Posts Tagged ‘work’

The Stay Home Dad’s Poetry Meet-Up

October 7, 2017
Jack met Martin before they finally

Jack met Martin before they finally said a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

aid a few words to Buck.  All
three of them had small children that they would take to the park at
about the same time.  There were Spanish and Polish speaking au pairs
and a few young moms but the three men found one another and became
friends.
Jack, a stand-up bass player in Jazz bands at night, watched his two
boys during the day.  His wife is an attorney and she essentially pays
for everything.  Jack needs to pay his car insurance and for his own
food when he eats out.  Jack lives in a big house and loves watching
documentaries on Netflix.  He’s a good dad but has trouble being
patient with his son, Jack Jr. who has ADD.
Martin writes short stories and poetry and makes almost no money
except that he takes care of pre-school age children on Mondays from
9-3.  His daughter gets to be part of the school for free and they
give Martin $200.00 a day for his work.  That money needs to stretch
all week.  His wife is a schoolteacher truly believes her husband will
get one of his manuscripts published one day.  She asks Martin to see
the queries he sends out daily to ensure that he is not playing video
games all day while their toddler twins play close by.
Buck is a high school hockey coach by night and a stay at home dad by
day.  Buck also plays hockey and is a referee to earn a few extra
dollars.  Buck makes $10,000.00 between September and March and then
he gets a few hundred for running clinics and camps in the summer
months.
When times were tough at home for the boys and their spouses, the
fact that their wives were carrying them more or less, did not go
without mention.  Martin’s wife was probably the harshest with him in
that he would go long periods of time without writing anything.  His
response would be that when there is acrimony between them, he
couldn’t get in the mindset to write anything.  Her response would be,
“Then go get a fucking job like every other man on the planet and quit
fucking moping…”
Jack’s wife hated Jazz but was turned on by him playing the stand-up
bass.  She wanted her husband to give music lessons on the side to
children to help make more money but he said that he really hated
children other than his own.  Truth be told, Jack wasn’t entirely sure
that he liked his boys all that much.  They were loud and messy and
truly whining little bitches in his opinion.  He felt that their mom
coddled them way too much.
Buck’s wife liked that her husband was rough and straightforward.  If
you were ugly, Buck might tell you so.  He was hard on his hockey
players and trained them to be as rough as possible.  Buck often wore
a shirt that he had made up himself that read, “MAKE HOCKEY VIOLENT
AGAIN”.  Buck still played ice hockey and still fought as a man in his
later forties.  His large dick could get hard on command and for that
reason, his wife found redeeming value in her caveman.
Martin spoke to an owner of a small restaurant about having a poetry
reading night once a week on a Tuesday night.  Most of the poetry
sucked but the authors believed it to be good.  Some would read short
stories or essays but most were poems.  Martin began a Meet-Up poetry
night at the same small club where Jack played Jazz at a drop-in Jazz
night on Wednesdays.  The owner, desperate for extra business, allowed
the bad poetry night and circle jerking Jazz musicians to play the
same tired old shit like hymns at a protestant church.  Jack played
the bass softly while people read.  There was a local finalist who
read his award-winning poem first.  His poem earned him a place in an
anthology of poems and a $500.00 award.  His name was Bruce and he
smelled of onions and had greasy wispy hair.  His collared shirt was
stained around the armpits and his ass crack hung out of the back of
his pants when he sat down.  He looked nearly homeless but was
actually a rich trust funder who never had to work a day in his life.
Nobody understood his poem but they all agreed it was good.  A young
black man came up and read his next.  He dug the bass behind him.  He
had a large Afro and was slightly angry just because it was en vogue.
He came from adopted white lesbians in a well to do area of town.  The
young, thin man grabbed the microphone and paced back and forth like a
distressed lion in a cage.
“What you need to know is a knee makes me free.  A knee tells the
world about my plight and all the things in society that just ain’t
right.  What you need to know is that my life matters and as a matter
of fact, you can’t know what it’s like to be in my skin or understand
where I’ve been.  A knee makes it right and I have the right to right
a wrong…  Play that bass, motha fuckah!”
A man named Jose came up and asked Jack to play the bass line for the
girl from Ipanema while he strummed a guitar and sang in Portuguese.
Nobody knew what he was saying but it really sounded nice.  The
English translation was not as nice.
“I loved to love you and loved you with all my muscle.  When you
fucked me in the ass, I  fucked you in the ass for real.  How dare you
take my shit and give me diseases.  Even though you did many wrong
things, I would take you back but lock my things up.  I love you…  I
love you…”
Next was the sushi woman.  The sushi woman catered parties dressed
like Betty Page from the 1950’s with no shirt on and a multitude of
tattoos.  Guys hired her for bachelor parties and football games.  Her
name is Gretchen; she’s 27, teaches Pilates and has a side gig as a
topless sushi maker.  Her poetic rant against Trump was with her shirt
off.  Over her nipples were two X’s of black tape.  She wore tight
black exercise pants and high heels her hair was poofed up high and
her black lipstick was thick.  Thick enough to need a scrubber to get
the paraffin off of her wine glass at the end of the night.  The men
didn’t give a damn about the message.  They marveled at her tight body
and round breasts.  People off the street stopped as they walked by to
look at the young woman on a stage, under lights.
“You’re not my president.  I’m no longer a resident of this country…
You shattered my hopes; you’ve shattered my dreams.  You taken the
best part of me and pulled it from my breast…” Gretchen cupped her
left breast from underneath.  Her natural breasts were round and firm.
Everyone clapped for her as if it was the best thing they ever heard.
She then passed out cards for her sushi catering with a picture of
herself without a shirt on, arms crossed, holding two knives.
Last to come up was Buck.  He had never done something like writing
poetry and reciting it.  He was strong looking and stood with his left
hand in his pocket.  He wore a CCM hat and an Expos T shirt.  Buck
looked out of his element.
“I was a lad near Montreal.  J’ai parle Francais chez moi…  My dad
listened to Hockey Night in Canada sur la radio…  Patriotic?  you
better believe, I wear it on my sleeve.  Red, White and Blue, les
trois colouer of the Canadiens of Montreal.  I might buy you a beer
and talk about the power play, I might beat your ass on the ice the
following day.  Don’t take offense, its just hockey.  Hockey might be
better than sex.  The sound of the crowd and the puck inside the net.
The wind blowing around my ears and the snot flying around your helmet
and the tears as I cartwheel your ass with a solid hip check.  A slap
shot, wrist shot, a child in the stands cheering a lot.  Wearing the
sweater to your favorite team, playing outside on a winter day, sweat
steaming from under your hat.  This is life; this is where it’s at.  I
hope to play this game til I die.  Don’t understand?…  Enough of this
bullshit and listen to the man play the bass.  Coffee tomorrow at the
park, boys?  Solid Jackson play it out…  In case you didn’t know,
Kerouac was Quebecois too… I rest my case.”

Advertisements

Cava, Clean Glasses and Nothingness

August 24, 2017

Sal washed bar dishes  first in soap then a solution of water and
bleach that kills anything that could hurt you.  He then let them drip
dry and then took a towel and dried each glass until there was no hint
of finger prints or lipstick or anything.  June sat at the bar, leaning on her elbows.
“I’m amazed by the detail to each glass…”
“Worst thing is serving someone and then they hand it back to you
because of lipstick, or a hair or Rumchata that dried or something.
They not only don’t want to pay you but now they’re disgusted and want
to go.  They then go home and jump on Yelp to let the world know that
there was a pubic hair in their rum and Coke.  The bartender was
indifferent and nobody should ever go to that establishment for that
reason.  I try hard to take away that argument.  Want to hate the
world and complain like a coward?  It won’t be about dirty glasses.
You could go home and say that I have mercenary qualities and looked
bored and you might be right but you at least got a clean glass…”
“And I like that about you…  I’d like a Cava.  Not a little souvenir
split but the whole fucking bottle.  Bring me a flute because I am a
lady…  Right?
“But of course… You asked for Cava.  Did you know that in French if
you separate Cava into ca va, you’d be asking someone how it’s going.
So let’s try it…  Comment ca va?”
“It sucks today.  I went to a funeral of a friend who just died of
cancer and then found a dick pic on the computer and letters and
letters to a mutual friend related to an affair.  I have not divulged
that I snooped and that I have seen the evidence and my fiancé
continues to lie.  I asked him if he would take a lie detector test
and he said that the idea of putting him through such a harsh test
just shows that there is no trust between us…  What should I do?”
“Um…  Do you want to stay with him?”
“I don’t know…”
“That’s a tough one…  True story…  When I was a young man, a man who
knew me and played ice hockey against me, was courting my wife.  Guys
I played hockey with told me,  my eight year old son told me in a
round about way and I didn’t want to believe it.  Once I became a
believer, I caught the two of them together at his place.  I destroyed
the apartment and beat him thoroughly and then left before the cops
came.  Would I do that today?  No way…  I would just walk away.  Jail
time, stroke or a hard attack is not worth it if someone is not with
you, truly with you.  Embarassing him on Maury Povich or on an episode
of Cheaters will not change anything.  No charge for that advice.”
June drank two bottles of Cava and talked about plants, movies, her
children, her fiancé again and death.  After more than an hour, June
noticed a book on the bar and asked about it.  It was a French book
entitled, L’Être et le néant.  Sal didn’t really want to discuss the
book.  June pushed and so Sal took a breath, rubbed his bald head and
looked up at the ceiling.
“How do I put this… Hmmm.”
June always did the talking and Sal the listening.  Sal was caught
off guard.  Sal never let on how he viewed the political landscape and
whether he was for or against the president.  Jazz and ice hockey he
was happy to discuss but all else was never divulged.
“If I were to describe myself, it may come off as self-deception
about the human reality.  I could make myself falsely believe not to
be what I actually am.  Or  deny my freedom by becoming what you
perceive as a bartender.  This means that in being a bartender, I
might believe that my social role is equal to my human existence.
This book explains that an occupation, race or social class should not
define who you are.  I am a person and not a bartender…  I could
become anything.  You sell real estate but is that really you?”
“Fucking deep shit and in French no less.  And that’s interesting to you?”
“I’m interested to be aware while I doubt much of everything in life.
To know is to be and we need to be and know what we are…  There is a
lot I know and a lot I don’t know. I am and actually I don’t know why
I am.  Can I define what I know?  Can I define what I am and wish to
be? There are things I know that I know. There are known unknowns.
That is to say There are things that I now know I don’t know. But
there are also unknown unknowns. There are things I do not know I
don’t know… And so I read about it…  In French.  It’s all really
fucked up but it sounds not so bad in French… N’est ce pas?”
“I don’t think I will ever ask you another question, Sal.”

“I’m totally okay with that, June.  I’m a good listener.”

Yelping Mr. Trump

May 18, 2017

Reince Prebius woke early and got to bathroom and plopped down to
relieve himself before anyone else in his family woke.  While sitting
on the commode, Reince scrolled through dozens and dozens of negative
Yelp reviews attached to President Trump.  It was explained to the
president that the people who run Yelp, had a love affair with the
previous president.  It was no mistake that Obama had 4 ½ stars and
that Trump stood at ½ of one star.  Reince, Ivanka and his son-in-law
Jared Kushner all tried to convince the president to ignore the fact
that all the negative reviews were readily available for the public to
read and that the positive ones were hidden from view.  What was the
reason for so many positive reviews hidden from sight?  The positive
reviewers were new to Yelp and to the political arena and so their
point of views were not taken into serious consideration.  The
president spent all day working, occasionally taking time to eat some
ice cream or play Golf a little, but mostly studying political shows,
reading papers, getting briefs and meetings after meetings.  Most
people’s heads would explode by the fact that at all hours of the day,
there were several things going on at once.  Picture a plumber fixing
a leaking pipe and with each repair, two or three more leaks surface.
A weaker person would rationalize that maybe someone else should do
the plumbing and beat their head against the wall trying to repair
only to be mired in a sloppy mess.  Late night when everyone or at
least most people were sleeping, the president would read up on his
Yelp reviews and would rebut in the wee hours of the morning.

I DIDN’T VOTE FOR THE PRESIDENT AND REALLY ANYONE THAT DID IS A
COMPLETE BACKWARD IDIOT.  IT’S PLAIN TO SEE THAT THIS MAN IS A PUPPET
OF THE RUSSIANS.  OUR ELECTION HAS BEEN HACKED BY THE RUSSIANS AND THE
CABINET HAS BEEN FILLED WITH LAP DOGS FOR PUTIN.  IT’S OBVIOUS TO
EVERYONE THAT THIS IS ANOTHER WATERGATE- RACHEL, WASHINGTON D.C.

IS THIS THE SAME RACHEL FROM MSNBC?  IS IT?  LET’S JUST SAY IT COULD
BE.  HACK?  YOU WANNA USE THE WORD HACK.  THE ENTIRE PRESS OF THE
COUNTRY SAVE VERY FEW OUTLETS IS RUN BY LYING, SLAVENLY HACKS WHO PASS
OF THEIR OWN AGENDA FOR NEWS.  COLLUSION?  ABSOLUTELY.  THE DNC,
CLINTONS, OBAMA, RICE, COMEY, CLAPPER, SLAPPER, BEATER AND WHACKER…
HAVE I LEFT ANYONE OUT IN THIS CIRCLE JERKING GOLDEN SHOWER OF HITS?
YOU GIVE ME ONE STAR?  I GIVE YOU A SINGLE FINGER SALUT.

Reince continued to sit on the toilet, toes tingling and his butt
cheeks nearly asleep as he scrolled over dozens of replies to negative
comments written nearly anonymously to the public.  Reince knew it was
cowardly and hard to combat.  Reince’s opinion was just to ignore it
all and go about the business of trying to fix the immense issues of
this country.

AFTER THERAPY AND LOOKING FOR A JOB AND PLACE TO LIVE IN CANADA, I’VE
DECIDED THAT THIS IS MY COUNTRY AND I NEED TO FIGHT FOR MY COUNTRY AND
STOP ANY AND ALL WHO BELIEVE THAT TRUMP IS THEIR PRESIDENT.  THE
PRESIDENT MUST BE STOPPED EVERYWHERE POSSIBLE AND THERE IS AN ARMY OF
TRUE AMERICANS LIKE ME WHO WILL ENSURE THAT IMMIGRANTS CAN LIVE AMONG
US, LGBT, PROGRESSIVES, PRO-CHOICE AND SO ON.  YOU WILL BE STOPPED,
SIR.  I CAN’T GIVE YOU NO STARS BUT I WOULD LIKE TO. TERRY, SEATTLE,
WASHINGTON.

TERRY.  I’M ENVISIONING A MAN AND A WOMAN ALMOST EQUALLY, HIDDEN
BEHIND A CARNIVAL MASK, PUNCHING VETERANS AT TRUMP RALLIES, STOPPING
CONSERVATIVE SPEAKERS FROM EXPRESSING THEIR CONSTITUIONAL RIGHT TO
FREE SPEECH ON COLLEGE CAMPUSES THAT RECEIVE GOVERNMENT FUNDS. WHEN
I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS WHOLE DOG AND PONY SHOW OVER WHETHER I SHOULD
BE IMPEACHED OR NOT, I’LL GO GET THAT FAT CHILD IN NORTH KOREA, PARADE
HIM AROUND WITH A BALL GAG AND THEN THROW HIM THE IN SAME PRISON
GENERAL NOREIGA LIVED IN SOME TWENTY YEARS AGO.  I HAVEN’T EVEN ROLLED
UP MY SLEEVES YET TO UNDO THE MESS DROPPED AT MY FEET.  DON’T GET IN
FRONT OF A TRAIN.  YOU CAN’T STOP IT OR SLOW IT DOWN BUT YOU CAN GET
MOWED OVER.  TRUMP IS  COMMANDER AND THE CHEF AND BELIEVE ME, YOU
WON’T WANT WHAT DADDY’S GOT COOKING.

“Good morning, Mr. President…  Yes, I should be in within the hour.
Tell me, sir…  What time did you go to sleep last night? 2:30 ish
eastern time?  Wow…  I don’t know how you do it, sir.  It’s not even
6am…  Sir, if you could mull this around before I get in and we can
discuss it further…  When you get back from oversees, we should really
plan an American road trip.  Visit the heartland.  Stir the base up.
Nuremburg style rallies with millions of supporters in cities like
Tulsa or Louisville.  Give it some thought, sir.  You’re at your best
when you’re surrounded by those that truly love you… “

Happy Birthday to the White Earth

May 9, 2017

Percy sat in the room with a smile, looking unlike all the others in the room.
Eloise didn’t want her father, who was an assistant to the assistant
to the director of the EPA to discuss the fact that he had voted for
Trump and in a sense, was working for Trump.  She wanted no political
topics, discussions or debates to take place during the party for
their child who was turning one year old.  Little Sarah Mordecai
Terreblanche-Arnofsky.  The name Arnofsky, Jewish and Russian in
origin was the last name of the father, but not the husband of little
Sarah Mordecai’s mother.  Terreblanche, a French name, came from
France, then in the Acadia region of Canada then all the way down to
Louisiana where Eloise was born and raised along with her parents and
their parent’s parents before them.  And the name in English
translates to “White Earth”.  Oh and Mordecai?  Eloise and her husband
did not want to steer their biologically female daughter towards
acceptance of female identity.   They both feel that one day, Sarah
Mordecai should choose what gender she wants to be.  The gifts were
all neutral, most homemade gluten-free and vegan sweets.  The cake was
not really a cake but a bowl of honey mixed with picked fruit and
granola.  One of the Moroccans in attendance brought the recipe over
from North Africa.  In fact three men were playing dissonant sounding
Arabic music in a room with a hookah.
Percy poured himself a glass of wine, went out to the balcony and
looked over towards San Francisco from the condo he paid for in
Oakland.  Percy walked into the living room where all the young people
with their toddlers were sitting on the floor with their children.  A
young couple with ratty, matted dreadlocked hair wore shirts that read
“Resist!” in large letters, their small child also had on an onesie
with the same word on it.   Rainbows, Black lives Matter, Oakland is a
sanctuary shirts.  The guests ate vegan pizza, smelled of some sort of
oil and body odor.  Music indigenous to the middle east played.
Everyone was young and very militant.
Percy went to Oakland Coliseum to watch the A’s play a baseball game
earlier that weekend.  He wore a green and yellow shirt with a green
A’s hat.  The television in the living room had no volume on a
baseball game was on.  Percy ate carrot sticks and watched the game.
A young man in a beard, who shook his head a lot up and down, pulled
down at his beard and decided to engage Percy in conversation.
“I’m guessing this whole things ain’t your scene, man…  Everyone was
on edge wondering who the square was.  Maybe ICE.  Maybe FBI”
“Oh, I don’t know, young man… Square things can be a little round at
times…  You’re close.  I’m with the EPA”
The young guy laughed at the levity and tapped Percy’s knee in
approval thinking that Percy was only joking about being from the EPA.
Percy wasn’t joking.
“I looked at your whole get up man, and I was intrigued.  I mean
like, I just needed to know where you’re coming from, your bag, your
perspective.  You’re wearing baseball stuff and all.  I’m looking at
you and I’m thinking you look like the type that might have voted for
Trump…  So did you?  Are you part of the NRA?  Are you against a
woman’s right to have abortions?  Do you deny global warming?”
Percy lifted his glass of wine like he was toasting the young man,
took a drink, tilted his head to the side, adjusted his horn rimmed
glasses and gave a cryptic answer that only drew the young man more to
him.
“  Sonny…  I’m working with a realtor as we speak.  I’m trying to
find prime land on the equator on Mars.  I want a warm spot like
Phoenix…  You know like a balmy minus 10… Did you know?  No, you
couldn’t possibly know…  Anyway…I was raised in a house by a black
lady back in the early seventies who did all the cooking.  She had a
wide space between her two front teeth and she had bout twenty cats
running round the place.  If you wanted to finish your food, you
didn’t dare give a crumb to the cats til you were done.  If you did,
them cats would be all over you.  I had a mom and several men that
were suitors of some sort that courted my mom.  We lived in a home
where everyone contributed something and we ate together and the
adults hated the war and Nixon…  Did you ever live in a house like
that?  These were real Hippies.  They fucked each other in a loving
way, took a lot of dope and shared.  The music was good and people
really hated the president, the government and the establishment.  Can
you dig that a square like me was raised like that?  When you were a
tadpole in your daddy’s nutsack, my mom wore no bra, slept with
colored men with real Afros and wanted equal rights for women…  Now
this is the truth.  No bullshit, young fellow…  If abortion had been
legal in Illinois in 1965, I would not be sitting here talking to you
right now.  Yes sir…  I’m the son of a true, died in the wool, love
child.  She was only 15 at the time, if you can fathom that deep
thought…  Remember that nothingness is an experienced reality and
existence is transitory and fragile.
The young bearded man forgot that he had asked Percy whom he had
voted for and went on to describe an upper middle class upbringing in
a gated subdivision.
“Wow, young man.  That is truly a white milk, middle class,
homogenous, vitamin D, insulated life you lead.  Do you remember the
first black person you saw in real life?”
“It was probably at Dodger’s stadium in third grade…”
“Far out, man… I grew up practically a poor black child although you
would not know it to look at me…I grew up listening to Smokey Robinson
and Sly and the Family Stone.  We had a thing going on not unlike
Jonestown in Guyana.   Very cult like not unlike what is happening
today.  Free speech is acceptable as long as I agree with what you’re
saying,,,  Color didn’t matter.  Status didn’t matter…  You know, man?
People dying in Afghanistan and Iraq since before you could grow
whiskers and nobody cares if those young guys trying to make to the
end so that they can get their dough and go to college.  Nobody
protests the fact that we’re in a state of constant war.  Trump is the
problem…  Right?”
“Right on, man…  You said it!”
“Let it be soon, don’t hesitate…  Make it now, don’t wait.  Open your
heart and let my love come in.  I want a moment to stop when I can
fill your heart more love and more joy than age or time could ever
destroy…”
“That is some deep fucking shit, bro…”
“Yeah?  You can thank Smokey for that one…  Thing is that once the
war ended and people came home, shit began to fall apart.  Everyone
was worried about their shit…  It’s cool to take a stand when you have
food and shelter.  When you don’t have that shit…  Well, now…  It’s
survival of the fittest.  Origin of species, only the strong survive
and so on…  That’s just how it is.  A fire breaks out in this condo,
who lives?  Those with the best fight or flight response.  There are
people dying of famine in refegee camps in Africa…  Children dying and
some chubby white dude trying to win a Pulitzer is snapping off photos
of a kid about to die…”
“You’re one deep motherfucker…  Really man.  I mean, you show up here
and I think you’re going to be about as flat as the wall over here and
you’re deep as the ocean…  Keep talking , man.  I dig your vibe…  Do
you smoke?”
“The young man lit a joint and held it out to share with Percy.
“Not anymore, son.  I only smoke salmon now…  Where was I?  Old
people have issues with short-term memory loss.  Could have years of
smoking doobies as a youngster.”
Percy paused to hug his daughter who walked by with the baby in tow.
The young bearded man begged Percy to continue to talk.
“Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he
is responsible for everything he does. It is up to you to give life a
meaning.  Better to die on one’s feet than to live on one’s knees and
that has nothing to do with submission or some homosexual
tendencies…  I’m cool with whatever you’re into, man… Freedom is
what we do with what is done to us… Putting your business in the
street, talking out loud… You better bring the chick around to the
sad, sad truth… The dirty lowdown.”
Percy mixed Boz Scaggs with Sartre and looked the young man into his
eyes like he was way out there.  The young man had no idea that the
old man was just yanking his chain, pulling his leg, putting him on.
After the Moroccan treat and ice cream, presents and singing, Happy
Birthday, Percy decided it was time to leave his daughter’s home that
he paid for.  Percy made it possible for his daughter to teach
philosophy at a junior college and still have a nice place to live
with her boyfriend whose job it was to try and stop ICE agents from
gathering up and deporting illegal aliens.  Undocumented…  You know
what I mean.
The young bearded man followed Percy out to a rented convertible car
and asked how he felt about President Trump.  Percy revved up the
engine on the rented eight cylinder Dodge…  A huge gas-guzzler.
“Son…  When you bought the boat and you’re rowing the boat, you’ll
take offense to those that will coast at your expense…  Just remember
this- Richard Nixon might have been the best suited man to have ever
been given the job of president…  Think about that and wonder why I
would say such a thing…  Some writers I know are damned devils.  From
them I say don’t believe the hype.  Their pens and pads I’ll snatch
coz I’ve had it…  Don’t … Don’t believe the hype… Peace be with you…
Man…”

The Emperor’s New Clothes or F#ck the Cubs

October 28, 2016

Gil and Gail packed up their deviled eggs and New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc that they bought while in New Zealand and headed over to their friends Tom and Tam. It was a beautiful fall night more like summer than fall with a full moon. The event was a baseball game between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Chicago Cubs. Tom, a huge Cubs fan, set up a television outside in front of a fire pit and a trampoline off in the distance.
Gil was born and raised in Los Angeles and was a life long Dodgers fan stranded in the midwest. He walked past a teacher’s union lawn sign and three different lawn signs for Hillary Clinton and a giant blue W painted on a plain white background to signify a win for the Chicago Cubs on the way to Tom and Gail’s backyard. Gail and Tam really liked one another. They met at a Pilates class and became great friends. They watched the Kardashians together at different homes and texted about it at night. Their sons played youth hockey together and Gil was the hockey coach. Gil was quiet owner of an ice hockey pro shop who played hockey, sold hockey and played hockey four to five days a week. Gil and Tammy’s son was thin and good-looking, fast and capable at being a scoring threat at every game. Tom and Tam’s son had man boobs and hips wider than his shoulders. The bookish son of Tom and Tam was slow and had a weak shot. Gil took their son as a favor to his wife who really wanted a friend up in the stands to sit with at games. Tom was jealous that Gil was in good shape and was a good skater and coach. Tom couldn’t skate but was wealthy and had season tickets to all Cubs and Chicago Blackhawks games. Tom was a partner at a law firm and drove a Range Rover and a Corvette with personalized Cubs and Blackhawks Illinois license plates. One license said PWR PLAY 69 and the other said LUV CUB 69. Gil had no hair, was built and had a half missing tooth much like the hockey great Alex Ovechkin and a face full of scars from years of playing ice hockey without facial protection. Gil refused to wear a cage or a half shield while playing and looked like a rough neck. Tom wore black horned rimmed glasses and had looked like an LL Bean model in front of his $5000.00 built in backyard grill, 50 inch television exclusively for the backyard and excellent sound system. A band from the 1980’s called Haircut 100 blared through the speakers while the ball teams silently  took batting practice. Gil stood with a bowl of deviled eggs in a LA Dodgers hat and shirt. Tom wore a Cubs hat with a T-shirt that had a large W on it. He was cooking filet mignon, he offered Gil a beer. Gil declined as he was gluten-free. It irritated Gil when Tom would offer him a beer. Even though Gil had declined dozens of times, Tom would still offer a beer to Gil. Gil had Ceiliaks disease which prevented him from processing gluten properly.
“Tam remembered and purchased a gluten-free, lesbian safe beer for you from Trader Joe’s… You can be like every other man around this town watching this game tonight and start the night properly with a beer.”
Gil opened the beer, tapped it against the bottle Tom was holding and talked about their son’s hockey team. Gil was careful not to say too much and let Tom comment on the high and low points of the season.
“The goalie is brutal… It is truly a testament to your defense that we’ve been in every game. Do you put your best skaters on defense always?”
Gil took a drink of his beer and pondered the best answer to a question he didn’t care to answer truthfully. Gil felt that it was a good idea to be as cryptic as possible with parents when it came to playing time, position and lines. Gil played Tom and Tam’s son on the first line even though he was a slow, tentative, ineffective player. It was a political move to appease his wife who was considering her friend’s feelings.
“I try to find a balance…”
“That is a beautifully scripted answer, coach. People try to figure out where you’re coming from. They want to know if there is something deeper to your tactics. I think mystery comes off as deep but I think I have you figured out, coach…”
“Tommy… This is a night all about baseball. I’m ready to take the night off of hockey. A full moon, great fucking weather, good food, booze and the Dodgers poised to make a California boy proud…”
Beer turned to scotch and then to wine. Bottles and bottles. Blue cheese on choice steaks with gluten-free pasta. It was a night to remember. A clear, full moon and August like weather in October. The game turned ugly for Gil. The Dodgers tanked and were getting crushed by the Cubs. It was a debacle not unlike when Gil was young and the Dodgers would lose every year to the Yankees. It might have been a moment of hurt pride that caused Gil to change from a good-natured fan to a critical observer of the type of man he disdained- bragging, rich, unathletic, pudgy Chicago fan. The Dodgers were losing by a touch down when Tom lit a cigar and laughed at the score between innings. Gil told Gail that he wanted to leave. she was having a great time without having to watch her children and she did not want to cut the night short and return home yet. The game ended with a huge Cubs win. Tam put on a song that harkened back to Burt Bacharach buy a band called Cousteau. No relation to Jacques called, The Last Good Day of the Year.
There’s something there
Among the fallen fruit and flowers, won’t rest
Only minutes, only hours unless
Now the morning breaks in showers, I guess
We’ll remember this all of our lives
On the last good day of the year
Gil sat and looked at the full moon as a gentle breeze blew through the leaves in the trees that were ready to turn colors and fall. Tom was going on and on about the Cubs and then switched to politics. After a beer, a scotch and many glasses of wine, Gil was ready to speak freely, uninhibited or reserved. Tom was taken by surprise.
“Fuck you. Fuck the Cubs, fuck unions, fuck Hillary and fat kids who really don’t want to play ice hockey… Enjoy your win you fucking pompous asshole. I hope Hillary gets the same fucking treatment Nixon got for the minor shit he did compared to that cunt.”
Gil knew that his wife hated the word cunt and that most women had a thing against the word. Both Tam and Gail gasped and tried to get Gil to calm down. It only made him angrier.
“You want to let all the Mexicans in? All the Syrians? Every fucking moderate who makes their wife cover their whole fucking face like a goddamn Ninja? Fuck you and your W shirt and Hillary lawn sign… Your kid is going to wind up with heart disease by high school if you don’t discover the word no. No you can’t eat whatever you want and drink sugary bullshit. Your son has bitch tits… I know that might be harsh to hear but you can thank the Cubs and Hillary. Bitch fucking tits on a 10-year-old and why? Because you can’t say no to him? You wanna know why my kid is fast? Because he eats yogurt instead of gummy worms and fucking Doritos…”
” I think you’re angry Tom…”
“Yes, I am. When unathletic fucks like you gloat, I get mad. You don’t know dick about how to really win and it falls into your lap tonight and you’re like a fucking scientist about baseball. Yes… The fast capable kids play defense on my teams and really I believe your son would be happier with a hot dog and a drink up in the stands next to you than forechecking. You got season tickets and you want your little son of sam to play like Kane or Toews.”
Gail came up and hugged Gil and put her hand over his mouth. Gil pushed Gail away in a way that let her know that he was not done. Tom had enough drinks to stand up to Gil and he did.
“You’re mad that the Dodgers lost and that Trump is about to go down in flames. Too many people do not buy into the Hitleresque bullshit spewed by Trump. Mexicans are the paste that holds this country together. Who is going to do the shit they do for the money they make? Big strong, stupid, flag waving, tear-in-the-eye patriot who hates anything not white. You’re the big hockey coach but you weren’t quite good enough to make it so what do you do? You coach.”
Gil took a step towards Tom with the thought to give Tom a smack. Tom sneered and raised his chin as if to say, “smack me! I don’t give a shit.”
“You know something, fuckface? I won’t ever apologize for being white. I won’t ever apologize for not blindly trusting people who hate me. Vote for whoever you fucking want. Why do we all got to know who it is? Why not put up a lawn sign that says you need a little blue pill and porn to make it with your old lady? You know what? All I need is a little text telling me to get home fast and my dick hurts to be cramped up in my jeans knowing that it’s going between my old lady’s legs just as soon as possible. You like baseball analogies? I’m the fucking closer who doesn’t need a warm up pitch. Put me in cold and I’ll finish the game…”
The women left the two men alone who were about to come to blows. Tom was about to rebut Gil when the women put on a song from the 1980’s from their youth. It was a Sinead O’Connor song called The Emperor’s New Clothes. In the light of the moon, the two men watched their rather fit middle-aged wives sing and bounce on the trampoline naked slathered in coconut oil. The oil glistened off of their breasts. The men stopped fighting and looked on at their wives without saying a word. Tom poured a glass of wine for himself and Gil. The men stripped down to nothing and joined the ladies on the trampoline on probably the last good day of the year. The song played on repeat while they made love or something resembling love beside one another.
Everyone can see what’s going on
They laugh `cause they know they’re untouchable
Not because what I said was wrong
Whatever it may bring
I will live by my own policies
I will sleep with a clear conscience
I will sleep in peace
Maybe it sounds mean
But I really don’t think so
You asked for the truth and I told you
Through their own words
They will be exposed
They’ve got a severe case of
The emperor’s new clothes

A Day in the Life of an American Part 1

January 18, 2010

Trent Kelly was one the fortunate Americans who had a job and for that he was truly thankful. As a leasing agent for apartment buildings within and around the city of Chicago, he met people everyday that did not qualify to rent an apartment due to poor credit or no job. They were all less fortunate.

12:38am Friday- Trent returned from playing four games of pick up basketball with young men from a Romanian Christian church who were roughly half his age. Trent sat and watched the Cleveland Cavalier/Utah Jazz game that he recorded prior to leaving home as he ate roast beef with Munster cheese that had been microwaved. No bread with the cold cuts and cheese. Trent slams in a handful of blueberries and a small stalk of broccoli. He remembers that they fight cancer and have antioxidants. Trent doesn’t remember what an antioxidant is exactly. He knows that it fights oxidants with vigor and it makes him feel healthier to know that there are less oxidants within him as a result.
As Trent tries to decide whether he should have a glass of red wine with his sleep medicine, he watches Shaquille O’Neil miss two free throws and wonders how a man plays the game of basketball for so many years and is still unable to shoot over 50% from the foul line. He wonders how the man does not take the whole summer in his palace overlooking the smog and over population of Los Angeles from his mountain side home and shoot free throws over and over until the rhythm is secondary just as putting on a panel on a Ford Taurus would be to some poor slob on an assembly line making a great American vehicle in Windsor, Ontario. It’s a panel that gets put on the right front, just like the last one and ten thousand others before it and after it. Ten thousand free throws per summer and one is bound to shoot at least 50%. Lack of rhythm must be the key.
A television time out it became time to decide whether to have a healthy poor of Fat Bastard Merlot and wash that down with sleep agent that has Diphenhydramine HCI. Just 25 little milligrams to help with sleeplessness. Insomnia is a pervasive problem for Trent. He goes to the bathroom and urinates and looks at his own face in the mirror while relieving himself. He has dark rings under his eyes like a raccoon and a hint of crow’s feet around the eyes. Trent thinks to himself that he probably doesn’t appear to be forty yet or at least what he perceived forty to appear like when he was twenty. His hair is salt and pepper and for the mean time, it’s more pepper than salt. His head is shaved due to the fact that it is thinning in spots. Every week without fail, he visits a Ukrainian woman who was raised in the former Soviet empire and only learned to speak Russian. She tells Trent as he fights sleep in the barber chair, that the current president of Ukraine is a piece of shit and hopes the man who lost in 2004, wins this time. Trent only faintly listens as he tries not to breathe the breath of the Ukrainian woman who smokes a pack of Marlboro Cigarettes a day. Trent didn’t realize that the Ukrainians had their own language and that their language was in fact not Russian. Trent is not thinking about the president of Ukraine or his adversary or the cigarette breath of his female barber from a former Soviet region as he takes the Minoxidil and rubs it on his scalp as he has for years. He has Minoxidil for his hair and Nair for his back with a spatchula to help reach those troubled areas of his back.
The phone rings at a little after one in the morning right after Trent swallowed a little pill to help him sleep with a healthy poor of Fat Bastard Merlot. Trent thinks about the temp girl who answered the phones at the office and how she was not supposed to give out his cell number to tenants but was supposed to give out his email so that he could receive emails instead of calls. The phone played Richard Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries as loud as could be. The phone was in the bathroom next to the bedroom where his infant daughter slept. The same song that played in Apocalypse Now when Robert Duval attacked by helicopter, the civilians on the Vietnamese beach, stunned his relatively new born daughter from her slumber. While a fragile tenant cried about feces coming up from her toilet and the need for immediate action, Trent’s new daughter went off like a siren. Trent’s sleepy wife staggered past Trent who was on his cell phone after one in the morning to attend to their child who was woken by a phone replication of a Richard Wagner song. Trent’s wife didn’t care who it was that he was talking to as much as she cared that he was talking with his day time voice in the middle of the night.
“I hope you’re saving lives tonight. There are people in Haiti that are dying. I sincerely hope nobody is dying,” said Trent’s wife, as she changed the diaper of their screaming new born who was fighting the diaper change with both arms and both legs.
Trent added two scoops of Similac to four ounces of water and handed it to his sleepy wife who was sitting in a rocking chair, waiting for the liquid meal for their new arrival. Trent tried to assure the woman that he would get a plumber the first thing in the morning.

2:10am Friday- the Utah Jazz with roughly five minutes to go, had an eleven point lead on Cleveland. Trent watched James Lebron undress the entire Jazz squad in a little more than three minutes as an email was coming in. This is what the subject said;
NO FUCKING HEAT AGAIN…
Then the message went on to say… I KNOW WHEREVER THE FUCK YOU ARE TONIGHT, YOU ARE QUITE WARM. WELL I’M NOT, ONCE AGAIN, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES. STAY WARM.
Now the tenant who wrote this was a stay at home father of twenty nine years of age with 18% body fat and a 3 and ¾ inch penis. This tenant loves Xbox and comic books and saw Avatar five times. His wife paid for the tickets each time as well as the popcorn with extra butter and the economy sized cola. Trent got to play god with this particular asshole. Trent pretended to be sleeping and would respond to the urgent message until after noon time later that day.
Now one of the best finishes to a basketball game took place with five seconds to go in the game. Like a good Disney finish, the Utah Jazz inbound the ball and got it to a man with the last name of Gaines who had been playing minor league basketball in Boise just days before. In front of a sell out crowd, he hit a three pointer at the buzzer and solidified his chances of sticking in the NBA. Another email came in.
“Trent honey, its mommy. I have decided to come and visit you, your beautiful wife and darling new addition. I read my horoscope and had a dream about dying early and decided that since I have the time, I will be coming with my husband Bob to spend the week with you. Life is short and you never know what could happen. I’m going to need a car and hope that we will not be crowding you if we stay at your place… Hugs and kisses.”
That single email kept Trent from sleep more so than anything else that could possibly happen. Even with a sleeping aid and red wine, sleep would be postponed for the night pending the arrival of Trent’s mother from Vermont.
Now Trent was born and raised in Los Angeles by a single mom who happened to be a hippy. Trent’s mother was on her sixth husband. This latest step father was three years younger than Trent, a former Marine and an alcoholic. Trent got on line and found a motel called the Ambassador on Lincoln Avenue on the north side of Chicago and an independent car rental company that rented Smart Cars for his mother.

5:02 am Friday- Trent stops at a Starbucks. An effeminate young man with skin tight jeans and two earrings on his lips asks Trent what he would like to drink in a southern belle lilt. Trent for a moment remembered when being overtly effeminate was as dangerous as being overtly communist and wondered if communism and homophobia died simultaneously.
Trent bench presses first at the gym. Four sets of 235 then leg lifts push ups, pull ups and then curls. Trent’s heart pounds as he takes a hot shower. Next to him are two old Jewish men that small talk. Trent listens in.
“Mortie… You’re late. It’s one of the seven deadly sins isn’t it?”
“What, what… Not getting my tired old ass out of bed and to the gym and for what? I’ll still look like a wrinkled prune with ball sacks hanging down to my fucking knees…”
That made Trent smile as he stood naked in front of the mirror, putting lotion all over his body. Trent could see some muscle tone and a hint of a six pack on his abdomen. He dreaded getting as old as the old Jews but knew with each day, the time was coming.

8:45am Friday- Trent picked up a yellow Smart Car from O’Hare airport and drove to Midway Airport on the other side of Chicago to greet his mother. The Smart Car shook as it went 62.5 miles per hour on the Stevenson Expressway. The news from Haiti was dismal. The Blackhawks won and the weather would be sunny and above freezing for the fourth day in a row.
A Chicago Police officer in a bright yellow raincoat came up and yelled at Trent for pulling up in the fire lane to pick up his mother and her husband.
“You leave that car for a second and I’ll have it towed…” said the cop.
“I’m picking up those two people there,” Trent said, combatively.
“And I’m telling you if you leave the car, it will be towed.”
Trent had no way of knowing that the middle aged angry officer, had been sent to Midway to keep scofflaws and terrorists from double parking their cars because he had been caught grocery shopping and sleeping in his car by a news television station that was trying to point out just how lazy some police officers were and their abuse of power. The cop hated standing out in the cold, telling people to move their cars all day. Do you blame him?

9:02am
Trent, his mother and step father, were eating at Brandy’s Family Restaurant on Cicero and 52nd Street. The waitress looked a lot like WC Fields, red nose and all. Everyone except the girl who rang people up and sat them, were morbidly obese. Trent didn’t know exactly what to say to his mother and stepfather who he did not like. He mentioned the fat people.
“2/3 of Americans are obese now and 90% of them are in this room,” said Trent, while stirring his coffee. Trent’s latently homosexual step father, who was three years younger than him, starred at Trent blankly. Nothing was said by either Trent’s mother or the Marine.
“Musta been a pain in the ass to get to Albany, New York with all that snow in Vermont. Did you make it to the airport okay?” said Trent, searchingly looking for something to discuss.
“Well I love to hunt and ski… Chop down wood and just enjoy god’s green earth,” said Bob, in a manly and quite husky voice.

Trent didn’t understand the answer to his question from Bob and did not press him for an answer that made sense. Trent listened to Bob claims of being the outdoors man and couldn’t help thinking about the $1,000.00 phone bill he had to pay for his mother due to the fact that Bob rang up a doozy by calling1- 900 gay phone sex numbers while on a drinking binge. Bob had no idea that Trent knew. Trent told his mother that before he would help out with the outrageous phone bill, he had to know first what kind of 1- 900 Bob was calling. Trent called one of the numbers and heard this recording:
“You’ve reached The Man line… Lot’s of interesting men are waiting to talk to men just like you. Your seconds away from joining the fastest growing network where men meet men… Just like you…”

11:00 am- A mandatory meeting was called for all employees of the real estate office where Trent worked. A bald man who looked like Dr. Phil with eyebrows that looked like gerbils, stood with his arms folded at the front of the room behind a podium. The owner of the company came in late and the murmur that had filled the room immediately ceased. The boss started the meeting with a red face and trembling hands. He was so angry that he literally shook.
“I called this meeting to put you all on notice. Someone stole a gift from my desk while I was on vacation and yet nobody knows where it is. Among us is a thief… Secondly, I brought my eight year old son in the office and allowed him to look up Nick on Line from the front desk computer and come to find out that someone here was looking at a website called Goats and Blondes. MY SON BELIEVES IN SANTA CLAUS STILL AND KNOWS ABOUT SEX WITH FUCKING FARM ANIMALS! I had to learn this from my wife as she learned this while reading him Dr. Fucking Seuss before bed. You are all being put on notice. I have hired Mr. Dupuis to monitor everything that goes on in this place from here on out. This bullshit ends today. Mr. Dupuis… The floor is yours.”
The boss received a gift certificate from his girlfriend at work while he happened to be away with his family over the Christmas holiday. He received a text message from his girlfriend who had purchased a gift certificate to the Love Palace. The Love Palace was frequented by couples looking for intimacy and fun. The suite chosen by the girlfriend had a pool with a slide and a trapeze where she could lower herself onto her boyfriend. The text message read as follows:

DID YOU GET THE GIFT CERTIFICATE TO THE LOVE PALACE THAT I LEFT ON YOUR DESK LAST WEEK? I CAN’T WAIT TO TRY IT OUT. I MISS YOU. SEE YOU SOON.

Upon returning, the boss panicked over the prospect of anyone seeing the card from his girlfriend. He of course he yelled at his girlfriend for leaving the envelope on his desk instead of giving it to him. Whoever stole it knew that it was safe to steal since; the boss could not divulge the contents. The same person who stole the card also was looking at bestiality on line too. I can’t say who it was. It just wouldn’t be right for me to get involved in this.