tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74856694527276894822024-02-19T00:54:23.149-04:00My True Life Stories (with morals)Blog about a superhero.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-8815415087024506052008-07-14T19:55:00.003-04:002008-07-14T20:13:05.471-04:00Things I will say to my daughter in 15 years<span style="font-style: italic;">This is another old one. Maybe three years or so I wrote this for some now defunct literary magazine in Chicago. </span><br /><br />Look sweetie, I wasn’t always like this. I know. I know you’re embarrassed of me now but I used to be a pretty cool guy. I used to have big plans and believe it or not YOU kinda sorta changed things. I used to make things. I used to make things with my hands for no real reason other than I felt I had to make things with my hands. Actually the first bed you slept in was made by me. I was even going to sell the things I made. I thought people might want them at one point I guess. I thought people might see them and open their eyes a little more and tug on the arm of their wife and say ‘honey, you GOTTA see this. THIS is amazing. Have you EVER seen anything like THIS?’ and that would of course lead to them throwing money in my lap for them. Then I could embrace my eccentricities. Then I could phone it in. Stop working for anyone else and just make things, out back in the new workspace I’d have built with the money I made. With a sign on the door so everyone knew not to disturb me when they heard loud music and machinery coming from inside. And I’d crack the door if someone knocked, my hair all messed up and full of wood shavings and paint and ask what was so damn important. I’d be able to sleep in until noon everyday and when I failed to meet my friends out for coffee they’d just ‘understand’ because I was an artist, man. I was just a loose, brilliant mind and my mood shifts and unusual way of speaking was all just part of who I was. They understood, and everyone else would too because they had SEEN these things I had made. And what had THEY ever done? Nothing like what I was doing RIGHT NOW.<br /><br />Did you know I even used to keep every single letter I wrote? Thousands of them. Books and hard drives full of nothing but letters. Believe it or not but back in the day I used to write EVERYTHING. I had tons of ideas. SO many ideas I couldn’t even get to HALF of them if I tried. SO many ideas it was almost frustrating because while I was working on one I’d have three more waiting and if they had to wait too long I’d lose them because I was just FULL of ideas. I even had a notebook full of YOU, though that seemed like a long time ago. Like my hair, those notebooks are getting thinner and thinner.<br /><br />And I know you hate to be seen in public with me. I know how much you hated us both going to that Tom Waits concert but I listened to him long before you did. I used to go to those things way more often than you have either. I used to mingle and I used to have all night conversations with poets and musicians. We used to sit up until the morning drinking warm beer and trading war stories and love stories. We used to flick cigarette butts into the yard and talk about god as the neighbors were getting up to go work. You would faint at the things we talked about back then. FAINT.<br /><br />And I don’t regret the things I’ve done, and I don’t regret the things that have changed. I don’t regret you, even. Do I wish I could have done things differently though? Well sure. I would be a liar if I said otherwise. I wish I would have left a bigger mark that’s for sure. But I’m not sorry about it. Wish I would have maybe told that girl that I loved her when I had the chance. That might have changed things, but it’s too late now. I still love your mother but, well, you’ll understand someday the difference between love and LOVE. Wish I would have blown more money on trips. I’ve never been to Asia. I had the chance but I needed to float this loan for the house. Seems kind of silly now. Wish I would have shot that film I had written. It seemed too damn expensive at the time though, and I had to work. Wish I would have spent more time on the important things to me and less time on the things others thought I should consider important. I guess that’s regret though.<br /><br />I hate to tell you this but I actually find most of the things about you rather pedestrian. You seem really shallow. I know you’re young and trying to fit in but I don’t excuse that. I know you’re not that smart either. Did you know I was put in a school for gifted children when I was young? I read Oscar Wilde and played the piano during school and we were allowed to because we were special, because they already had faith in us and our intellects. Because we weren’t so hung up on trying to dress cool or seem important. Is that what you think? That you’re somehow important? You’re not really. You’re AVERAGE. You’re an AVERAGE girl at a public school with boring friends and dull passions and no personality. Look I don’t know why you’re starting to cry. You’re going to have to face these realities. You still have POTENTIAL. Maybe. Maybe you don’t.<br /><br />I guess it’s my fault. I wasn’t really prepared for you in case you didn’t notice. I guess I should have seen it coming but I didn’t. What can I say? I guess I don’t LOVE you. Not in the way that we talked about earlier. I love you as far as it goes, but it’s more like the way I love your mother or I love the dog. Please stop. You’re getting hysterical. I’m not going to LEAVE you. I don’t think I have it in me anymore. I THOUGHT about it. Around your second birthday. Sweet Jesus were you obnoxious at that age. I literally stayed up nights, staring blankly at the TV set but thinking about throwing a suitcase in my car and taking off in the middle of the night. But I had nowhere else to go, honestly. You start to lose your friends after a while. You start to lose touch with everyone. And that girl I really loved is probably married or dead.<br /><br />Well, listen, you need to get ready for school and you’re probably going to need some time to wash up now. So I’m going to go back downstairs. It’s just, the paper didn’t come this morning so I didn’t know what to do with myself. Have a good day sugar and I’ll see when you get home. Hug?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-51594186045354331292008-07-11T00:01:00.002-04:002008-07-11T00:01:12.520-04:00Sea Blogs: Number Four THE CHILLING CONCLUSION<span style="font-style: italic;">Not really chilling. Or a conclusion. But it's the last one I wrote. I planned on doing a bunch but, well, you know how it goes. FART.</span><br /><br />A Lost Girl On The Mother's Tomb!<br />Current mood: Shazbauth! What is this?!<br /><br />I tossed a vitamin pill in my mouth and it let it grind down my dry throat before stepping out of my quarters and into the cold, damp air. Too many days without sunlight and nothing to eat but fish and salt and my blood was feeling thin.<br />She was standing there beaded with mist and looking nervous. The majority of the crew had given up and had went back to drier confines as they could ply no information from the girl, with eyes wider than the horizon and clutching a dead rabbit to her chest.<br />“Okay,” I began. “You have to talk to someone if you want us to help you. So please, at least tell me your name.”<br />She glanced up at me.<br />“I think I lost my way,” she sniffled.<br />Indeed. Here we were 13 days out to sea, miles from coast and not a light flickering distance each night. But this girl was dry, relatively, and showed no signs of the malnourishment that was beginning to grow inside the rest of us. And her skin was dark like she had been in the sun. The sun which hasn’t broken through this rainy haze since we left port.<br />“Where are you from?” I asked.<br />Then she stopped trembling and something slithered down from under her raspberry colored dress and into a knot in the planks. I dived after it and wedged my fingers violently into the hole, digging and scratching, but came back with a hand full of barbed splinters and cracked fingernails.<br />It was in the oven because I heard the pipes creaking from the kitchen. I turned on the gas and struck a match determined to roast the thing alive but by the time I found one that wasn’t soaked I had lost interest. Back upstairs I marched, frustrated, and grabbing her by her cotton collar, held her up in the air. I would have thrown her back to sea in some animalistic frenzy when she vomited onto my shoulder and I saw the eggs for the first time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-67377487236392174952008-07-10T08:33:00.001-04:002008-07-10T08:33:00.792-04:00Sea Blogs: Number Two and Three<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PGdYpC7klrKBO2myiIo77OnneBjGfqlAKZ2YFPhtogokLE2baZCCJFCXoTmdwMQn8qbPmy8xMRSeStN8KS1tK7T-kwUa_YuiGWqjrU6bitluF5sI-OqtFFct4w26CkWTyjcC2Qxm/s1600-h/Picture+11.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PGdYpC7klrKBO2myiIo77OnneBjGfqlAKZ2YFPhtogokLE2baZCCJFCXoTmdwMQn8qbPmy8xMRSeStN8KS1tK7T-kwUa_YuiGWqjrU6bitluF5sI-OqtFFct4w26CkWTyjcC2Qxm/s400/Picture+11.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221180049069786898" border="0" /></a>#2<br />A Stowaway is Discovered! Me!<br />Current mood: A great burden has been lifted!<br /><br />"Well boys, whatta think we should do with 'im"<br />"Toss 'im into the drink! Let the seagulls sort this one out."<br />The others didn't look so sure, but no one else had spoken up. I knew if I stayed quiet my fate might abandon me on the way to the bottom of the salty sea! Yet I could think of no words to plea my case, for only ten minutes earlier i was sleeping peaceful and calm, enclosed in soggy, coarse fishing nets.<br />"Maybe we ought to see what the captain thinks."<br />Yes! Ah hah! The captain! Bring him to me you foul-smelling urchins! Let’s hear from a stalwart man of command! Surely he would understand my plight and be able to find appropriate means for me to reciprocate my stay on his ship.<br /><br />Captain McDonigan was closed up in his quarters, as I would learn many weeks later to be a common affair, but this warranted special attention so he was brought forth. He was a slender fellow and merely 5 feet tall, but carried with him a presence that kept the rowdy fisherman quietly respectful as he paced the deck in front of me, stroking the stubble of his chin.<br />“Well what need have we of you?”<br />“Well sir,” I spoke with a hint of arrogant pomp though my situation gave away the better of me. “I can bait the traps or keep them clean, I can cook and I can clean, make the beds and boil the tea. Give me a task, I’ll do it, you’ll see!”<br />“Our traps are baited,” the Captain bit back. “And O’Leary here keeps our stomachs full, the quarters are spotless and you don’t look like one to patch a hull. What else can you do?”<br />“I can sing”<br />“You can sing?”<br />“And this old accordion below deck will too, tonight, and every one after!”<br />Captain McDonigan furrowed his brow and thought it over, an odd response no doubt but I was out of ideas and knew naught the first thing about shrimping!<br />“I suppose we could use a break from some tasks, and the head needs to be cleaned and there’s always fish to be gutted.”<br />“He stays?” asked the burly one who had discovered me and had stood behind me the duration.<br />“He stays.”<br /><br />#3<br />The Winters Carnival Comes Too Late Again.<br /><br />If the carnival is no cure for a broken winter heart, at the very least it will shake some warmth into the crew; too many pre-dawns cracking ice from frozen nets while trying to keep all ten digits intact. They fan out and weld into the crowds like children, I stand back by the entrance with Captain McDonigan, who is smoking the yellowed butt of some cigarette he pulled from his shirt pocket.<br />“Maybe you should go have your fortune told, those gypsy girls can always cheer you up,” he suggests.<br />“I don’t much feel like it.” And I walk away.<br /><br />In an unmarked door where the trails of wires come together I seek respite from the throngs of the deliberately happy and concerned mothers. The room is dry and warm and I shuffle down past unmarked crates and plastic wrapped shelves and pile my bitter bones on the top of an ugly blue trunk. Flittering a now useless gold ring between my fingertips, I stare at the jars behind the plastic drape in front of me. Stillborn sheep and pigs and deformed fetuses. Two-headed boy and an albino girl with blood red eyes reclining in their brine watching me as if waiting for me to speak.<br />“I tried everything I could,” I pleaded. “I tried what I thought was best. While keeping me safe from harm. It’s hard. It’s very hard and I just don’t have the resources to make it last.”<br />They returned their silence, doubting my honesty, doubting my emotions, doubting me.<br />“It’s not that I would sabotage something like that on purpose, I mean, look at me now. You think I enjoy this?”<br />But they do not budge nor avert their gaze and they know all the horrible things I said when they weren’t around. They won’t be played for fools.<br />I stand up to leave and can’t keep eye contact with the two of them.<br />“I’m sorry. I know I fucked it up, everything, but I’m too tired and too beaten to change it now so it will just have to stay in my throat and I’ll just have to learn to live with it, for however long that turns out to be.”<br />They don’t say anything as I walk away and they don’t forgive me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-66905006848455929392008-07-09T20:26:00.004-04:002008-07-09T20:31:13.750-04:00Sea Blogs: Preface and Number One<span style="font-style: italic;">This is the beginning of a series of themed blogs I was going to do. I guess kinda like how this blog began, but this particular one I was a stowaway/fisherman character from an indeterminate time period. This was probably when i was watching the movie Cabin Boy every Friday and hanging out at this horrible oyster bar every Saturday. :\</span><br /><br />#1<br />Preface (The Adventuring Begins!)<br />Current mood: I am going to begin again a FISHERMAN!<br /><br />It was the 16th of December when I took my leave from the cold, clammy fishing village I had called home for all those years. Feet stumbling along the knotted, wooden dock as I harried myself toward the hull of a pockmarked shrimping boat. The cold ocean wind on my face peeling membrane and muscle tissue from my visage, until I made that last leap, eyes closed, and tugged my face free from the splinters of the hull.<br /><br />Huzzah! For had I not but found myself a few inches short I would be soaked to the bone and once again the laughing stock of the old men on the harbour, huddled around the vodka bottle for warmth. I climbed up the side of my new home, faded paint flaking under my fingernails.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-32931755188226747822008-07-07T23:13:00.004-04:002008-07-07T23:19:37.191-04:00Luigi in 2008!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sWmQCtF5e2f0njUdzVj98WOXTmsa16FfY-ys5vP0UnRRc3JCU5AUuaXX6vyLsQH_WZLykJOBP34j8yPDpI0BBfUeZ3T4cgc3_mccigWHYiIO13yQqC-svmz5MsBn8bEk2OvU-wto/s1600-h/marioad.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sWmQCtF5e2f0njUdzVj98WOXTmsa16FfY-ys5vP0UnRRc3JCU5AUuaXX6vyLsQH_WZLykJOBP34j8yPDpI0BBfUeZ3T4cgc3_mccigWHYiIO13yQqC-svmz5MsBn8bEk2OvU-wto/s400/marioad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220476630853429906" border="0" /></a><br />Mario CLAIMS he cares about saving the Princess, but where is she? In the clutches of this man: Bowser. And where is Mario? In World 2-3, relaxing on the beach, swimming with Cheep-cheeps. If Mario REALLY cares about saving the Princess, why hasn’t he done anything about it?<br />Mario: The WRONG choice for Princesses.<br /><br /><br />*Luigi SAYS he’s concerned about collecting 1-UPS, but why do so many seem to go RIGHT IN THE PITS? Maybe if he wasn’t too busy trying to time his fireworks he would wake up and see how much his liberal 1-UP wasting policies are costing us.<br />Smash and spend Luigi: Reckless with 1-UPS.<br /><br /><br />Look at Mario. Now he’s trying to tell us he’s GREAT at beating levels. And that he’s beaten way more levels than his opponent Luigi. Well if Mario’s so GREAT then how come he has to continually use Warp Zones to get anywhere? <br />What’s the matter Mario? That Latuka level too hard for you?<br />Mario: He’s the one who sucks. Not Luigi.<br /><br /><br />*There goes Luigi again! Claiming he knows some special spot where he can bounce on a Koopa shell and bring HUNDREDS of 1-UPS into our economy. Well where is this ‘secret spot’ and why can’t you tell us about it, Comrade Luigi?<br />Luigi: Liar.<br /><br /><br />Mario PROMISES he’s going to ‘get the Princess.’ We’ve heard that before. And Mario SWEARS that he can beat Bowser. But he can’t even GET to him without throwing the controller and swearing!<br />Mario: Weak on defense, weak on firepower. And still, the princess is in another castle!<br /><br /><br />*Luigi. That cheating piece of shit! How many times is Luigi going to CHEAT to get extra men? Doesn’t he know that it’s CHEATING to bounce on that Koopa shell over and over? Maybe someone should teach Luigi a thing or two about this country and its LAWS!<br />Luigi: Cheater.<br /><br /><br />Mario is CRASHING AND BURNING. He claims to be the ‘man for the job’ but look how frustrated he’s getting trying to beat level 7-3! How many times is he going to JUMP in the SAME PIT over and over again? You think he’d learn. He barely has any men left, and yet he has the NERVE to question Luigi’s careful approach and to accuse him of CHEATING?! Mario, Mario you’re losing your cool and the whole country can see it.<br />Zero Progress Mario: Oops, there’s that pit again!<br /><br />*Luigi is distorting the FACTS about Mario once again. First of all Mario DID beat that level. And second Mario has PLENTY of men to get the princess. Luigi is just a liar, PLAIN AND SIMPLE. And an idiot. And he’s GREEN.<br />Luigi: Fuck him.<br /><br />Now Mario is attacking Luigi for his color. For SHAME Mario! Maybe Mario should just put down the controller and TAKE A BREAK. Maybe rescuing the princess is TOO HARD for Mario. Maybe he should take up tennis.<br />Mario: too weak, too inexperienced, too angry.<br /><br />*Maybe Luigi should just shut his cheating mouth up already before it gets personal!<br />Luigi: dead man.<br /><br />Maybe Mario should stop choking me with his cord like a CHILD and fuck off already!<br />Mario: I’m telling mom!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-88425936578957081392008-07-07T23:09:00.002-04:002008-07-07T23:12:14.059-04:00For Real This TimeOK, I'm seriously going to start using this "blog" (haha I just can't get over this crazy internet slang!)<br /><br />To get it "rolling" (haha!) I'm going to start by posting some old stuff I had written. Some of it's good, some not so much, but it will get things going since apparently I won't ever be able to write anything clever ever again.<br /><br />godblessUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-88378805123759059232007-07-16T22:06:00.000-04:002007-07-16T22:09:53.714-04:00The Tough Guys on the Block<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcDgPG46NJbmHLf1ri168koKKTc3S441pCqRjEkbs61rcmL9avYxh-BoJUoBdWhivoxaZTMMoEpX6DR6raZEhYlIqNXXUsaVdckTbrl8RDKiw0FpdLYl-ZOYkZDCEz_bAz2DSRbeN3/s1600-h/streettough.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcDgPG46NJbmHLf1ri168koKKTc3S441pCqRjEkbs61rcmL9avYxh-BoJUoBdWhivoxaZTMMoEpX6DR6raZEhYlIqNXXUsaVdckTbrl8RDKiw0FpdLYl-ZOYkZDCEz_bAz2DSRbeN3/s400/streettough.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087981850427309826" border="0" /></a>That's right. I moved to Brooklyn. Now I hang out like this and be tough and intimidating. What are you lookin' at buddy? I'm gonna punch your face with a knuckle sandwich!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-44717453672259570952007-07-14T22:59:00.000-04:002007-07-14T23:05:06.419-04:00Let's get this house in orderOkay, so I confess. I made this blog to write semi-fictional stories about growing up. I was going to create a whole new character for myself, but I haven't really been able to keep up with it (on top of my other work climbing mountains to save babies who get lost skiing). And since I also had intended to start a 'serious' blog someday and I've never gotten around to that either, I've decided to just roll the two into one.<br /><br />So consider yourself informed. This blog will now have two meanings, you figure out which posts belong where I'm not a friggin doctor or whatever.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-81668674076613797032007-02-09T11:39:00.000-04:002007-02-26T21:41:23.222-04:00Circle of rageRecess was easily my favorite hour of the day. I mean come on, an hour to run around outside after polishing off lunch. Just TRY not to vomit with excitement! And the games we had! Oh, the games we had. We had your recess staples: your various tags; freeze, zombie, prison and regular. We had imaginary guns for military play and imaginary proton-packs for Ghost Buster play. We also had a large assortment of school provided whiffle ball pats for 'bee killing' which was a game as creative as it's name: we smacked bees with whiffle ball bats.<br /><br />But there was one game that, in retrospect, I'm not sure why we ever played. Actually, it wasn't a game so much as it was just an activity. Maybe a ritual. Whatever it was it usually didn't turn out to be much fun for me.<br /><br />There was this kid in our school named Justin. I guess he was sorta our friend. Most of the time he was normal, if a little hyper-active. He was the kind of kid that dumped Pixie Sticks onto his peanut butter sandwich. You know. He liked to go into "rages" as we called them. He would get, or act, insanely fly-off-the-handle hyper. This was facilitated by us, of course. We would encircle him at recess and chant "Rage! Rage! Rage!" until he would 'snap' and go off on one of his rages. His rages usually climaxed with him smacking me or tackling me to the ground. Most likely because I was the smallest kid, or because of my big nerd glasses. There was one instance in particular that I remember that ended with me crying to the teacher and her saying, "I saw you guys taunting him..." Now you see why, in retrospect, I don't know why I participated.<br /><br />Well that was going to change! I wasn't going to partake, no, I wasn't going to <span style="font-style: italic;">allow</span> it anymore! I would stop the circle of rage. It was cruel. And sure Justin may have been obnoxious but we didn't need to ostracize him like we did. I bet if we treated him as one of us he would mellow out and relax.<br /><br />Well, that theory lasted for about three days before he 'raged' again and knocked my glasses into a slushy puddle of melting snow and mud and who knows what else!<br /><br />Fuck that kid! Next time it happens I'm just gonna 'rage' back and knock him on <span style="font-style: italic;">his</span> ass!<br /><br />Cut to four days later and me in a headlock squeezing my face until my ears hurt.<br /><br />Grrrr.<br /><br />Well, wait a minute. Why doesn't that lazy, alcoholic recess teacher ever <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> anything about this?! I bet if i told the principal about what was happening on his playground he'd want to know and maybe actually do something to stop it...like lock Justin in leg irons against the wall they use for handball. THAT'S what I'd do!<br /><br />As it turns out the principal was interested in hearing about what happened on the playground. Very interested. Naturally, I had to embellish a little. You know, "spice things up." I just had to be sure that he would see the seriousness of the situation. So I said Justin was selling drugs for the recess teacher. I said she would slip him the drugs and he would go stand near the fence and sell them to teenagers. I said when I told Justin that I was going to tell on him that he beat me up. I had the bruises to back that up. I also had some marijuana I bought from some high schoolers with four weeks allowance that I split up and put in the teacher's purse while she was talking on the phone and a little inside a pack a gum that I gave to Justin, no questions asked. I also said that Justin had anger problems and about the 'rage' issues and how the druggie teacher never did anything, but he didn't seem as concerned. So I was right to dramatize a little.<br /><br />Justin got in pretty big trouble. He came back to school after the summer and by then was kind of out of our circle of friends. The teacher I never saw again. But who cares?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7485669452727689482.post-47707549381128276562007-01-25T14:40:00.000-04:002007-01-25T14:45:12.297-04:00Evil Master of OdorsWhen I was growing up there was one toy that I really wanted but never got. It was not an expensive toy, or a rare toy, or anything dangerous or weird or anything like that. It was simply a He-Man action figure. Stinkor to be exact. I wanted Stinkor. I was not allowed to have Stinkor for one reason: he stunk. Which, incidentally, is exactly why I wanted Stinkor.<br /><br />Stinkor was the skunk. He was one of the bad guys and so naturally he stunk. I don’t know how exactly, since I was never allowed to bring the toy into my parent’s oh-so stink free house, but it said right there on the package “Evil master of odors.” And he really, really stunk! Or so I’m told. For after my mother got wind (not literally) that Stinkor was the toy that smelled like skunk she refused to let me have him. Flat out REFUSED. I was devastated. I felt like Ralphie from A Christmas Story. I felt like a kid dying of cancer who just was told he couldn’t have his legs back that were also removed by a ruthless surgeon.<br /><br />And the thing of it is I probably wouldn’t have even noticed if I never got Stinkor. There were hundreds of toys I never got that I would have wanted. But when I was told that there was no way I would EVER be allowed to own him under any conditions, well you can imagine how much more that would make me want him. It basically became a struggle against oppression. I felt hopeless and defeated and crushed and I needed to do something to overcome. Lucky for me I was a clever kid.<br /><br />At first I let my temper get the better of me. I exploded. I stomped my feet and waved my hands and got sent to my room. That’s when I decided it would be best to just lay low sort of; to let the “Stinkor panic” subdue. I got by playing with my friend Alex’s Stinkor. He and He-Man had some mighty battles, but I always saved the ultimate showdown for when I would inevitably posses my very own Stinkor. And to tell the truth it didn’t really smell that much. I don’t see what my mom’s big fucking deal was.<br /><br />Well the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months and finally, one chilly February in a Kay-Bee Toys at the mall, I gave it a go. My mom was looking over the Barbie toys in the retarded girl section with my sister.<br /><br />“Mom, can I get a He-Man?” I asked politely. I made sure to not sound too whiny. If she said “no” I didn’t really care, I was just asking, I tried to show in my voice.<br /><br />“Just one,” she said still pointing out stupid Barbie hats and shoes with my little sister. I had the go! I turned and got out of the lame girl aisle and made my way to the He-Men. There were plenty of Stinkors just waiting for me. I grabbed one whose packaging looked in good shape and casually made my way back to my mom and sister. Now I just had to get by unnoticed, and not draw attention to the fact that I had the forbidden Stinkor. My mom was near the checkout area and I quietly fell into place behind her.<br /><br />“All set?” she asked.<br /><br />“Yep,” I answered. When my mom put down the Barbie stuff for my sister I, as care free as I could, placed my Stinkor down on the counter. Face down of course. This is working. It was so simple. I just had to wait but this would make the Stinkor even better!<br /><br />“So who’d you get?” my mom then asked. Fuck. This could blow it all. I had to play it cool. I just shrugged and flipped the packaged figure over.<br /><br />“Wait. Isn’t this the one that stinks?” my mom said almost instantly. FUCK. “I thought I told you, you can’t have this one.” She was taking it away! She was getting us out of line and going to put it back! I had to go to plan B.<br /><br />As my mom marched over to the He-Man section, assuming I was behind her because I could hear her carrying on about something, I went the other way. I went out of the store and into the mall and began to shriek and wail like a child possessed. It wasn’t long before a white-uniformed mall security guard came over.<br /><br />“What’s the problem son?” He asked with both a hint of worry and annoyance in his voice. My mom was coming out of the store now as well. This better work, I thought.<br /><br />“That-lady's-not-my-mommy!” I shrieked, running the words into one and trying to sound as panicked as I could. Anger seized upon my mother's face as I shouted those words again and wrapped my arms tightly around the security guards waist.<br /><br />"You are in BIG trouble!" my mom horsed out as she reached for me, but the security officer held her back. I had rolled up my sleeves a few moments ago and now the security guard was staring down at my little arm around his waist, which was tattooed up and down in fresh cigarette-shaped burns I had made earlier that day with a hot spoon.<br /><br />"I think you better wait right there, ma'am," said my saviour, holding out his hand to stop my mother's advancement while his other arm reached for his walkie-talkie.<br /><br />Twenty minutes later I was in a small room with a friendly female police officer. She stooped when she talked to me and always had the most pleasant tone in her voice. She asked me where I got the burns, I lied. She asked me if 'the mean lady' did anything else to me. I lied again. I said "yes." I said to my privates and butt.<br /><br />Another twenty minutes and I was in the same room behind a curtain, naked, with a doctor. Again, I was prepared for this. I told you I was a clever kid. I knew where they would look, so after I had made the cigarette burns that morning I did one other thing. I snuck one of my dad's beer bottles from the fridge and ducked into the bathroom. After I poured it all out down the sink, I dropped my drawers and clenched my teeth and edged the narrow 'drinking end' of the bottle into my rectum. It only went about an inch deep, just enough so that the bottle didn't fall out when I let go. Then I swung it like a tail, and smashed it into the base of the bathroom sink. After the burns on my arms it didn't hurt too bad actually. I cleaned up the mess and waddled out, knowing we'd be at the mall in three hours or so.<br /><br />I'm thankful that the security guard was observant enough to spot the ugly burns on my arm, but under the trained eyes of a doctor it wasn't chance but certainty that he'd spot what I wanted him to find. It didn't take long. He gently inserted some slim, lubricated tweezers into my anus and with a smooth, dull pluck pulled out a broken, half-circular ring of green glass. He held it up and looked at it in the light for a moment. Anger vaguely showing behind his professional demeanor. He exited the curtain and I heard him talking softly with the female cop who was waiting on the other side. Then I heard her exit the room and the door shut hard. The doctor peaked back in and said quietly, "you can get dressed now son."<br /><br />I didn't get Stinkor that day, and I didn't see my mom again until about eight months later at her trial, but after living with my court appointed guardians for only two weeks they bought me the Stinkor I asked for without question or complaint. I guess I never played with him much though, by then I was just getting into the brand new Ninja Turtles and I had kinda moved on to GI Joes a few months back as my main action figure playthings, but I kept the Stinkor. I kept him so every time I looked at him I could think of my victory and be proud.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1