drunkard.com

Someone stole my idea....son of a....
I wonder of they'll give me a discount for a lifetime subscription.

Morales vs. Pacquiao
March 19, 2005.
Las Vegas MGM Grand

If you are a B and fanatic like me, I know you're excited. If you're not, you should be.

Can't wait.

Brownican road trip anyone?

Real Sex Take Two

0:00:00
“Two minutes! Tops!”
0:00:24
I jump in the car without bothering to put on my seat belt and keenly drive over to the corner 7/11. Not speeding, just driving briskly, at an anxious pace. Make a right at the stop light and a quick left into the driveway, beats waiting for the light to turn green. Park, hop out and lightly walk in through the front double glass doors.
0:00:48
Aisle 1, top shelf, I have seen them before. I Make my selection and head for the register. Confidently I slap them on the counter top just to have them snatched up by an uneasy attendant. Nonchalantly, she palms them so that they cannot be seen. My chuckle provokes a denying, “What?”. This draws the attention of her partner in immaturity and there it is, the nervous smile on his face.
0:01:07
18?19? And, because there was so much of her, I surmise that she definitely has heard of them, has probably seen one before, talked about them for sure, but, never actually had the opportunity to relish in the use of one. “Fine then!”, she taunts and slaps them back down onto the counter in plain sight for everyone to see. She composes herself and begins her attack, “You could have at least picked the for HER pleasure kind!”. A mediocre attempt to divert her discomfort onto me while my fellow shoppers approach the point of sale.
0:01:29
My response, “Nope! What does it got to do with her?”. Her rash attempt to embarrass me in front of her patrons while her sidekick nervously displays his approval lulls her into a false sense of security. Like a religious person on judgement day. Loudly she embraces the momentum and ask, “All about you? What does she have to do with it?”, as she hands me the box and rolls her eyes. Now I’m laughing hysterically inside while I politely take the box and begin my victory lap towards the exit.
0:01:33
“Yeah!” The hard part is done, obviously, she already said yes.”
0:43:01
I can see the red tail lights on the other side of the translucent curtains, “SSHH!! SSHH!! Wait”, I suggest to her, “Not so loud.” Engine tweets, 2:38AM, tires refuse to leave willingly and squeal with disapproval. The envious bark in accord, “Hit that shit hard!!”
1:11:12
I preen in vain and remove my hands from her throat. She whimpers, wheezes, struggles to fill her lungs, moans from the bowels which have just been scrambled and delectably quivers as I continue in stride.
1:42:00
“You weren’t kidding, you were back in 2 minutes.”

“Of course you’re important,” he says, but he can’t remember the last time he was able to remember the last time he actually meant it. He just wants to get drunk, and beat her with his fingertips. He wants her skin to feel the way it felt. He wants her skin to make him feel the way it did before he ever touched it. He wants her to shut up when he wants her to shut up. He wants to be free of lies; he wants her to be free of lies too. He wants to hate again, he likes the simplicity of having only one mission. He wants her to pry the shell and rip into him. He wants to be brave and wield the sword from the razors end. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Oh, yes he does.

..
ahh!

Good Morning

Something cheery for the holidays.....


Some days, I would prefer to soak my mattress in my own blood in lieu of actually getting out of bed. Most days, these days, as I sit in a cesspool right next to the carpool, I hum a monotonous hymn to myself, just to feel the warmth of an endless routine. Usually, it is so loud that I end up missing the freeway off ramp I was intending to exit on. I then chide myself ‘cause I’d like to think that I am not that emotional. Meanwhile, I’ve passed up the exit, again.

At night, melancholy sings me to sleep. In the morning, I sullenly meander out of bed to wade through another non-reality TV meriting peep show of a day. Hunched shoulders, dragging feet, porch lanterns with burnt out lamps in pools of dead insects. Gradients of dark to light gray rainbow through the heavy stank air. Crashing clouds gather miles away from the sun purposely letting it poke fun at me. Gradual decay winces at me from the reflection of my drivers side window as I approach the car. The cadence of my seat belt chime harps at me but is soon drowned out by the buzz in my head leftover from my anger filled overreaction.

Some days, I would like to push my thumbs behind my eyeballs and pop them right out. Others, I would like to rip your lips right off of your face. Yet, here is another full day waiting to make me whimper in pain and succumb to this gluten of time that leads me around by my scrotum.... but all I can seem to think about is how I can’t wait to slither back into bed.

Part one:

Cigarette smoke clings to every microscopic droplet of vapor in this dark stuffy pool hall. I’m sitting here on my wooden stool at the short end of an L shaped bar, with a perspiring, half consumed pitcher of beer. It is my second. I don’t know why but they are playing classical music, Vivaldi I think? The sound is clear and thunderous. The friendly bartender about four feet in front of me is throwing bottles here and there assembling a fuzzy navel for a balding fat man and his scantily clad fat girlfriend. The young pretty bartender dressed all in white glows under the ultra-violet lights. She looks like a ghost brewing some sort of magic potion. I turn right and face the rest of the pool hall. About a third of the tables are being used. Each delicately lit by soft holy beams of light from somewhere in the high ceiling. In the furthest corner a tall, brawny man hugs and kisses his pretty, petite girlfriend after every shot. Another man, this one playing at one of the center tables wears slacks with a white dress shirt and dark tie; he is alone and actually going through the ritual of using one stick to hit the solids and another for the striped.
“Sir? Sir?” The ghost calls out.
“What?” I snap, before I can stop myself.
“Would you like another pitcher?” She asks somewhat irritated but looking forward to another big tip. I look down, and my pitcher and glass are empty. Well actually my glass has about half an inch left of dancing and singing bubbles. I think their following the music, the angry crescendos and valleys of Ludwig Van Beethoven’s Symphony No.5.
“Hello?” She says. I look up.
“Are you sure I drank this?” I ask trying to remember but unable. After all my memory is not the greatest at remembering where I left off.
“Well, I haven’t seen anyone get anywhere near you.” She yells out with a wry smile.
“Uh! Well I’m not going anywhere so ok, sure.” I throw her a twenty and say, ‘keep the change.’
“Thanks babe.” She says cheerfully, as if she meant it. The empty pitcher and glass disappear. I think to myself ‘Babe?’ I feel like jumping over the counter and breaking one of those thick heavy glass pitchers over her head. Then drinking some of her gushing blood on the rock’s with a dash of lemon, although it might be a little salty. The thought makes me thirsty. As I reach to take another drink I realize my pitcher is almost finished.
“Ma’am? Hello, ma’am? Hey?” I say trying to get her attention.
“Please, sir don’t yell.” She says angry with a purple vein bulging from her forehead.
“I paid for a full pitcher, why didn’t I get it?” I demand, not willing to put up with anymore of her shit. I tug at my collar and realize that I’m wearing the heavy coat that I had removed upon entering the pool hall.
“Sir, you’ve already had three pitchers.” She looks at me intently, planning her next lie. My anger changes to fear and then resignation.
“What? Are you talking to me?” I look up, but there is no one there. The lights over the tables are bright. I can’t focus. I must keep my eyes open. I can be cool.

The well dressed man playing by himself looks up and notices an obvious drunk who’s wearing too much clothes for this place, and keeps on smacking himself in the head. He is sitting at the bar, partially in shadow. He begins swaying back and forth emerging from shadow then falling back into it, over and over again. Being a doctor he wonders whether to approach the ailing man.

Why is it so cold in here? Is it raining? I think it’s raining hard, maybe even snow? Nah! That’s impossible. Those eyes, over there from that man, they are glowing like a dog. But he’s a man, maybe a wolf man? Ha, that’s funny. He keeps on waving that stick around. He knows. Yep, he knows that I know. That light from the sky, or is it the moon on his white hair. Oh! I just pissed myself, I think? Damn no one knows. This is not a good thing. Is he looking at me? Oh fuck! I’m dead again. No! Not again. I have to kill him. Must, I must, yes I will. I do know because it’s so clear. I walk to the car, my car, he will follow me. Here, in here with these people he will be to afraid to, to uh, reveal himself. Oh man! That grin. He has no fear. “Fuck you,” he yells.

The doctor is stunned and chills run up his spine, at the shriek from somewhere deep in this poor mans chest. A bouncer that was standing at the door begins running towards them swerving around tables. The confused doctor turns to look at the bouncer not knowing what to do. The disturbed man hears the rustling and turns with gun in hand to see the approaching bouncer. The bouncers face recognized its fate one moment before his jaw exploded into a thousand globules of flesh and bone…………………..
ahh!

We don’t have much time right now……..
No! We don’t have enough time…………
I don’t know when there will be time…….
The mouth moves, the wet lips expose the wet flesh inside. You try and look up at he eyes. The eyes, everyone says are the window to the soul. But you can’t focus on them, like when you are focusing on something up close for too long then try and see in the distance, so you look at the mouth. More words come out. You see deeper, into the nesting ground of words and phrases and complaints and complaints. You expect to see the heart in all its red glorious pumping of wet devotion, but instead you find a cesspool of moldy self doubt and acidic anger. You raise your voice and say. “Ok.”
..
ahh!