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. 

Constipation of the Mouth

If you’re looking for inspiration, you won’t get it here. If you’re looking for something to make you feel warm and fuzzy inside, I don’t really care (and you won’t get it here). In fact, let me just go ahead and recommend you stop reading now, because otherwise I’m about to waste your time (and we all know that it’s precious). If you’re still reading, I can’t really stop you, and I’m not going to waste another sentence warning you, so let’s move on.

When I sat down to write this, I truly had no idea where it was going to go. And to an extent, that still holds true. I tend to enjoy just letting the words drip down like a waterfall and go where they please, or like projectile vomit across a bathroom floor. Controlling them is useless, because when you censor yourself too much, you’re basically just cock-blocking any potentially great ideas you may have. This probably explains why some of my writing appears good. And some of it appears really bad. But hey, when you stand back, the waterfall is always beautiful, no matter how ugly it may be.

Typically, in most of my writing I aim to have my readers learn something. I aim to have a final point, or something they can take away and be like, “I learned something after reading that.” However, I doubt this will be one of those of reads, unless we can count “Wow, he really is pretty strange”, as something learned, though I’m pretty sure most of you already know that by now anyway. So for those of you wishing to learn from this, again, I apologize, this will probably not be one of those reads. And unfortunately this isn’t a picture book filled with nude, fit bodies, glistening from a workout, like a risque Crossfit magazine. So if you’re still reading, I admire your perseverance. Good job.

If there is something I would like to talk about, it would be constipation. Now there’s something we can all relate to: we’ve all been constipated at some point. Let me clarify what I’m getting at here. I’m not exactly talking about your more popular constipation of the ass, the one where you spend hours praying to the porcelain gods in a heat flash of death from Buffalo Wings, you know, the one that leaves you chaffed for days as the water burns your crack in the shower. I’m talking about constipation of the mouth. The kind that binds you like stitches from a Saw movie. The kind that finds your tongue lost, not loose. 

A good friend of mine likes to use the phrasing “Word Vomit”, (TM Shannon Payne) which is when we allow an intense amount of words to fill these pages. It’ll splatter in a mess of yellow, soft and soggy corn mixed with something that resembles avocado sauce. It won’t smell too much, unless it’s really bad, but it’s safe to read otherwise. This may be one of those instances, and it’s what rocket science will tell you is the complete opposite of Constipation of the Mouth, which is the current topic.

Constipation of the Mouth... If only I could get it out enough to explain what this is, then I wouldn’t be so damn constipated. It’s coming in dribbles now, small inconsistent dribbles. If only we could get to the full release, where it all just flows like that damn waterfall I was talking about earlier. I’m pretty sure you’re well acquainted with that feeling. Release. And 10 pounds lighter. Just like these italics. 

Very few people fully speak their mind. Most of us do suffer from Constipation of the Mouth. Unfortunately there isn’t exactly a drug you can take for this, however alcohol seems to be the only current remedy. They call it “Liquid Courage”, or maybe you’re just finally hydrated enough to fully release all that shit from your mouth. We all know commonly that dehydration can aid constipation. You’re body needs the fluids to flush it all out. This probably explains why alcohol is the current drug of choice for curing Constipation of the Mouth. It’s a fluid. And lots of it flushes the shit out.

Science has shown that people do tend to be more honest and forward with a moderate amount of alcohol in their system. Now, I’m not going to claim Diversity is an old wooden ship, but at this point I’m might as well since that stat was entirely made up. Though, I am pretty confident that I read something that said that on twitter, so it must be true. Or maybe this dancing around the topic is another form of constipation, like when you’re trying to go, you’re sitting on that seat, keeping it warm as your legs begin to lose feeling. But nothing comes out. Shit.

That’s exactly what this all is. Shit. The whole damn thing. Constipation of the Mouth. Word Vomit (TM Shannon Payne). Or maybe our culture lacks confidence. We’re all ADHD to some extent. And I blame the iPhone. There’s too many apps, and too many screens. I can’t keep up. But what I do know is we’re creating new mental disorders with all of this Constipation of the Mouth. If only we could all just consume the right amount of alcohol to create a steady flow of Word Vomit (TM Shannon Payne). 

Now, I’m not talking explosive, projectile Word Vomit (TM Shannon Payne). Not the kind that gets you fired from your White Collar Job or creates friction with your best friend from those days where you discovered the Canyon (that big hole in the land that looked significant as an 8 year-old). I’m aiming for the right amount of flow. Steady. Coherent. Legendary Flow. We want some substance, some thickness, but not rocks. And we don’t want that damn waterfall TLC is still hypothetically not chasing on VH1 reality shows. 

An over-share can get you into some trouble. And an under-share just increases the amount of shit that’s backing you up to the point of discomfort, begging for an eventual explosion. Shit painting the tiled walls of your bathroom. We don’t want that. Because you can sure as hell bet I’m not cleaning that shit up. Pun intended. 

So maybe I do have a point here: Don’t hold your shit in (Freud claims this is the first sign of rebellion, as your rebelling against nature). And don’t drink so much that the Word Vomit (TM Shannon Payne) explodes all over the walls or on some important painting at a friend’s house. Friends don’t like friends that vomit or shit in their house. On their things. That’s a really easy way to sentence yourself to a lifetime of playing Empire Earth on the internet against teenagers on Friday nights with a bag of skittles and a cream soda. 

If you’ve gotten this far, we must be friends. And if we’re not, we should be. Unless you’ve painted my walls with your explosive issues, smelling like soggy corn and guacamole sauce. Or was it avocado sauce? 

Shit.

Either way, I’m proud of your perseverance. I bet you did great in school. Because this read was busy work. A+ to you. Five Gold Stars and a pat on the back. I’ll make sure to put in a good word with the Big Man on your behalf, because everybody loves a brown noiser.