A collaborative post...

Holy leaping Christ, there I am! How did this happen? Where did this come from? How do I get this off my Blog, for the love of Christ himself!


Very seldom do I get the chance to drink booze that comes from a glass bottle.
Truly a rare, yet nonetheless appreciated luxury. Hand in hand with such a gift is the fact that it's after 1:00 in the morning, yet the atmosphere is redolent of somewhere more like the deep south than the Rust Belt. As I speak, it is still 80 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, the stars are more than visible despite the brightly lit front porch and my bike is busily puking oil onto the sidewalk.




Where did this oil-puking son-of-a-bitch come from and how the hell did it get on my lawn! It may have something to do with the tall skinny guy passed out in my lilac bushes. Heads will roll, I tell you! This will not go unnoticed!


The evening is inspirational, the gin and tonic is flowing freely and there are still 12 cigarettes left in the pack I purchased not two hours ago. Ah, summertime.
Yet, at this point I am praying for snow for I am a fat man, nonetheless, and the heat wears me down like an oil-less motor and soon I will seize in hopes the right lubrication finds me and restores me to the proper specifications. What those proper specifications are, I haven't a clue, only it's pretty damn far from this point in time. Althought, I get the true feeling one more of these strange concoctions -- a FINE TASTING gin and tonic -- will give me all the lubrication I could ever possibly want to make it through the night. It makes me wish I were one of the rich and fabuluous, like a private school teacher, so I could, myself, buy gin in a glass bottle, instead of the cheap stuff that comes in plastic with a handle and scrambles the brain like a needless egg on a summer sidewalk. Do I need help? Damn right! The keyboard and screen are out of focus.

I've spoken at length about the unforeseen virtues of the camera phone. Now is the time, I suspect, to explore at length these virtues. Is it possible to catch the bright blue glow of a righteous fart on such a device? Just how detailed would a hairy ball-sack appear at such a low resolution? Does the fact that I've ingested four extremely strong gin-and-tonics preclude my ablility to ride a wheelie for three city blocks? Would the camera phone be capable of recording such shenanigans? Should we be thanking the Great Magnet for the luxury of contemplating such minutiae? And what would the cops think? One must consider that there is a retired cop--an extremely cool retired cop, true, but a cop nonetheless--living next door. Is it worth the gamble? The gin and tonics, in a collective chorus, say yes.

Did I say extrememly strong? Holy Christ, it must have been a moment of weakness. In fact, this is all a joke. I've been chugging water as a science project, but making myself think they were extremely strong gin and tonics. You must have seen straight through my sadistic plot, truely believing that a couple stiff drinks would send more over the bow, painting a picture of drunken debauchery and lunacy in the moment. BUT OH NO! It's just an act. In fact, I am all put together, never more solid, and thinking pleasant thoughts of heaven as I race merrily toward the morning, wishing upon another sunrise, never cursing its sadistic brightness. That would not be me. That's not my style. I welcome change, a new beginning, hence I am enjoying this mystery drink with cubed ice instead of cracked. It's risks like that I must take to appreciate the knowledge I have gained in such a tumultuous life and am that much further along because of it. However, let's not mention this is not mere tobacco in my pipe. I think this experiment may be askew a bit, but I say, "Fuck it," roll on and let's see if this locomotive jumps the tracks.

With this in mind, where will this rambling, screeching torpedo take us? Contemplating my Bjarne briar pipe, at present wafting the sweet aroma of Georgian Creme tobacco over the railing of my front porch, I wonder if a similar effect could be garnered from harvesting leaves from the oak tree in my front yard, pulverizing them to a fine moist pulp in the mortar and pestle and smoking them. Would I derive as much pleasure from such an act as I would from moseying on down to the Bull and Bear, an illustrious tobacconist where my buddy Charlie (the aforementioned retired police officer) now has gainful employ, and sashaying on out through the door with a fresh pouch of China Black? How about if had my buddy fire up my Oldsmobile and rev the engine until the limiter kicks in while I crouch behind it and snork up the exhaust fumes like a junkie? Where would that take us? What's the score here? What's next? Is it running naked through the streets of St. Charles while screaming like a fiend? Is it jumping into the car and trekking south to Tiajuana? Is it blasting through the border into Canada, loading up a trunkful of Prilosec and hauling ass back to the states with visions of vast profits coursing through the cerebral cortex? Is it another gin and tonic? I think the lattermost sounds most appealing, as it requires the least effort. Well, after waxing vengeful upon the spider who bestowed upon my neck this boil which appears, in profile, to strongly resemble Ethel Murman.

As of yet, I could not quite grasp exactly the one who my boil best resembled, but Ethel Murman, I never would have guessed. She was a friend of mine once, before her tragic end. She is the one who taught me that a moth who lands in an outlandishly strong drink in the middle of the night will learn a hard lesson and rest a decaying afterlife on the freshly painted boards of a front porch in the midst of suburbia. I really wish I could have saved the poor bastard but no matter how much I screamed and yelled, the idiot dove in, no idea the grave danger he was entering. We've all been there, thinking we know best, and walked away wishing we still knew less than we do at the moment. And yes, crushed leaves from a mightly oak delivers one helluva buzz, one so strong I wish I could keep it a secret and sell it to all the high school kids. I could be a millionaire, if it were not for my conscious which constantly screams, "One day all the world will know how fat and stupid you truly are, and that your boobs are bigger than most girls at the age of 16." Certainly, my man boobs are something of a bragging right, but are nothing in comparison to jumping into a bottle of tanqueray and swallowing every drop and possessing the true grit, spirit and balls to resurface knowing whole heartily that life will be a complete shit sandwich in a matter of hours. It's something truly amazing, pure joy converting itself into agony the one split moment you aren't watching.

And that, my friends, is the true rub. The rub nub, if you will permit me a small bon mot. As I sit here, on my front porch, smoking my pipe, fighting the gin-spins, cursing the worthless bastard of a moth who decided to commit hara kiri by dive-bombing my drink, I'm perfectly content. What will happen in a few hours? Will five gin-and-tonics preclude my ability to pilot a bellowing, oil burning beast through the darkened streets of suburbia without attracting the attention of the local constabulary? Will I make it home without cracking up? Will I be found in the gutter in Cleveland, lying next to an empty bottle of Four Roses and a strange device resembling a meat thermometer constructed entirely of Styrofoam? What will my parents think? What will my cat think? What will this do to my plans to run for State Representative in 2012? At this time, the only thing to do is piss over the railing and hope my girlfriend doesn't see the spider tracks in the morning.

I keep writing in hopes the deluisions of grandeur land me in the eyes of being cool when I know I will never be cool, I will only be me. I am perfectly OK with that, not fine mind you, since fine would lend an assumption that I was happy with the preclusion, but OK with, because I am OK with me. I could give two shits about you and what you perhaps thought of me since I can not theoritically, practically or just plain come through my cable modem and whip the living shit out of you. So your thoughts are mine and my thoughts are protected by my copyright. Jesus Christ, I sound like a mean drunk and I should probably write that. Since we are being honest with each other, I should lend my voice in saying a bottle and a half of gin leaves you to the point of not only praying that God himself take you in a bolt of lightning but leaves a bottle of Tums as a gift. One may never realize the importance of the words I have spoken just now until that horrible day where you may find yourself sitting on the porch next to me, vowing suicide is better than pain. Of course, I'll try to talk you out of it, but listening your gut implode upon itself, I may just agree with you and let you die. I guess it depends if you are actually the one who brought the glass bottle of gin with or simply pulled it out of my "Secret Reserve Cabinet," and sold it to me "As New." If that were the case, then I feel no guilt letting you know, that your glass was poisend with a horrible excuse for tonic (Liquid Drano) instead of Schwepes. Now you know the dire need for Tums. Let me just say, they are of no help for you, you are dieing a horrible death and only your God can turn this tide. Please, don't puke over the railing in front of me, crawl down to the lilacs on the side of the house, it shall save lives in the long run. Boy, oh boy, I feel like a true, red-blooded alcoholic for I am still conscious and should not be. This can come from only practice and practice does indeed make perfect. And here is proof there actually is a God, for I have run out of ice cubes or else I would be passed out on the lawn too. That would be hard to explain in the morning, mind you, because my pants fit very loose and probably would be around my ankles before I fell unconcious. And the cops around here have very little sympathy and sense of humor. Therefore, I preach, I am headed off to bed, in hopes the world is not spinning in reverse or I shall be perched over the railing again. And at that point, God, I take back everything I said that you may have interpreted as blasphemus, wrong and hedonistic, for you and your dad knows I am neither of the three. Peace be with you and I really hope I speak with you tomorrow. God help me. And please -- to the painters tomorrow, if the garbage can smells funny, I had little confidence knowing I could make it up the stairs to the bathroom. Sorry, again, and your paycheck will be duely noted. I feel sick and embarrassed, and to bed I go, dreaming of death before morning. Kisses and crosses, I should probably go to mass tomorrow, even if it is Monday. I only hope I do not erupt in flames. Sincerely -- uh, I forgot who the fuck I am. Shit! I may be in trouble tomorrow.