NOTE: I might get in trouble for this one
I know this kid, good kid. A bit fat, and his finger nails are usually dirty, but besides those fixable handicaps, he’s a real stand up guy. Let’s call him ‘Farguat’. Now Farguat is a homo, and a closeted homo at that. His family and religion discriminated and alienate, so for fear of being ostracized he keeps his fat, dirty, gay ass in the closet (It’s a tight fit). I thinks its utterly fucked that Farguat can’t love who he wants to love, it’s a tremendous atrocity when a man is can’t hold his lovers hand in public for fear of judgment from a brutish and perennially corrupt religion, Being a gay Christian is like being a Jewish Nazi. But that’s a whole other California roll…
A few years back, before the sterility of face book, Farguat made a fake myspace page, posing himself as a girl. Stealing some pictures from a girl in Akron, Ohio and decorating his page with sparkly shit and pulsating banners that read ‘Juicy‘ and ‘Heartbreaker‘, ‘Raquel’ the 5’5 , light brown haired, 34 D cup sized bombshell was born. And let me tell you folks, she was a certifiable tramp, in the best possible way.
Pickings are slim in the Midwest when you’re a boy who cant catch a football and would rather play Guilty Gear than dribble a Spalding, and eventually you get lonely enough to date online. Not me now, oh hell no, that e-dating shit is for the birds, I’d rather take a swim down lonely river than so much as dip my pinky toe into murky and polluted pool of internet relationships, fuck all of that. (Craigslist Erotic Services >E-Harmony)
But A few friends of mine, well they weren’t so lucky, lonely, and near sighted, and virgin dicked, they came across Farguat’s Frankenstein woman via myspace. And sooner rather than later 3 of my friend fell for Raquel. They were enamored with her, she was a nerd, she got their jokes, listen to their problems and she talked in ways that weren’t mean or dismissive. She gave them, hell even myself, hope. Hope that even boys like us could find pretty faces to kiss.
All the while, completely oblivious to us, our friend Farguat pecked away at his key board capturing hearts and stiffing penises. Now what made Farguat decided that he couldn’t go on any longer with the charade is unknown to me. Guilt, I reckon, but soon he came to the grim decision that Raquel had to be done in, she had to disappear, she had to be killed. My friend, lets call him ‘Numchuck Ralph’, receives an email from a woman claiming to be Raquel’s mother saying that Raquel had died in a tragic drunk driving accident. Everyone was devastated , even me and I had never even chatted with the bitch. After mourning for a day of so, Numchuck Ralph acted on his lingering suspicion, and decided to investigate the death. Numchuck Ralph is as comfortable on a computer as a pig is in shit, he knows just about everything there is to know about just about everything. He follows the IP address on the email to an account on a gay dating website, and who do we see on said butt pirate hook up site, our friend Farguat.
Now legend has it my friends confronted Farguat about it, and through negotiations, independent theory and probably an ass whooping, all is settled.
But my thing is, If Farguat could shape shift, He would of Fucked his friends.
And changing morphing into a girl to fuck your friends isn’t cool
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
No matter where you go, There you are
NOTE: Inspired by consumerism, apathy and a good friend Mike Dos Santos
“It’s like a fucking bee hive in that bitch.” Mike said searching his pockets for his gloves. “All that frantic motion, niggas crawling over other niggas. Half them niggas I didn’t even know.”
“That’s a pretty amazing analogy, Mike.” I told Santos before taking a drag from my cigarette. I guess crowed house parties are a lot like bee hives. Mike was prone to saying insightful shit, in between all the ignorant shit that is.
“Thank you, nigga.” Mike said. He adds ‘nigga’ on to the end of ever sentence, almost like a un official period. It’s like some weird tourretes tick, no matter how elegant the statement is, no matter how poetic or discursive, it didn’t feel right to him with a ‘nigga’ thrown into it. He made white people uncomfortable. I never understood why white people get so tense when they hear the ‘N’ word. Their eyes dart around like a nervous child, it’s like they feel guilty for even thinking about it. Wasn’t it white people who first coined the phrase? If I made up a word, no matter how taboo of offensive, I’d say it every day. I’d get it printed of shirts and buttons, I’d even get it on my license plate; ‘Nigga 41.’
We stood outside the house were the party was taking place, it was early December, glove and knit cap weather. In 20 years of life, It saddens me to say I’ve never been able to keep a pair of gloves for more than 3 weeks. I always loose them, when I was a kid I used to have those clips that attached my gloves to the cuffs of my coats, I wondered where I could purchase those. Mike wore finger less gloves. Stylish? Sure, but far from functional. But beauty is pain, and I guess having frost bite means you must be pretty damn beautiful. I thought about trash cans fires and hobos wearing the same type of gloves as Mike huddled around them. Then it hit me like a brick to the spine.
“We should bring a hobo to that party.” I crack a wide, teeth bearing smile. Mike smirked, dismissing it as a joke. But I held eye contact, and that smile slide further up my face. Mike’s face and age make him easy to read. I stare right into those doo-doo brown eyes and I can tell he’s working things out, his smirk parts and confusion paints his face.
“Wait, you serious?”
“Serious as Syphilis dude.”
He strokes his beard a moment. He’s 18 but wears facial that hides his baby face and makes him look mid twenties. If he didn’t shave he’d have a full fledged wizard beard, I’m talking Gandalf from Lord of The Rings.
“Think about how incredible that would be Mike. A certified bum walking around that party. Just all toothless and stinky and crazy. It would be the funniest shit ever.” I’m getting more excited by the second, and Mikes hesitation is melting.
“Nigga they wouldn’t let no bum in.” Mike shakes his head but I nod like bobble head in fast forward.
“Why wouldn’t they, I’ll give the dude the five dollars and if he gives me shit, I’ll give him an extra five.”
“Damn nigga, You’re willing to pay ten dollars to get a bum into a party?”
“I’m willing to pay whatever, nigga.” My dealings with Mike have taught me that the N word is contagious. “Think about it dude, It’s December, 5 months into the school year, nothing new anymore. Same girls, same dudes, its pretty much the same party every weekend. Promoters don’t even have fun anymore, they throw parties to make money now, I mean, when’s the last time you’ve had a distinctive memory from a party? Now imagine how sick of a memory it would be if we brought a bum inside.”
Mike rubs his face and starts to laugh. “Nigga, Alright. Let’s get a bum.”
And with that we were off, in search of a vagrant. Being homeless is a really bizarre condition. It’s like being invisible. Bum spend all their days looking at people walk by, with clothes they can’t wear, cars they can’t drive. They see us holding hands, and answering phones and they know they’ll never hold that hand or answer that phone. It must be pretty fucking miserable. The least me and Mike could do is get this bum a lap dance and a beer or two.
But first we had to find one. We walked the dimly lit streets......
NOTE: HAHA, you thought I was going to finish it didnt you? Who do you think I am, a good writer?
“It’s like a fucking bee hive in that bitch.” Mike said searching his pockets for his gloves. “All that frantic motion, niggas crawling over other niggas. Half them niggas I didn’t even know.”
“That’s a pretty amazing analogy, Mike.” I told Santos before taking a drag from my cigarette. I guess crowed house parties are a lot like bee hives. Mike was prone to saying insightful shit, in between all the ignorant shit that is.
“Thank you, nigga.” Mike said. He adds ‘nigga’ on to the end of ever sentence, almost like a un official period. It’s like some weird tourretes tick, no matter how elegant the statement is, no matter how poetic or discursive, it didn’t feel right to him with a ‘nigga’ thrown into it. He made white people uncomfortable. I never understood why white people get so tense when they hear the ‘N’ word. Their eyes dart around like a nervous child, it’s like they feel guilty for even thinking about it. Wasn’t it white people who first coined the phrase? If I made up a word, no matter how taboo of offensive, I’d say it every day. I’d get it printed of shirts and buttons, I’d even get it on my license plate; ‘Nigga 41.’
We stood outside the house were the party was taking place, it was early December, glove and knit cap weather. In 20 years of life, It saddens me to say I’ve never been able to keep a pair of gloves for more than 3 weeks. I always loose them, when I was a kid I used to have those clips that attached my gloves to the cuffs of my coats, I wondered where I could purchase those. Mike wore finger less gloves. Stylish? Sure, but far from functional. But beauty is pain, and I guess having frost bite means you must be pretty damn beautiful. I thought about trash cans fires and hobos wearing the same type of gloves as Mike huddled around them. Then it hit me like a brick to the spine.
“We should bring a hobo to that party.” I crack a wide, teeth bearing smile. Mike smirked, dismissing it as a joke. But I held eye contact, and that smile slide further up my face. Mike’s face and age make him easy to read. I stare right into those doo-doo brown eyes and I can tell he’s working things out, his smirk parts and confusion paints his face.
“Wait, you serious?”
“Serious as Syphilis dude.”
He strokes his beard a moment. He’s 18 but wears facial that hides his baby face and makes him look mid twenties. If he didn’t shave he’d have a full fledged wizard beard, I’m talking Gandalf from Lord of The Rings.
“Think about how incredible that would be Mike. A certified bum walking around that party. Just all toothless and stinky and crazy. It would be the funniest shit ever.” I’m getting more excited by the second, and Mikes hesitation is melting.
“Nigga they wouldn’t let no bum in.” Mike shakes his head but I nod like bobble head in fast forward.
“Why wouldn’t they, I’ll give the dude the five dollars and if he gives me shit, I’ll give him an extra five.”
“Damn nigga, You’re willing to pay ten dollars to get a bum into a party?”
“I’m willing to pay whatever, nigga.” My dealings with Mike have taught me that the N word is contagious. “Think about it dude, It’s December, 5 months into the school year, nothing new anymore. Same girls, same dudes, its pretty much the same party every weekend. Promoters don’t even have fun anymore, they throw parties to make money now, I mean, when’s the last time you’ve had a distinctive memory from a party? Now imagine how sick of a memory it would be if we brought a bum inside.”
Mike rubs his face and starts to laugh. “Nigga, Alright. Let’s get a bum.”
And with that we were off, in search of a vagrant. Being homeless is a really bizarre condition. It’s like being invisible. Bum spend all their days looking at people walk by, with clothes they can’t wear, cars they can’t drive. They see us holding hands, and answering phones and they know they’ll never hold that hand or answer that phone. It must be pretty fucking miserable. The least me and Mike could do is get this bum a lap dance and a beer or two.
But first we had to find one. We walked the dimly lit streets......
NOTE: HAHA, you thought I was going to finish it didnt you? Who do you think I am, a good writer?
For Eli
Were you designed for this, or have you adapted to the foggy
Mornings when we wake up on floors or rooftops.
You drink goats milk with paintings of women with
perfect proportions and purple skin.
You refuse to be out done or done in.
Were you designed for this life, or did the company of
scoundrels help you adapt.
This life we fill with chemicals and voodoo and trumpets and girls
The night we swam with Lucy and chased rabbits and got trapped in bathrooms and cried because the mannequin had no toes.
Were you designed for this, or have you adapted to the knowledge that no one can hurt you as bad as you can hurt yourself.
Mornings when we wake up on floors or rooftops.
You drink goats milk with paintings of women with
perfect proportions and purple skin.
You refuse to be out done or done in.
Were you designed for this life, or did the company of
scoundrels help you adapt.
This life we fill with chemicals and voodoo and trumpets and girls
The night we swam with Lucy and chased rabbits and got trapped in bathrooms and cried because the mannequin had no toes.
Were you designed for this, or have you adapted to the knowledge that no one can hurt you as bad as you can hurt yourself.
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