Thursday, November 03, 2005

November 2nd, 2005 Upload 1 (6,739 words out of 50,000)


For the first time in as long as I can remember Dave is really pissing me off. He annoys the fuck out me, sure, but it’s usually the kind of thing I can brush off or block out entirely. But Jesus Christ why in the hell is he wearing a Styrofoam Tampa Fucking Devil Rays “Number One” pointy-hand? Where did he even get that thing? They sure as hell aren’t selling it here, any one of these booths stocks that goddamn thing and bunch of Yankee fans will burn that son-of-a-bitch down. But he somehow has it – it’s all big and black-and-blue and matches his Crawford jersey. Who even makes a Crawford jersey? I don’t even know the bastard’s first name; ESPN doesn’t even know it most likely. I swear to God, people in Tampa Bay don’t even cheer this hard for the Devil Rays and this cock-sucker is screaming so fucking loud his voice is getting all crackly and his face is looking like a goddamn super nova. And maybe if we were in the bleachers, maybe, this bastard’s behavior wouldn’t be bothering me as much – his apparent need to freak the fuck out like he’s high on cocaine – but for some reason the fact that we’re in the field level boxes is just really getting me on edge. I usually love this shit, really I do. I usually love watching as the guy in the three-piece suit and Yankee hat squirms as his wife tells him he should say something. I love it when the squirrelly guy stands up and politely asks Dave if he can watch his language around his five-year-old son. I love it when Dave takes a look at the kid with his bulging bloodshot eyes and tells the kid that he deserves to hear what he has to say – he needs to know the truth about the Yankees so he doesn’t make the same mistakes his father made. I love it when the usher comes over to David and politely tells him that he needs to calm down or else they’re going to revoke his season tickets. I love it when Dave turns to the infield one last time and shouts out, “Aye, Jeter, you’re off the hook for now you cock-sucking faggot! Ok, ok, I’m done. No, dude, I’m done. I’m done. It’s fine.” I love it when the usher gives Dave one last look before walking away, expecting to hear one last syllable out of his mouth. I love how as the usher leaves Dave mumbles under his breath something about Nazis and faggots. I love all of that; it’s what makes these games more fun than simply seeing the Yankees deliver another pounding. It’s what makes hanging out with Dave somewhat enjoyable, it really is.

I honest to God usually love it.


“Yo, did you see that girl at Cynthia’s party last night? The one with the ponytail and the J. Crew turtleneck?”

Dave looks down at me and cocks his eyebrow because I let something slip. I’ve been working this mother fucker for a year and I let something slip. When you play so many characters, though, sometimes you get your lines messed up.

“J. Crew turtleneck? What the fuck, did you memorize the catalog?”

This dumb asshole picks up on it. People surprise you sometimes, I guess.

“It was just some JAP-py looking turtleneck, dude. It’s a fucking expression.”

“Uh-huh,” he fucking smiles like he just won a cool point on me, “I saw the ho-bag in the J. Jew sweater. She was a walking blowjob, that one.” He stole that from me, “walking blowjob”, I remember when I made that up. I made that phrase just for him because it has just the right amount of vile corniness and I knew this fucker would eat it up – after all this is the guy that refers to a girl’s tits as “melons”. “Walking Blowjob” just came to me and I smiled and knew it fit, threw it out, and he smiled right back. Now he’s using it like he made up the phrase and that’s fine with me – it was his gift he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it.

“What was her fucking name?”

“I saw you talking to her.”

“I know, I can’t remember her fucking name.”

“It was Agatha or something – did you fuck her?”

Agatha? Holy shit this bitch has some serious issues. That’s the kind of name you change unless you’re a grandma, a nun or a fucking mystery writer. Agatha. Agatha? You can’t even put that name into sex-talk with a straight face. “You like that, Agatha? I know you like that you dirty little slut.” I mean, Jesus Christ what kind of a parent names their child Agatha? My mom wanted to call me Alewicious but my father, a much smarter man than he used to let on to be, told her that she was out of her fucking mind. Could you imagine walking around with that handicap? Could you imagine trying to get Fontay to fix up my apartment with a name like Alewicious? How do I even get around that? “My name? Alewicious. But you can call me Al.” Holy crap I can’t even imagine having a name so goddamn lame the coolest you can make it sound is by ripping off a fucking pop-song with Chevy Chase in the goddamn video playing a trumpet. It reminds me of this chick I used to hang with, she was one of the top chef’s in the city, ran the kitchen of some haughty-taughty French restaurant, always got me good deals on catered parties – knew all these up-and-coming chef’s that were trying to impress her and would do a party for a hundred people and I would pay cost, no service pay, no tip. Turns out this chef-chick was total manic-depressive. The thing with manic-depressives is, everyone tries to cheer them up when they get into their funk. Fuck that, give them what they want – they want to be depressed when they’re in that stage. They don’t want you sending them flowers and fucking e-cards and sending them a singing fucking telegram only to remind that that they are completely incapable of being happy at this juncture in time. They want you to ignore them so that they can fucking hate you – so that they can channel their depression and blame you for everything they perceive to be wrong in their life. So when this bitch would get depressed I’d just give her shit and leave. Tell her she’s being a downer. “Why don’t you just fucking kill yourself already.” Might sound harsh but she isn’t going to go and do it or anything, you just made her fucking day. Sure she’ll scream at you, sure she’ll try to make you take it back, try to make you feel bad, but the reality is – the next day she’s going to thank you for helping her focus her depression on something tangible. You want to make a depressive person your best friend? Kick her in the fucking cunt when she’s down. So I make her feel like shit once a week and in return I have the best goddamn spread at my parties. This might sound like the best fucking deal of all time but the chick’s name is Gloria which in and of itself is fine except every time her goddamn cell phone rang, and it rang often, this bitch starts singing “Gloria, Gloria! I think they got my number, Gloria!” Catered French-food is the fucking balls but that song should be outlawed – I had to cut her off – last I heard she actually did kill herself.

“Well, did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Fuck her, dude? Agatha?”

I usually love this shit, I really do. I love it when David assumes that I just fuck everything with a pulse, that I’m some type of pussy-magnet that pulls ass every night. I love it when he looks to me in an almost older brother way despite the fact that he’s twenty years older than me and married with a daughter that I totally plan on boning next year. I love it when he stares at me, empty, waiting for that answer – that sense of fulfillment – when he’s waiting for me to give him permissions to live vicariously through me cock. I love it when he pauses and there’s this moment I feel like I’m in a Rembrandt painting, like I’m Jesus on the cross and he’s the Virgin Mary – not believing that I’m dead and just waiting for me to rise again in glory to fuck the living and the dead and my kingdom will have no end. I love it when the moment is over and I tell him how I cream-pied the skank and laugh – he looks so fucking relieved as he slaps me on the shoulder and says for a minute there he was afraid I lost my shit – that I was getting old.

I honest to God usually love it.


“Not yet.”


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