Just ask anyone who’s hooked up with a stripper. Or slid down that silver pole. This doesn’t belong to Santa Claus, or does it?

Did someone ask Santa for a Practice Pole this year? Just claim it’s for fitness purposes.

My question now is, how do you get a refund on lap dance? Do you simply fish out your (cheap ass) dollar bills back from that G-String? Do you consult with a lawyer first? Or will the bouncer agree with you that paying Top Dollar to watch the JV perform is downright theft?

Don’t laugh.

When you’re paying Top Dollar, you expect a Top Performance - at least. Refunds should be customary in these situations, and perhaps come with a receipt. This transaction is filed for further review. Refund on lap dance, you better believe it.

Like all products bought and sold, you expect to get your money’s worth. You work hard for that green, and you spend it just as hard. On an ass carved by Crossfit bootcamps in a pair of Inov8s. You should be soo lucky. Those classes aren’t free. Only on the internet. Or in common sense.

Those $20 bills should be falling like feathers from that ass. Crisp and Green, like an autumn rain. The floor should be vibrating with the boom of the bass, and you should be seconds away from having a seizer with all of those florescent green flashing lights in your eyes. You’re an underage drinker who doesn’t know when they’ll get another sip. So soak it up. Ain’t no kennel dog here. You’re in the Matrix, only the floor is sticky enough to keep you grounded. 

Don’t laugh.

The pole and the floor are quite the contrast. One’s slippery with Stripper Juice (purchasable at Wal-Mart for $9.99!), and one is practically coated in glue from an unnamed, and unbranded substance. Hopefully someone’s got the antiseptic wipes at the door. Right next to the shopping carts. Perhaps gloves could be distributed with each purchase of an alcoholic beverage. Blue latex gloves, ready for surgery on the wallet. Those glow in the dark bottles could come with glow in the dark gloves. Or maybe blacks lights have no home in a Strip Club. Drips of love or lust on the floors and the walls.

Round and Round we go. In little circles of an ass shake. No Miley Cyrus. Not You. Save twerking for the clubs. But then again, whoever said the Varsity would be performing? How much do they cost? If you’re coming to a strip club with a bag of change, counting nickels and dimes, you’re bound to get the horsey machine in front of K-Mart. 

But if you make it rain $20s...

Toys & Games, Games & Toys

In the end you always think about the beginning. It’s funny how that works. You get all nostalgic and remember all the great times, how it used to be. You were so hopeful then. So inspired. So stupid. 

Had I known what would happen between then and now I’m not so sure I would’ve marched on with the same enthusiasm. Or maybe I would have. I just wouldn’t have been so ignorantly full of glee about my plate. Mash potatoes to the left. Sometimes we like to walk into the fire, hoping it’ll be different this time. 

But it never is.

And we always are.

With the gun in my hand and the moonlight serenading me like some italian guitarist in Venice, I didn’t know what to expect. And looking back on it now, nothing good ever comes with a gun in your hand. Ever. At least it’s not to your head. Maybe that would’ve been easier.

Easier than this.

Easier than holding that weighty .45 in your left hand, waiting to pull the trigger while blood races from your knees and you’re trying to keep your shit together. You’re armpits are sweaty. Like your crotch. That useless waste of a human muscle. Look where that got you.

Drunk in an alleyway behind The Rio on the other end of that gun. Karma. I can’t say that I was surprised. Shocked. Afraid. I knew what I was doing. Sort of. This all goes back to that Hope thing. Wishing for the best. That star you wished upon died a long time ago. Like your dreams. What a waste. Empty dreams like empty boxes. It all looks nice on the outside. But on the inside it’s all just hollow. Like my heart. In a world of paper bags and plastic smiles, how are you sure what’s real?

I want to say I care if he pulls the trigger. I want to say my funeral will be colorful with dozes of weeping friends in black. But that’s a lie. I don’t even think She will be there. So what’s the point?

Surely, someone, somewhere will say I made an “impact on this earth.” That’s a lie too. But they probably won’t mean that in a good way. It’s that sort of thing they’ll say to avoid the obvious.

But let’s be straight here. I’m no hater. I’ve always preferred to Love. But we live in a hateful world, and I just played the game as it was. I was just a little too good at it to stay around for long. That’s how it works. The better you are at the game, the shorter you play. Which brings us back to the gun pressing on my forehead in this dirty back alleyway. Funny how the wind changes direction that quickly.

One second the gun is in your hands, the next second it’s not.

Products

Carl died from a teenager sexting while driving. Carl was drunk on a bike.

Jerrod lost 200 pounds walking to Subway to eat. Jerrod lived behind a Subway parking lot.

That little kid in those McDonalds commercials is overjoyed with happiness over his Happy Meal. That little kid died of a clogged artery four years later. 

He was obese too.

We’re just products of our stories. Our good stories. The ones that make us feel hope. The ones that makes us feel fear. Whatever changes your mind. Or not. Whatever makes you feel warm and cozy. Or cold and lonely. Whatever makes you feel the need to purchase a gun and lock your doors. Start building the doomsday shelter beneath your backyard. The neighbors will understand. We’re just products. Like Abercrombie models or Winners of American Idol.

Besides the fact that I’ve never been robbed, maybe I should get that wallet with the chain attached to it, and lock it to my belt. Just in case. 

Besides the fact that I’ve never won the lottery, maybe I should scan through Sky Mall magazine on my next flight and plan what useless garden toys I should buy next. Perhaps the miniature stone Big Foot. Or the fake rock to hide my air conditioner. 

Or the Elder Wand. 

Besides the fact that I’ve never been in an accident that flung me through my front window, maybe I should wear my seat-belt. Maybe.

Or maybe I should try Not Giving A Fuck. I hear side effects include less stress, a more calm behavior, the ability to chill-ax, the ability to live a care-free life, and, less stress.

Ingredients include watching mind-numbing television shows for hours.‘Merica. Enjoying a nice warm beer while cars drive in circles for hours and hours in the heat of southern summer. ‘Merica. Spending the majority of your paycheck at GAP on cargo shorts or t-shirts that say “GAP” on them. ‘Merica. Getting lost in cheese dip with salsa dripping down your chin at a Sunday afternoon game of football. ‘Merica. Waking up Monday morning with a mind-splitting headache in a dry sweat on your bathroom floor from too many tequila shots after the win. ‘Merica.

You get the idea. 

We’re all just standing at the bottom of the stairs in the physical way. And where’s your mind gone?

Lost. Lost in the television. Lost around the race track, those colorful isles at GAP, the cheese dip and salsa. Lost down the porcelain whirlpool that goes, somewhere. 

We’re not just exporting jobs overseas anymore, we’re exporting our waste. Screws and bolts. Like an oiled machine.

Maybe we can export the Chicken Dance too.

Line dances, pump-up sneakers, and step aerobics. How about 1993? 

If there’s any point in all of this, it’s that maybe someone has to be the one to donate old, shit-stained whitie-tighties to Goodwill. And someone has to be the one to buy those very same old, shit stained whitie-tighties from Goodwill. We’re just passing products along like an assembly line of little children in some east-asian sweatshop factory. Was there ever any doubt?

Originality doesn’t exist anymore. We’re just copies of copies of copies. Shaped copies like Playdo or mash potatoes. Some are saltier than others, some are softer or stained more intensely. Racing Stripes are here forever. 

Racing Stripes are God’s birthmark on a pair of whitie tighties. 

Maybe you’ll be the next Alisha Keys, but then again, you’re the next Alisha Keys. Maybe you’re the next Jodie Foster, wait, nevermind, no one wants to be her...

We’re just adding parts to pre-made objects and saying, “It’s New!” Not that you really noticed. Despite the fact that it’s all been done before, we’ll just keep living like it hasn’t. And that this time, This Time, it’s real, it’s original, and it’s New. 

Whatever flips your turkey burger.

Or maybe, just maybe, we just like clinging to whatever story makes us feel better (or worse), warm (or cold), happy (or sad). Like tinkered products, made to serve a purpose.

What purpose?

Made to pass the old, shit stained whitie tighties along the assembly line. ‘Merica!

Chester Copperpot

This will probably be the best thing you’ll read today, maybe even the week. You’ll think back on this piece, and think of all the clever lines. The funny jokes. The things you wish you wrote yourself. You’ll quote them in your mind since you censor most of your great ideas and thoughts. Nobody really wants to offend anyone publicly, just privately. You like that last line too. You’re not quite sure why you liked it, but you just do. The same way you’re not sure why like sunny days or snowy days. You just do. 

But I know why you like it. It’s different. Different like hot sauce over extra mild. It’s just enough ting that it burns your mouth a little, but it’s bearable. It’s what Puerto Rico is to America. Not too far away to be entirely foreign, but far away. It’s different enough. There’s still some comfortable flavor in it to make you feel ok with the depth of this pool, but it’s not too deep, or too foreign a flavor. So you like it.

Now, the question remains, what the hell are we talking about? Or does it even matter? Probably not. Like with most of my posts, you’re probably wasting your time here with useful information that you can apply in your daily life. And yes, you read “useful” in that last line. It is useful. And you are wasting your time. Because you should be on your couch trying to Keep Up With the Kardashians or following Basketball Wives. You liked the last line. If you continue on here, you might learn something and those cobwebs in that brain of yours could start to melt away. So what was my point?

You’re liking this, so far. 

Sort of.

You’re liking this and you’re still reading because I’m telling you you’re liking this. Again, you’re not sure why you like it, but maybe if there’s something we can both agree on, it’s that you like being told what to do. Perhaps you’re a Whips and Chains sort of person in the bedroom. You like those shiny leather knee-high boots and the bass of the techno music when things are starting to get really hot and heavy.

The Safe Word is Chester Copperpot. 

So moving forward, if you come along a few lines that maybe you don’t like, or maybe like too intensely, use the Safe Word.

Now that we’ve come to the agreement that you’re just following these words like a lost puppy, searching for meaning or for more treats, we can finally move forward with today’s lesson. 

The Art of Selling Bullshit. 

Lesson #1: I’m #1. 

Lesson #2: You’re #2. 

You’re #2 because you’re a piece of Shit. Literally. That’s what a #2 is, correct? Here’s where things get graphic. Shit can be molded. It can be shaped and reshaped like Playdo. Like your mind to a Bullshit Seller. Sure, it’s not the best smelling substance, and that has everything to do with the fact that it can be molded. If you can be molded very easily, then you probably smell worse. Every little reshaping segment opens up those crevasses allowing the stench of moldable shit to crop-dust around your home. Don’t be a crop duster. Or, don’t be a piece of shit. But let’s face it, if you can be molded and shaped into whatever anyone wants you to be, you’re shit. Moldable Shit. So in order to sell Bullshit, don’t be a #2.

The Safe Word is Chester Copperpot.

The Bullshit seller has their feet on the ground. Whatever it is they believe, they believe in it fully, even if it’s their own bullshit. The good Sellers have their feet so far into the roots and their ass so deep they can convince you the sky isn’t blue, and that they’re the best at whatever it is they’re claiming to spend their days doing. Perhaps the Top Fry Maker at McDonalds could be considered the Manager of Fry Cooking. And perhaps it comes with a snazzy name card or a golden hat that signifies “Status”. Everyone loves imaginary titles.

And everybody loves glorifying the tiny little insignificant things they do. It’s what makes the toilet cleaner feel like they have a special place in this world. Without my skills, this toilet would be dirty. I’m the best dishwasher in my entire house. Fact. I could probably win some dishwashing contests. Make some big money on some small chore. (Delusion). Buy a big house and some spinners for my truck. (More Delusion). I could add it to my resume as a skill. Master of the Dishwashing Arts.

The Safe Word is Chester Copperpot.

You’re liking where I’m going with this. You’re liking how you can apply it to your daily life. Everybody knows a Manager of Fry Cooking. Everybody knows a Master of the Dishwashing Arts. Perhaps it’s you. Perhaps it’s not. But that’s not the point. The point is we’re not in McDonalds. I’m not cooking you fries, and I’m not washing your dishes. You’re still here, reading. Like a Champ. I would again go into “Why” you’re still here reading, but we already covered that. So let’s continue. 

The Key, is Delusion. The Key, is temporarily believing the bullshit you’re selling for whatever reason. The Dark Side Bullshit Sellers are selling for personal gain. Each sale adds an inch to the “areas” they’re lacking in life. I’ll leave that one to your imagination. People used to just buy guns or big loud trucks, now the Art of Bullshitting is the new challenge, the new territory to be claimed. Emotional Terrorism. The battle ensues. 

You like this.

The Key, is just verbally telling someone what they think, or what they should believe. 

You like this. 

And,

You feel good about reading this, it’s the best thing you’ve read today, and will read all week. 

Chester Copperpot.

Lucky Meat : Approved!

sat·ire [sat-ahyuhr] Show IPA

noun

1.

the use of irony, sarcasm, ridicule, or the like, in exposing, denouncing, or deriding vice, folly, etc.

2.

a literary composition, in verse or prose, in which human folly and vice are held up to scorn, derision, or ridicule.

3.

a literary genre comprising such compositions.

They said it was “Animal Cruelty”, but I’m not sure that’s accurate. Given that no “Animals” were really involved. But I guess when no one really knows the true story, animal cruelty is as close of a charge as it can be. I would’t use the word “animal” though. What turned a relatively quiet local business idea into this crazy drawn-out story is when our “alchemist” decided to sell her product to the local meat market. Sure, the product looked edible. It looked well-seasoned and ready for dinner, Tonight! But what’s startled the streets of Louisville, Colorado, is the absence of bodies from Kelly Luck’s ear-count.

It had been going on for months now. Every Monday Kelly would arrive (10am Sharp) at the local meat market to sell her home-made, “Lucky Meat Approved!” products. No one ever questioned where she got her meat. They tasted soo good. No one ever questioned her methods, or what she did for fun on Friday nights. Search for ears. 

No. That’s not what was strange. 

Kelly talked to them. She’d whisper sweet nothings into each frightened ear she found. It’ll be okay, Kelly will love you forever, she’d say as she kissed a lobe before placing it neatly into a plastic container. Never mind the fact that the ear’s she collected, somehow, were entirely detached from any human head. She still made friends before parting ways with her collection of ears, profiting of their marinated deliciousness. She’d sell them off to a proud owner. Someone she hoped would continue telling them stories each night to make sure they slept well. 

Lonely Ear.

She tried imagining what they did in the other room when she slept or was at work. Did they sleep too? She wondered if they missed their previous owner, and if they still spoke. Did they miss their twin? She comforted herself by saying they couldn’t remember. They were too young. It was too long ago... 

This wasn’t kidnapping, or earnapping. This was friendship. She had saved them from an owner who never fully appreciated them. Someone who never spoke individually to them, letting them know they’re the best, ever. Someone who never sung Janet Jackson to them at night, or lathered them up in Heinz 57 each morning. Nobody loves a dry ear.

This was friendship that involved sleeping in a ziplock bag each night and kept safely on top of the refrigerator, too high for any escapes. If they were going to make a jump for it, they’d be certainly injured at the very least. Six feet down. She knew she was keeping them captive. But she knew deep down, it was for their own good. They don’t know any better. They don’t know this is the best life they’ll even have. 

Lonely Ear.

No. This wasn’t what it looked like. Sure, she’d mysteriously accumulate detached ears each Friday night, prep them for marinating, love them, bathe them, and sell them as her super secret special recipe at the local meat market for someone else to add to their “homemade” dinner. Outsiders wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t understand the care she took for them before parting ways, she hates goodbyes. 

With a family of ears sitting on top of her refrigerator, she had a room full of listeners. Listeners that would hear her every word and never interrupt. This is how life should be. She could share her highest highs, and her lowest lows, and they’d always be there, listening. In a world where everyone is always talking, it was nice to not be interrupted. The ears understood. She knew that. Maybe they didn’t like their sleeping arrangements, and she’d work with them on that, but for the most part, she knew they were happy. They had to be. This was their only choice until they were ready to be sold.

Lonely Ear.

She’d put on her adult pants and say goodbye, professionally. She’d whisper, Goodbye Chris, Goodbye Shannon, Goodbye Javier.  She’d miss the personalities of each ear she encountered. The friendships she made with them, and the love they shared. 

She never thought of herself as someone who was cruel to animals. The ears eventually came to enjoy their time with her. That wasn’t Animal Cruelty.  She thought more of herself as an Alchemist. She turned these poor, homeless, and lonely ears into culture-ready all-stars. She gave them the extreme makeover they couldn’t afford with their previous owners. Cock-Blocked. She was improving their life, not ending it. Sort of. 

When this all began, she knew there would be an ending. She spoke to the ears often of this ending. They always listened. She made preparations, and was ready at a moments notice. So when the cops finally kicked down her door with a warrant, they didn’t find Kelly Luck. And they didn’t find the bodies of the lost ears either. Her family had been sold, accept for two lonely ears on her nightstand. 

It pained her to leave them behind. She knew no one would be there to talk to them, sing to them or lather them up with Heinz 57 anymore. But she knew she couldn’t bring them along for the ride. Maybe the cops could find a nice, warm home for this pair. Surely, someone will take them in. They’re a good pair of listeners.

Before she left, she did whisper a set of instructions. Where to find her. How to communicate. They will meet again she said. Hopefully. Nobody knows where the bodies are. And nobody knows who’s the owner of this pair of ears. These twins are a set, and they’ll sleep quietly together tonight, in a zip lock bag somewhere. 

The Vitamin

In the end, we always think about the beginning. For me, it begins at the end of the road.  It’s funny how that works out. We press Play, and get lost in the moment. Movies and songs just take us like roller coaster rides. Welcome to the Vitamin. Out for a ride then back to where we started. Cheap Entertainment. It’s only later that you’ll get nostalgic about the beginning. When you’re there it doesn’t seem like much. You’re always so eagerly hopeful. So inspired. So stupid.

There’s no denying that fact. Had I known what would happen between Start and Finish, I’m not sure I would’ve made the same decisions. Had you known what you’d read from Start to Finish of this piece, maybe you would’ve made another decision as well. You can still bail now before you waste more time. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. The Kardashians are on in 5 minutes. 

I just wouldn’t have done so from such an ignorant standpoint. Or maybe I would have. Sometimes we like walking into the fire, knowing we’re going to be burned. Runners run, expecting pain. There’s no escaping it. So why would we live our lives any other way? There’s something appealing about running into a thunderstorm, knowing you’re about to get hailed on. 

I can’t say I didn’t expect it. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. The same way you can feel a shit coming when your stomach is grumbling and vocalizing its’ disproval of those “Blazin” Buffalo Wings you ate last night. You knew what you were doing when you were licking the sauce off your fingers. No amount of Ranch and carrots can undo what you already did to yourself. You can brush your teeth and drink too much water, but go ahead and prepare for some heat flashes and ass chaffing. 

You always want to be hopeful though. Each morning you’re hopeful. This is going to be a good day (because Dog-gonit, Everybody Loves Me!). A bad day doesn’t stop you from waking up the next morning with this same amount of hope. We live like our pets.

But if you knew you were going to get in an accident on the way to work, spill that latte on your lap, shit your pants, get fired, puke in an alleyway behind Buffalo Wild Wings, and run over a squirrel in that shitty rental car on your way home, would you be so hopeful? Probably not. But that’s not that point.

Let’s not get there yet.

Because we like prolonging the inevitable. We like sitting in hospital beds on fluids with needles in our arms. Pissing and shitting ourselves for someone else to clean up. Life is precious. Life is short. 

Life is long...

We figure the longer we’re here the more impact we’ll make. We’re all so smart, the world is a better place when we have the opportunity to share our knowledge, our wisdom. Not true. Seinfield got it right when they did an episode with George leaving the room on a high note. Get em’ to laugh, and dart for the door. Nobody (rational) wants to overstay their welcome. Timing is of great importance. Learn to the leave the room when everyone wants you there. Because at the end of the day, everyone wants to save the most symmetrical cookie for last. We want to savor its’ perfections and devour them with great pleasure after the other, less perfect cookies have been destroyed.

The point is, who cares? You can’t predict the future anymore you can change the past. So matter what horrible incident awaits you around the corner, perhaps the Grim Reaper in his flowing black robes is waiting to decapitate your head in some gruesome motorcycle accident, you can’t help it. But you’ll make for a great news story tonight at 5, and you’ll inspire a CSI:Miami episode. If you’re going to choke on that thick and juicy slice of overly-seasoned steak, you’ll choke either way. Unless you’re Victor Mancini. Enjoy the ride, because that’s all there really is.

Which brings us back to the beginning. Please exit to your left, and gather any belongings you may have left. Thank You for riding the Vitamin, we’ll see you next time. Hopefully you’re not as hopeful, inspired, or as stupid as you were at the beginning of this. Out. (on a nigh note).

Handicap Parking

:: Reader Discretion is Advised :: I (don't) apologize for anyone I may offend. (not) Sorry ::

(updated 7/25/2013)

Nice guys finish last. Fact. Willy finishes last.  

In this world, whoever screams and bitches the most get what they want. Fact. Willy doesn’t scream and bitch. (maybe he should).

Following the rules and living a dutiful life is the way for moral victories. But we all know moral victories are empty. Willy has a lot of empty plaques on his wall from those moral victories. Congratulations for doing the right thing. Here’s a pat on the back and a “Well done! Keep it up”! They glimmer in the light of his retro lampshades. 

Nobody really cares. Willy cares. Somebody has to clean the shit off the toilet seat, otherwise it’ll dry and be caked on for weeks. It’ll harden and slice through the delicate skin of someone who doesn’t care and you’ll have shit in your bloodstream. Willy cleans the shit off the seat, so everyone else is happy, because it’s not them. They’ll sit gladly by as someone else acts as the glamorized Master of Custodial Arts. Thank You, for saving me from the shit entering my bloodstream. But it’s not them. It’s Willy. The rule-follower, the the world’s most glamorized Little Bitch. 

Willy’s the kind of guy that will park far away at the Wal-Mart paring lot. While the McDonalds-eating huffing fatty parks in the Handicap spot, right in front of the store, because walking an extra 20 feet may give them a heart-attack. Maybe that’d be a good thing. Nobody wants to die old. 

Meanwhile, the Stay-Puff Marshmellow man over here with kankles and sweat stains seeping through his grey t-shirt and down his back, he’s getting treated for deciding to start the morning off with three Egg McMuffins, 10 slices of bacon, four hash browns, some left-over chicken wings from last night, and a shot of vodka. We like to start the day off with a bang. He’s probably sweating out the Big Mac he ate for Second Lunch. Or was that First Dinner? He does smell of cheese. Willy left on a rainy day.

We’re treating the Stay Puff Marshmellow Man. We’re treating him with those penguin steps and with chaffing between the thighs. Butter me up! That’ll at least help him slide without any friction. Walking is hard when there’s friction between your thighs. It’s 11am and you’ve had five meals already? Great Job! Keep it Up! Let’s treat the lazy for making the decision to be lazy, because you know it was a hard decision. Maybe Willy should change his ways, because there appears to be an easier route to “happiness” via a few packs of cigarettes each morning topped with a dozen Slim Jims and a trip to the nearest greasy fast-food restaurant. You’ve got to marinate all day.

Life is about incentives. And here we are, back to “moral victories”. Those abs and 7-minute miles are your pat on the back. Good Job. You’ll be rewarded with walking further in the parking lot, living longer, and spending more time sifting through the jean isle as you’re searching for pants that actually fit. Because in this day in age, finding pants with the length equal to the width is rare. 

Maybe Willy is ready to turn over a new leaf. What’s there to lose? We treat those huffing fatties like dogs, with peanut-butter covered bones. Atta boy! Here’s another treat. Those huffing fatties will wag those fat asses in the air, eyes wide with a wrinkled forhead. More? Anything for a treat.

Willy wants the peanut-butter covered bone. 

Why not? He’ll be handsomely rewarded with a blue-colored Handicap sticker for his car. If he’s lucky they’ll print out special plates for him too. He’ll have the logo just to the left of his “BIGMAC” plates. (The “Mac” being his ass of course). Sure, his ass will hang over the edges of his seat, and his 28 year-old bones will stress with the extra tension of his weighty New Self. But, he’ll get to ride around in those automatic wheel chairs in the store, with the buzz of that battery running, pushing his fat ass through the cold food section. If he’s lucky the seat will still be warm from the previous occupant. And hopefully the foam isn’t condensed enough so he’ll feel the plastic beneath it. These sweat pants won’t keep him too warm, but that’s ok, because he’s already sweating. He’s earned his keep. Now it’s time to gloat and ride that chair around in style. I wear my Sunglasses inside.

Where’s the pizza? He’ll get to fill the basket with those bags of fries and 30% fat ground beef. Hmm... beef... He’ll probably crave cheese and milk too. But remember, he’s got standards that he’s earned. No more skimping around with that 1% bullshit, you go all out with Vitamin D. The more Fat the better. Speaking of thighs. Speaking of cheese. Soft, wrinkly cheese. He’s just crafting himself into the most delicious dessert is all. 

He can add the cherry on top if he’d like. Mostly in the spreading of A1 sauce all over his thick, and soft body. It’ll take a lot of A1 Sauce. He’ll use it like lotion, coating his skin the same way he’d marinate the steak he’s eating for Second Dinner. Consistent. You have to allow time for the sauce to seep in your pores, and you’ve got to get every inch, otherwise that one spot without the saucy loving just won’t taste as good when the wolves come. And the wolves will come, eventually. This is the part he didn’t sign up for. 

The devouring of that fat piece of mess he’s created of himself has come. By now, he’s seasoned his body with basil and black pepper. He’s sitting fat and happy in the middle of the woods of some deserted mountainous region, awaiting wild animals he didn’t know existed. They exist. Here’s where Original Willy returns. Ready with a fork and knife to slice up that fat ass of his and dip it in some extra A1 sauce, probably the Bold and Spicy flavor. We all love a little ting.

The next thing he knows, he’s gone. As expected. No fatty lives long enough to die after everyone else. That’s the point of being a huffing Marshmellow Man. Everyone wants a bite. He gets to go first. Either a result of a heart attack from walking 20 extra feet through the Wal-Mart parking lot, or from being eaten alive with a dull fork and knife, Compliments of Willy.

Finishing last may be the temporary “Moral Victory”, but when the sun sets, the one behind everyone else gets to take their pick. Nice guys finish last, purposefully. Whoever’s got the most cheese on their thighs gets to be the winner. The predator sees everyone. So maybe there is something to sitting in the back, corner of the room, eyeballing the world in their motorized chairs with beef and cheese in their carts and on their thighs.

You may be last, but they’re going nowhere fast.