It’s a tough business to break into, but I knew that before I got involved.
Currently I’m sitting at a solid number 2 in the lunchroom. It took months of bugging my mom, but I finally got her to bump me up to Salami sandwiches with an extra dessert, instead of carrots and that horrid Egg Salad shit she tries to pass off as food. What’s wrong with her anyway? Doesn’t she know what sells? Her concoction of eggs, relish, and mayonnaise is so bad the dog won’t even touch it. Every operation has a weak
link, but I never thought it would be my own mother. If my cards aren’t played right, I could wind up with a scandal on my hands. When Jeff Wright accidentally traded away several spoiled turkey sandwiches, he almost lost it all. Even now he struggles to break back into the Top 20. There’s no humor in shame like that.
Everyone knows I covet the Top Spot. And it’s true I stepped on a lot of people to get to where I am now. It was me who added cayenne pepper to Billy’s Mediterranean chicken, it was me who stole the extra bags of chips I knew Cindy brought to school, and it was me who committed one of the worst deeds our lunchroom has ever seen. I got David Trekker suspended for a fight I started, when he jumped in to break it up, I lied and said everything was his fault. And the teachers believed me, they always do.
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So I have big breasts. It’s not unusual for people to stare and beg to rub things on them, only to leave disappointed when I refuse. As a teen, the heat missiles strapped to my chest were good for drawing the attention of seedy men. I remember how pimps used to hit on me, ensuring I would never opt for a life on the street. Nothing made the walk home from school more uncomfortable than hearing shouts of, “Damn gurl, bring those juicy D’s over to Daddy!” This of course, was cause for offense. If I were ever going to sell myself, why have a middle man? Surely I’d be better off NOT having someone beat me and take half of my money? That’s just Bad Business 101. No way those fools were gonna play me.
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1985 was quite simply the most magical year I’ve ever known. I was just a small boy at the time, with already large and highly threatening testicles; but not unlike other children of lesser testicles (or even, none at all), I was completely immersed in the world of a young, yet burgeoning cable channel called Music Television—or MTV, to those in the know. This MTV was quite different then. They actually played music videos, and had people called VJs that introduced them. From what I could gather of VJs, they were mostly just wicked old people—like 22 or something—that tried to act like they knew all kinds of shit about music. Of course, people that old only listen to retarded, faggy music, so I’m sure they had kids around to tell them what was cool. As far as I was concerned, these VJs could just as easily have been replaced by drooling chimps in diapers (and they eventually would be). The music videos themselves were all that really mattered.
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No, I’m not dead. But I had a few things to do, also I had nothing to write about and I refused to post song lyrics or a YouTube video in place of something I actually took the time to write. You know how it is. But it looks like I’m back. It’s time I got the ball rolling in getting this site to where I see it in my mind. Once again, thanks for your support.
When I was in high school and applying for scholarships, I never found one geared toward persons like me. When attending all those boring workshops for the college-bound, teachers would always stress
the perfect scholarship was out there, you just had to look for it. But I don’t think someone wanted to pay for the education of an under-achieving slacker whose idea of a good time was eating pudding and watching Saturday morning cartoons. As awesome as it would have been, I doubt anyone would have been an enabler to my saga of laziness and general time-wasting activities. Another thing that always barred me from the free ride I obviously deserved, was the grade requirement. A 3.0 student I was not. School, like most things I didn’t want to do, was something I just soldiered through.
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My favorite part of any wedding is the reception. I love free flowing alcohol, delicious food, and good company. Actually, even if the company isn’t all that good the other 2 things more than make up for it. Shitty company seems less shitty after a second helping of tri-tip and 7 beers.
That’s where I was this past weekend, by the way: At a wedding. We drove up to Sacramento to see one of Jan’s brothers get hitched (”we” being me, Jan, and his parents). The drive was long (8 hours) and definitely not something I’m in a hurry to do again. I’ll spare you the details of how my legs got so cramped I contemplated sawing them off or how I suffered a horrendous attack of gas. That shit was brutal. I wound up holding in farts until we passed groupings of cows out to pasture. Once we were close enough, I would silently ease out a few torpedoes and hope the other 3 people in the car blamed the smell on “manure”. I could have gotten away with doing this the rest of the trip if I hadn’t made the mistake of letting one go as we drove past some orange trees. Apparently oranges don’t smell like dookie.
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